Fourteen

Levi 1

In past the red park buildings with their token solar array promising a bit of green, up a line of young trees that file past the coach far too slowly. The road is narrow, so Levi has to edge past exiting families. The tree branches stretch out to his Winnebago. He can hear the sharp-nail threat of green-leaf twigs clawing along his emerald green flank like guardian spirits of his own missing common sense.

The drive in, hell, the drive from Boston has been too long. Levi is soul-tired and the mile-minutes of arguing with himself should be done, only, this drive into the park is so long. A single pine at the metaphorical-literal fork in the road signals last chances. Accelerate or brake, what is going to be soldier? Levi takes a sharp turn at the small lake and heads farther into the afternoon mingle of families escaping the August heat.

Gelf42819 was specific. Keep on till you reach the loops of the camp sites. A last minute message pins the rust-bucket Bronco to the entrance to the eighth loop. Eight last chances to make a U-turn on a choice that is no choice to Levi. Tuan has been chasing him for almost five decades and Levi has been chasing Tuan down gritty boy-festooned streets across three continents for twenty years. No more chasing ghosts. His oncologist, Chiekezie Adichie set the countdown on Levi with a clinical-colleague’s soft finality. All that was left to do was find his way back before his mind faded. Patrick Hunter is not the only one trapped in his own after quest.

Gelf42819 and the broken down Bronco wait. The still dark sentinel on the picnic table raises flags, but there are always flags when you cruise the streets for underage boys. This is just another patrol into that village, keen old eyes take everything in, calculating the ambush. These are instincts Levi almost lost, and now he has recovered them.

Levi is moving child-safety slow through the campground, just another forty-foot retirement folly discovering America. He considers the dark young man eying him through the driver’s window, measure him a measure as it were. This kid is packing.

Now Levi breathes a sigh of relief. No FBI undercover agent, just the facts mam, righteous soul would play the scene this Nervous-Nelly. Cucumber-cool is the play, till Levi is boy-loving, money-exchanged, red handed, busted clean. Gelf42819 is the real thing.

A near-practiced twist of the well worn wheel and Levi is in the ninth, family-friendly loop. He is just another land yacht slipping past the colourful regatta of tents. It is a longer way back out of the park, but then, it is a long way to San Diego. Levi is checking out the passing knots of campers. Nothing nefarious here except the man shopping a rent-boy and the buyer, him on the picnic table.

Levi is worrying about the Nervous-Nelly gun cradled in the young man’s lap. The man is open carry at the moment, so is Levi. Gelf42819 is a chatty one on the Board, echoes of Fucking Jardine letting his M16 erase Tuan’s family with a nervous chatter. When the Luxor’s air brakes bring him to a soft stop beside the young man on the table, Levi unclamps the holster. De-escalation is called for with Gelf-gun. The old man is not exactly sangfroid about this. He unholsters his Beretta Nano and leaves it chambered on the table near the door. The envelope of cash slips into Levi’s pocket beside his Hikari. The knife will be useless at the moment. Levi’s reflexes are hardly good either.

Levi takes a calming breath. He needs this memory-boy-time of his own before, because Chiekezie has assured him there will be an end to the long regrets of the after. Gelf42819 is just passing on a drifter. A simple, not so legal exchange of needs. Some tragic-story-rent-boy pays his way west, and a lonely old man finds solace in his memories. That is all this is, Levi reminds himself, pretending the money in his pocket does not mean the picture-perfect boy was not drafted with some hell-hole family backstory. The Luxor Winnebago’s door opens with twenty-year-old complaint and the steps pop out. Fresh-faced Fourteen is waiting for him.

“I would be more comfortable if you put that gun away.”

There is no way to trust the old man who confidently descends the steps. Each move in this transaction is a toss of the dice. John feels like he could crap out easily. He keeps throwing the dice anyway. John has always been there for Patrick, cleaning up after the hurt little boy in him. Now, John is thinking of Fourteen’s after, wanting the kid to have an after. The old man’s eyes never waver from his face as they high-noon it in a busy lane.

John wonders if he is staring down the armature director for the next Darknet snuff film (Costaring newcomer, Jeremy Gates). John wonders if this thin old man is going to be able to handle the jackrabbit/bobcat in Fourteen. This is the only good exit for their young victim, short of dropping him off at the police station. That can’t happen, John knows. John has to trust Patrick on this one. Only option: Punt Fourteen into this Winnebago, and dream the good tangerine after-ending for the boy. Drive Patrick to Hershey with his own hands clean (for once). The old man is waiting him out at the door, waiting for John’s Saturday-Night-Special response. The family heirloom tucks away.

