Patrick and John 3

Fourteen wakes in sunshine, thinking of ways John might accidentally die. Patrick’s worn Nikes rest lightly against his thigh. Patrick is asleep against the door, head jammed between the headrest and the window. He has tousled hair the colour matching Fourteen’s. In daylight, Patrick looks younger, less threatening. John sleeps behind the driver’s wheel. Fourteen has to look twice to find any beard dusted across Patrick’s jaw line. John’s cheeks are tattoo blue. His hair has a wild Al Pacino, mad taxi driver look. There is a starburst crack on the windshield just where it ought to be, if a friendly slug had found its way into John’s left temple. Fourteen needs a miracle like that, because the nameless man scares him to death.

John has Google Mapped his way back to the interstate. Through the sunlit smoke of the sandblasted windshield, Fourteen recognizes the friendly shape of a rest stop. John has left the Bronco unsociably at the farthest reach of the parking lot. Shadows fall down the trees and huddle around the walls of the building. It must be noon. Storm scrubbed air spills in the window crack bathing Fourteen in the harmless scent of grass clippings and dog poop.

Every click and whisper from the seatbelt threatens to betray him. Double eighteen-wheelers sonic boom past and there is the Doppler whine of cars and motorcycles, but it is the mosquito vibration of his belt retracting that agonizes the boy. Pause to check the blond jock, hand limp beside the artful folds across his man-crotch. Shift for a moment to the bull necked bricklayer’s heavily lidded eyes. As Fourteen’s hands pry back the latch. Fourteen holds his breath; no sound, no give, locked.

The Bronco is as old as the hills they are driving through. Eyes fixed on John, he gropes over his shoulder for the pin. Fourteen is used to the authoritative snap of his mother’s Prius. He wills the chrome up ever so quietly, feeling the lock’s release through pinched fingers.

Door slam alarm. Fourteen’s eyes dart toward the building. Father toddler exit a red sedan and escape into the restrooms. Eyes dart back to Patrick, dreamed into a soft before look. Eyes dart back to John, Maybe he moved. Fourteen cannot remember. Jackrabbit run. He needs the cool calm of a navy seal, but he has the shakes now. Forget the eighteen wheelers, Fourteen’s heart must be sending sonic waves pounding against the sleeping men.

He can’t find the latch. He has forgotten where it is. It’s there. Two handed pry to ease the latch open, spider fingers splayed across the vinyl for support, locksmithing his way out of the prison-car. Yes, finally open! Freedom dawns along the oxidized crackling of the seal, just a starbright glint. Fourteen freezes. The certainty is there inside him, solid and real. Turn your head, Fourteen. Bitter chocolate eyes stare into his grey ones knowingly. John sensed the Jackrabbit run. John knows. John knows Fourteen knows. The boy knows the 3’ belt with 2 rows of ½” silver eyelet grommets knows he knows.

Busted worse than the time mother found the yellow crusted masterbation diary jammed between his mattress and the box spring. Worse than a spent secret that he’d been into porn over a (gasp) joint with Dell. “I have to take a leak.” Limp dicking an excuse to the awful black belt. Fourteen nerves himself to hold the door open, Just asking permission, you understand. Guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do, right?

“Hold on a second.” Now John knows that Fourteen knows that he knows that he knows, so forth, and the belt. What Fourteen does not know is he has just earned respect. Despite Patrick’s compulsion with the before, the whole being there thing Patrick cycles through when he sees a kid like Fourteen, John gets that Fourteen is not like Patrick. Squeeze out the entitled middle class bloat, step past the ethereal pre-pimpled boy-beauty, you get a pretty scrappy kid. The wild wet beat down on the hood of the Bronco was all tears and fears, but when the boy slid bare assed off the grill, well if looks could kill. Then there is the jackrabbit thing. John figures the Compass Rose and a bolt hole barred to him, Fourteen is going to sprout angel wings to match his pretty face. Blink an eye and Fourteen is road running away from two mangy Acme coyotes. John gets this.

Fourteen blinks once, just to let John know his heart just broke. Otherwise he’s adolescent polite, waiting for the teacher get over her power trip hammerlock on everyone’s bladder. John measures him a measure. “Sit tight.” He drawls, deciding Fourteen will. You might say John has Fourteen whipped.

John is not on some grim sociopath mission around the Bronco for another pound of flesh. Fourteen watches the chance fade philosophically. In his tangerine way, he knows there will be another chance down the road. John is rummaging around in the back while the father toddler exit the restroom, bum wiped, hands washed. Fourteen turns to stare down a Saturday Night Special.