“Thank you,” the old man offers politely. John is staring hard, trying to match the old man’s calm. Soprano cries draw both pairs of eyes over to a pair, years short of Fourteen. Boys burst past them on weaving bikes. There is a snapshot of curious eyes. “Let’s do this quickly, don’t you think?” The calm voice brings him back to the man. The ponderous green Winnebago-wall is weathered and so is the old man. Time-worn, but unlike the Bronco, this pair has come through the years strong. John wants to step inside the rig for a leisurely drink. Step inside this stranger for a leisurely conversation. Are you safe? The thought goes away.

“I’ll get Fourteen.”

“No, please.” Fourteen’s tears have loosened the tape, and now he is all before fears and thoughts, intruding on Patrick’s zone. Patrick has digested Fourteen now. Patrick has shat the kid out of his system and absorbed Fourteen’s pain and confusion. He is an Addict fresh off his hit and feeling healthy. Fourteen is the dirty needle, and this RV (six hundred days worth of gun metal grey after joyless-job-grind) is a quick ditch to drop him in.

Patrick wishes Fourteen would stop blathering on in that tiny hurt voice. It reminds Patrick of the long walk to his dorm room. Everyone in lockup watching the pussy boy shuffle to his next fuck. Everyone tired of his pathetic whining. Patrick tunes the boy-noise out with some local station playing music from when the old geezer was a pot smoking hippy. “Let me stay with you, Patrick. I thought I was staying with you and John... Patrick?” More crying from shotgun.

John slides off the pressed plastic boards of the picnic table and the old dude turns his back. The Old Money plays bored. He has turned back on his rig, maybe wondering if he should have rotated the tires, or some other practical problem. Maybe this is the super secret signal to the SWAT team ready to rip its way out of the surrounding tents, take the kidnapping perps down hard. Not likely, John turns to fetch the goods.

John ignores the campy domestic bliss as he rounds the Bronco. The trade-off is in a vacant space too close to the busy road leading out of the park, so campers shun those spaces. The lake water draws families close. Fourteen is talking at Patrick, leaning in urgent. As soon as John opens his door, Fourteen swings right. Jackrabbit fast, his heaving body bounces off the seatbelt and collapses back into the bucket. John figures nylon ties are sawing their way through the boy’s slender wrists. The damn choker chain John put around his neck must be burning. John presses the fussy orange button. Free of the belt, Fourteen jackrabbits mucous glued right to John’s chest. “Please John,” Tangerine tears.

John needs the killer zone right there and then. Wash the feelings out, so he doesn’t have to listen to the boy or himself. It’s twisted crazy that Fourteen would rather face more rape with them than the unknown man. Maybe not so crazy, John admits. Broken Patrick shuffling to the waiting cocks would understand.

John let’s himself touch Fourteen’s fear-soaked hair and presses the tangerine close. Bring Fourteen down, find a crack where sense can sooth his fears. John speaks low, eyes on the old man, mouth close to Fourteen’s ear. John needs the dead-heart killer zone right then, but instead his heart is beating hard (like on the bed, covering Fourteen’s heat, owning the boy). Jackrabbit needs the Saturday Night Special, so he does not bobcat.

“You are going now.” John begins. It will be night soon, state the undeniable obvious, like Fourteen just asked the time of day. “I’m going to cut you loose in a second. You have to stand up, walk with me over to his camper, and get inside.” The bobcat has stopped caterwauling. Now he is just a little boy frightened of the needle. John needs him to be a big boy for the doctor. Fourteen shakes his head, Not going to happen, dad. John knows it has to, so it will.

Eyes on old man Winnebago, hoping a flash of gunmetal won’t sour everything, John lets Fourteen see his alternative. “Jeremy, there is no Hershey for you. You know that. This is the only way out of this.” John-hot blue steel chambers are pressed against Fourteen’s cheek. Blood’s iron tang across Fourteen’s soft lips is a reminder that the Saturday Night Special is not cool, not close to way cool. It is the after neither of them want to share. John is pleading, Don’t make me do it. He could, he will, so this exchange has to happen.

Patrick is searching for a new radio station, hoping FM might bring the entertainment back to the now. It is the sort of channel flipping that drives dad up the wall and ends in sullen silent driving for the next fifteen minutes, peace at last. Fourteen stays huddled against the man who raped him twice and threatens his life, needing John’s strength. The bonds come free, dropping onto the Bronco seat. How stupid is it that the first thing Fourteen does is hug John?

Fourteen steps out, leg shaky, heart flutter, towards his future. He looks around the campground as if it was not his mouth, but his eyes that were covered before. Barbecue bustle everywhere. Larking children packing in some free time before school locks them up through another dreary winter.