Fourteen is Glock Generation, but the piece has a serviceable quality to it. There is the retro thrill of seeing missiles poised in all those silos waiting for a launch code. It’s thrilling enough to make Fourteen want to piss in his pants. “My granddad’s piece. It’s seen things.” John tells him quietly. John dances the stubby piece around Fourteen’s rigid body, so many options. Like a curious puppy, the handgun noses under Fourteen’s tee-shirt sniffing out a kidney, his heart. It could castrate. It is an unaccompanied dance. John’s gun caresses Fourteen’s face, lingering on his temple. Fourteen feels the sinus pressure and looks at the sky just past John’s ear. The gun licks its way down Fourteen’s jaw to rest on a soft lip. Their eyes meet as John gentles the jaw open and closed. Fourteen’s tongue tastes the gun oil death tang member as John cocks an orgasm. You had me at hello, Fourteen assures the Gang Banger.

John pulls out slowly so Fourteen can savour the popsicle goodness of being alive. Fourteen eyes him steadily. “Cool.” Dry and sassy.

Okay you have to smile at that, but you don’t feed the jackrabbit. John only lets himself say, “Way cool. Get up.” They might be dad toddler headed to the restroom. John strokes Fourteen’s back with the muzzle as they pace the blacktop. Fourteen knows John will drop him right there or anywhere if he wants. “Use the stall.”

“I have to take a crap.” Fourteen stands nonplussed beside the toilet.

“So shit.” John snaps.

This is no slap fest on the Bronco. Fourteen digs in his heals so John steps back from the fight and turns his eyes to the door. Defeated, Fourteen drops his shorts and parks it on the porcelain throne. John fills the silence. “We met in lock up. Juvy really.” John crosses his arms so the Saturday Night Special has a bead on Fourteen. “Me, sixteen on a B and E. him, shoplifting. He was chronic for that, still is. He likes to snatch things.” John smirks at Fourteen. Long spring legs promising a summer sprout of auburn hair. Fourteen is hunched over like Rodin's The Thinker. “You’ve probably seen some teen slop about prison life. We didn’t have doors on the stalls. Privacy was not a thing.” Suck it up Sunshine. “How old are you?” John asks.

Yes, get out the ruler. Fourteen quarrels. He did not think he could in front of the man, but the fair grease wants out. “Fourteen,” he growls trying to cover the noise. Do I impress or fall short? John has walked to the sink. He materializes with an ejaculation of pink soap served up on a plate of wet paper towel. “What is this?” Fourteen tries, although the answer is obvious.

“Suds up, Fourteen.” Now the image of Fourteen’s fingers massaging his private anus lies between them uncomfortably. “Don’t plug the toilet either.” John hands him a second sheet to rinse off. Fourteen-year-olds should not have to be treated this way.

The death walk repeats back to the Bronco. Patrick is tapping away on a slick laptop tethered to his phone. He glances up at the pair as they reach the car. Patrick knows John thinks he is a bit hapless about things like Fourteen. John has been looking out for him as best he can for eight years. It would be nice to prove he could handle cleanup by himself. “We’re going to shift things around before we go.” John is eyeing the laptop suspiciously. Fourteen takes shotgun while John looms over him until Patrick shuts down his machine. While Patrick takes a restroom break, Fourteen is detailed to clean up before John drops the back bench.

They make the WalMart parking lot carting Fourteen tied and gagged under a sleeping bag that smelled like sweaty Patrick. The laptop is tapping softly as Fourteen explores the makeshift straps binding his arms and legs. A sock dries his mouth just as acid sweat stings his eyes. He is smothered under the quilting with nothing but wild thoughts and the murmurs of Patrick holding some one sided conversation with the dudes. The armpit odour of melting boy mingles with Patrick on the bag. Fourteen frees his nose, welcoming the travel dust scent of the Bronco. He can’t see where they parked. Is there any point in thrashing around?

John is not back soon enough for Fourteen. The smell of Mcdonald's joins him in the car. Hunger is not something Fourteen thinks about.  He sways about and pops like bacon in the frying pan as Patrick finds their way back onto the highway. Another town or city is lost behind them. “I got some things. It would help if you at least had rope in your bag.” Cool air washes down Fourteen’s body as John frees him from the bag’s coils. Take the next ramp off, okay?”

“That’s not where we need to go.” Patrick checks the blue trail Google Maps has offered. He has found what he needs. Now the waiting is is building in him like last night’s storm.

“We are a long way from where we need to go. You have not eaten, and Fourteen needs water and something to eat.” John answers impatiently. Patrick calculates the cost of this detour, well aware John has been more than patient with him. “Just a bit of time is all I need.” Talk shifts to the mundane. Money is tight in the car. They should be buying more fresh food to make it stretch. The treads are thin. First free cheque and they need to do something about it. Might be rain again. Everything is too green for Patrick. The dry heat of the Valley was better than this midwestern soup. The cashier had that scarf thing nunning up her good looks. Wore jeans and a tight top. John is sure she came on to his Arab good looks.

It is a relief to have the chaffing bag straps off his wrists and legs. Fourteen spits the sock out of his mouth and gratefully quaffs a bottle of water, summer breeze wicking away the memory of suffocation. He is not liking the next bit. John pulls nylon zip ties from his jeans. Two neatly ring his wrists like fair passes, or a pass to the school dance. Patrick hedges him in as this gets done. There is a troublesome closeness of male muscle squeezing him. Patrick take his wrists. The just before time memories crown Patrick. He has distracted Fourteen. The boy is examining steel strong flex of nylon as John gifts him a promise ring of chromed links about neck.

“There wasn’t chain.” Patrick complains softly to himself. He likes the look of possession on Fourteen’s before time neck. “It looks biker badass on you. Hungry?” He adds with a genuine smile. Fourteen fingers the delicate chain, blocking the curiosity out.

“Don’t pull on it.” John is fussing with the end between his shoulder blades. Deft fingers work away. “Put the seat back up.” So with nothing else to do, Patrick does. Fourteen tries to orient himself. They might have been driving in circles for all the land could tell him. It was the same hot August weather building to the same thunderstorm he carefree peddled through on his way to the fair almost 24 hours ago. “Time to go.” John said, ushering him back to the Bronco. “Belt.” Last warning before closing the door.

There is a stainless steel flat key ring worked through the last link of the chain about his neck. It is an awkward angle to view but Fourteen is reassured. His fingers are clever so he could work it off in time. Don’t think about that now. It’s Sunday drive time with the family. Patrick wolfing burgers while he rasps at John’s patience. Between bites, Patrick shoots out redundant directions to their next stop. Fourteen takes tentative bites at a cold burger, stomach churning at the thought of washing it down with a syrup Pepsi. “My name is Jeremy.” Hey, it’s me. A wavering mirror held up to the black abyss. “Jeremy Gates.” He adds tugging at the chain around his neck. John has used some sort of nail polish at the ends of the flat keyring. It might not be so easy to take off. The young men resume their conversation. John is good to drive, thanks anyway. Patrick needs to know, they have to stop dicking around on the road and get back to the interstate. “So what are your names?” Fourteen pipes in.

“I’m John and he is Patrick.” Patrick looks up from his phone pointedly annoyed with John’s casual reply. “What does it matter?” John’s reply has the serviceability of his Saturday Night Special. “You good back there Fourteen?”

What does it matter? Repeats Fourteen to himself. Faces to names matters, Fourteen knows. He could junior high CSI the last 24 hours starting with Patrick’s prints on his lost cell phone. He has John’s treadmarks across his ass. Jeremy Gates, flanked by his mom and dad, Yeah, they are the fucking morons who kidnaped me after the fair. That tastes better than cold takeout. The Bronco is going somewhere fast along a lost part of America. Signs flash indecipherable warnings he should be paying attention to. He is just Fourteen and John says it doesn’t matter. “Where are you going?”

Patrick twists around and holds his phone up. “Smile Fourteen.” He captures Fourteen’s bewildered stare. “I won’t keep it John.” Patrick is back to shuffling hyperlinks as he answers the boy. “We have work lined up in Hershey.”

“You’re gonna make chocolate bars?”

“Not hardly.” Patrick talked more about their new rust belt jobs and a fresh start. The men seemed to be in no hurry to get there. “A job is just a thing you have to do, Fourteen. It’s a grind till some robot steals it from you. Don’t listen to the crap about illegals taking the jobs.”

It’s backroads again through field after field of agribusiness making America great again. John thinks riding a rig here would be fine, but he needs the city and Patrick does too. Farm buildings to the right. “This is it John, or it has to be. It is time John.” There is an I’ve got to take a leak tightness to Patrick. He is ass-whipped like Fourteen and can’t keep from jonesing on the seat beside John. Patrick twists to check on Fourteen. Fourteen is zoned out now. His effort to make contact with the enemy spun into nothing, so he is slumped easy watching the corn rows not really focused.