“Get away from him John.” He is pleading with a stone cold boy killer like John is the real victim in this after madness. John almost smiles. What a tangerine thought. Fourteen is still a cool drink of citrus water. So, damn Patrick anyway for crossing this kid’s path with John’s. Get away from Patrick, it couldn’t happen, so he won’t. John gives Fourteen a small shove, then catches up the trailing links along the strong young back, gathering them in his palm until his hand rests over the still delicate muscles anchored to Fourteen’s collar bone, last touch. Walk together over to the man.

Levi keeps his eyes everywhere at once. That is how you live during a drop. Villagers just villagers, the two Bronco-driving Charlie are under control. The space cadet in the car is the one Levi is worried about the most. Flipping channels like his partner just ran in to 7-Eleven for Nachos and a (Michael Jackson) Pepsi. There might be a finger on the trigger there, Levi figures not.

Levi has it worked out now. Bluebeard is the NCO and Section Eight in the Bronco is the jumpy ROTC. Bluebeard is too young. A good NCO would have known what to do long ago. Levi had been as hapless, clued out as this young man holding onto Tuan-not-Tuan, so he cuts him some slack. Levi had to get Tuan away from Fucking Jardine’s M16 at the plantation. Maybe John is on the same mission, Levi realizes, thinking of the Channel surfing Section 8 humming an old Eagles Number.

Levi turns his interest back to the little hooker. Levi likes his new Tuan very much.  Big eyes measuring him since they rounded the hood of the Bronco. Firm torso over crumpled tan shorts, runner’s legs stretching way down to a pair of adolescent Hobbit feet tucked into decent trainers. Back to the beautiful face. Fourteen is a crafty innocent. He seems new to the game. That is stamped on his face and his unconscious stance.

Levi has had boys and boys. Some boys were worn hard, others still hurt raw. This boy is sad. All beautiful things should have just a little sorrow about them. It makes them real, makes them Tuan, maybe. Levi can handle bruised-boy-sad. He can sleep soundly beside an Oliver Twist. He wants Da Nang, not some Artful Dodger, on-edge drop zone now. Take the boy or drive on?

Levi is fascinated. This is the real beginning of the trip. This kid poised before him, not the months spent extinguishing his Boston life and packing everything into this old RV he bought decades ago on a whim. He wants his journey back to Tuan in Vietnam. Fourteen-style companions are an afterthought. Just looking at the waiting boy, though. It is so clear that this young hustler (from the streets of who cares where) has to accompany him.

Envelope slides past his Hikari knife, and as it crosses Bluebeard’s palm the young hooker is shoved roughly toward Levi. Levi can see the heavy bruise puffing the side of the boy’s face as he stumbles once, catches himself and turns back on Bluebeard. “John, just do it!” Tenor of innocence, Levi senses a fatal attraction.

The answer to the boy’s cryptic command is written all over John’s face. The John can no more follow the boy-whore’s advice than Levi could walk away from Tuan on the beach in the long ago. Fatal attractions all around, Levi admits. Shirtless-shameless boy hooked up with two young men. Must be a story to this, only Levi has his own story. Best thing is a boy in a hotel room (he hates the cramped-public-car thing), less backstory the better. In and out, so to speak, keep your thoughts to yourself kid.

John looks through Fourteen, bored. Fourteen has lived that reply from John, first time, every time. The bricklayer has earned nothing from Fourteen. The boy is too dizzy to understand why he wants John free, or why he could give a fuck for John. The heart is a mystery. Looking at the young man, it is clear that John and Patrick share an after Fourteen can’t break apart. Turn away, Fourteen has his own lookout to worry about now, next problem. The young jackrabbit scopes out the territory ahead.

For shit’s sake! Patrick has eBayed/Amazoned his ass to movie star Ed Harris. No shit, a doppelgänger. This guy is fit-old. High-domed forehead sweeping back to trim grey hair. Wattle-free square jaw framing a lifetime of easy smiles and serious thoughts. Ed Harris clone suits him better than the beet-red John Goodman flipping hot dogs towards clambering chicks just twenty jackrabbit leaps away. Ed Harris clone is scoping him out too. The man has intelligent (not kind) grey eyes, all doctor-judgy like Fourteen is just in for his yearly physical, cough please, cough again, bend over, that’s good.

“This is Fourteen,” John introduces. Another flicker of humour reassures Fourteen. Not Freddy Krueger, but Ed Harris has bought his ass. Seems harmless, Fourteen has to know the pedophile has some Patrick-plan serious thoughts about his ass. The teen looks away toward normal amongst the trees. Kids play, moms fuss, dads lord it over fire. Why don’t I just pitch a fit, run hands free for the lake? What could they do? Fourteen is too dizzy to understand. In this Now-indecision, all he can do is stand between the devil and the deep blue sea. He is mind-numb tired.

“Fourteen?” Levi tries out this nickname, liking it. “Time to go.” Levi steps into his Luxar first, just to retrieve his gun. John will see the boy in behind him, add whatever shirt and baggage this kid has collected for his own adventure. Gun tucked away, Levi heads for the wheel. He has many destinations and a warning headache builds.

Fourteen is pirouetting between the sofa and the three seats, taking in the floor plan. He shrinks aside when Levi passes him on his way to the bedroom. “Put on your shirt.”

“I don’t have one.”

No book-sports bag on the floor by the door. Just summer-ready boy advertising genetic fitness. Levi is surprised Bluebeard-John did not pitch some sort of travel bag in after the boy. How light can the boy be travelling? “You don’t have a bag?”

“There was no time to pack.” First sardonic, mouth twitch hint that his young companion-purchase has a little bobcat bounce to offer. Sassy boy, Artful Dodging the awkward introductions. Levi likes the switch up from the soulful sadness. Fourteen shrugs, It is what it is.

“It is a long trip. You knew that. If I buy you clothes, it comes out of what you are going to earn.” Levi pitches an old-man-style undershirt Fourteen’s way. The white cotton hits Fourteen’s chest and drops to the faded forest green carpet before a hand reaches out to capture it.

“Thanks,” The boy stoops down to snag it. He is swimming in the sleeveless shirt, mind on Ed Harris’s what you are going to earn warning. Long trip, farther than Hershey, Pennsylvania?  Fourteen looks up and meets Levi’s eyes, then shy-blush face slides off to the side, sucking lips into his mouth. Unexpectedly, the boy meets his eyes again with a sexy little twist of his lips, full on tangerine. Fifty-five years slip off Levi and his own lips smile back.

“Have a seat,” Levi points the way. Fourteen is shotgun again and he sees the holstered persuader on Ed Harrison’s right hip. He can’t resist one last look at the Bronco through the window beside him. John and Patrick are already gone. That quick, the men slip away. Fourteen is content to be numb.

The rain-soaked park beside his house is four days behind him. The safe before seems long gone and Patrick’s imagined looping eight-track after is just a bad MP4 in the Spotify now of the young teen’s life. Trashy Bronco boy-breakers segue to this spotless Winnebago grandpa settling into the captain’s chair on the starship Enterprise. Geremy Gates, going numbly where masturbation-dreams have never gone before. Long trip, the man said.

“Seatbelt,” Ed Harris reminds Fourteen. Ed has a web belt to match his old man uniform dockers and there is no boy-wupping hood on this ritzy Greyhound. Fourteen figures they would have to be T-boned by an Amtrak to shift him out of the BarcaLounger passenger seat, but John has schooled him to listen. Safety check from the movie star, and they are rolling away from the camp sites, heading slowly down the road.

“Where are we going?” Now there is a damn fine question with subtle layers of meaning. Fourteen has been drenched in adolescent reek since he twigged to the change in his circumstance. The sultry August air stewed him in the Bronco. This RV is antique First Class. Soft ride and chilled air whispering across his face. Fourteen props his feet on the desert sand vinyl till Ed Harris-Picard points out, shoes. He kicks them off and settles back, dirty socks watching the road for him. “My name is Jeremy Gates, Ed.” Fourteen looks at his latest captor.

“Ed,” earns Fourteen a fleeting smile. Jeremy Gates is some kid running away from home. Jeremy Gates’ bruised face is a stepdad with a heavy hand. Some incest-drug story Levi never wants to think about. You take Jeremy Gates to Family Services or some caring shelter. Fourteen is a sassy boy willing to sell his ass for a ride out to La La Land. Fourteen sits legs-parted-ready on seat promising his flesh for the feast. Maybe the sass will follow this kid into bed. “Fourteen suits me.”

There is a silence as they swing past the pine tree onto the narrow road leading out of the State Park. Fourteen respects the moment while the Winnebago slides Titanic like against the trees, shaking hands with a late entry Fifth Wheel that makes Ed Harris’ old RV look shabby-Bronco. “I’m Levi,” the old man finally adds. “West, Far East,” there is a shrug in the old man’s voice.

The old man is John-quiet, John-steady. Fourteen can’t see the Tuan-haunting in the old man yet. Those feelings get unpacked down the road West, Far East. Fourteen is not yet acquainted with Nguyen Huu Tuan. “Levi” Fourteen tries out the new name. It forms a second time on his lips and only in his head. John’s choker chain still trails down his back. He fingers it free, loosening it idly. The seat is capacious. Scrunched down, his head sinks softly toward the window. Cool air and the quiet rattle of Levi’s rig lull Fourteen. He is tired now, cried out, wrung out, bone tired after four days boned. Fourteen, still chained, slips into sleep.