“Gate.” John warns Patrick. It’s an island of yesterday in the industrial sea of inevitability. “There is a chain.” Patrick steps out. What is left of Green Acres lies by an elm so massive it sweeps the shedding shingles on the high gabled roof. All this clapboard white of the before will be bulldozed into the gunmetal sameness of the after. More private sector corporate economy of scale. Patrick drops the chain with its bright for sale sign into the weeds. John drives through. Nobody needs to know they passed this way. Patrick hooks the chain back on the post.

The first thing Fourteen asks is, “Why are we here?” The before fear tastes right to Patrick. Strange places and silent looks. Everyone looking at you like it’s done already and only you have not caught on. The shabby whiteness of the old house reminds him of the cinder block hallway leading to his room and the waiting boys. A modern shed barn, cold as a cement floor. “Patrick, where are we going?” Fourteen is not zoned out now.

John remembers as well as Patrick. Patrick probably asked the same sorts of questions as the Magic School Bus took him on a special episode to juvenile correction. John is satisfied with the location. There is a harvester two fields over. Air conditioned capsule, driver intent on babying the million dollar robot as it grazed on rows of corn. “Patrick,” that is all Fourteen gets out before the Bronco rolls to a stop and the engine dies. John spares a look. The boy is fingering the keyring like the thing to do is rub the talisman and he will level up. There’s no place like home, Dorothy chants anxiously. John likes the barn. The car is invisible and the leftover hay and metal siding drink in the noise.

The men move about the car like backstage crew at the grandstand. Fourteen and his buddies did that to get close to the girls, only they were all headless cocks bumbling into each other in the school auditorium. Patrick is getting in character now, but Fourteen has not got the script. Everything was wrong since Fourteen swung his mountain bike back towards the Bronco. Jackrabbit says go, go, go. This Tic Tac Toe sucks. Fourteen keeps replaying the game, but gun always blocks jackrabbit. This is bad and Fourteen shuffles explanations desperately registering the ones he can understand. “No,” it is a whisper wail as he turns the truth over. Patrick finds an orphan bail of hay. He tips it on its side. The young man doesn’t look at Fourteen as he returns to the Bronco for the sleeping bag.

Fourteen stares at the fussy perfection of checkered flannel draped like a country kitchen perfection. The boy has discarded all the cards of possibility from his deck but two and he refuses to look at them again. John opens the door at his shoulder. Fourteen sits fingers prayer pressed together between his shivering thighs. His bowed head stretches out, “no” he brays like a lost calf.

“Get out.” It’s not rough. It just is.

“No,” Fourteen insists. The moment carves eight years off Fourteen. He’s six again, knows what he wants, but not the means. It’s the implacable wall of adult authority when all you have is your thin voice. Fourteen has not left the before and he is already grieving in the after. Patrick hears this, as he pulls his shirt over his head and watches the steady progress of the elegant green monster grazing indifferently on the far corn field. John has it under control.

Fourteen is collapsed over his lap, blond tangles shaking back and forth. “No,” This one is almost a wail. John takes his arm and draws him to his feet beside the Bronco. Fourteen searches earnestly for mercy in Johns eyes. “No!” He urges. John brushes the bangs back with a rough palm. Fourteen’s soft mantra flows on as John catches his tee-shirt and lifts it free. Tangerine falls away. More nylon ties, stumble around so you can’t see what’s waiting. He lets his wrists be drawn together. “Please, John, no.” Bracelets joined, “no,” a broken cry as something is clipped between his wrists and something urgent is rubbing at his fingers. When Fourteen straightens his arms behind his back his next “no” is interrupted by the sly choker at his neck. Lift the wrists higher. Arms circle his waist but it is only to free his pants.

There is a crescendo of “no’s” as everything slips away. John steps Fourteen forward so the uncontrolled jets of urine write Fourteen’s desperation across the abandoned floor. Spin around and there is the blanket covered bale. There stands Patrick revealed. “No, no, no, don’t, don’t do this.” The boy shakes his head so the men can understand. He takes a step, and then balks. Tears are coursing down his cheeks and when John presses him forward he tries to shake his hand off, punctuating it with, “no!”

“No,” is the oh shit word for the three car collision unfolding before Fourteen’s wide eyes. The message is not getting through to Patrick and John, but he just continues saying it inconsolably like a little boy clutching his dead puppy. Fourteen digs in his heels. He collapses on the ground, rooting himself. All he can do is curl over his groin protectively.

“Okay, give me a hand here.” John expels his resignation. Patrick expected nothing less from Fourteen. This is it. This is what Patrick keeps coming back for. Fourteen was just a flash of tangerine, tinder igniting the flame. They grab Fourteen in an intimate fireman’s chair and usher him to the indifferent sleeping bag. None of that stops Fourteen from offering a feeble resistance, or ends the insistent protest, “No, please no, no.”