Date: Wed, 11 Jun 2003 00:58:14 -0700 (PDT)
From: Phoenixboy <phoenixboy000@yahoo.com>
Subject: Martin Reinholt - Chapter Four

MARTIN REINHOLT

By Phoenixboy


CHAPTER FOUR

"No way Gambit can beat Beast."

"Are you kidding me?" Martin asked Brad.  "Gambit would kick his ass."

"Beast would rip Gambit in two," Brad said, his 15-year-old voice still
cracking.

"You're nuts.  He couldn't come anywhere close to Gambit.  He'd hit Beast
with one of his exploding cards, and that would be the end of old
Dr. McCoy."

"Why would they be fighting in the first place," I interjected, even though
I was merely overhearing their conversation and not taking part in it.
"After all, they're on the same side."

Martin looked at me with a combination of awe and respect.  "You like
'X-Men?'"

"Of course.  Why wouldn't I?"  It always amazed me that children never
seemed to realize that there is a history to our culture.  Since they have
only been alive a few years, that is the extent of their experience.  Kids
have a hard time visualizing life prior to their existence, and the fact
that many things have been around longer than they have.  Comic books, for
instance.  "X-Men" originated in the 60's, longer than I have been alive,
yet to Martin and Brad, it is something new and fresh simply because they
discovered it relatively recently.  To imagine that someone like me read it
as a kid, and possibly still read it, was hard for Martin to comprehend.

Martin just shrugged at my comment.  "So what do you think?  If Gambit and
Beast fought, who do you think would win?"

I looked from Martin to Brad and back to Martin again.  Even though Brad
was waiting with curiosity, Martin's expression of expectation was too hard
to ignore.  I could only say one thing.  "Gambit, of course."

The look Martin gave Brad was priceless.  It was smug and cocky and joyous
all at the same time.  I had made him happy, and that was all that mattered
to me.  Brad just scoffed and walked away.

"Okay, I got one for you," I said.  "Beast versus Hulk."

"Oh, Hulk, of course."

"Hulk versus the Terminator."

"Which one, the Arnold version or the T-1000?"

"Ahnuld," I said, doing a bad imitation of the action star.

"I don't know," said Martin, thinking it over.  His face was scrunched up
in a serious grimace.  "It would be a good fight, though.  Probably
Terminator, since you can't really destroy him."

"The raptors from 'Jurassic Park' versus Godzilla's babies."

Martin laughed.  "Raptors.  Ugh, 'Godzilla' was awful."

"Tell me about it.  If you cut out all the humans, you might have a good
movie."

"Think Gambit will be in the next 'X-Men' movie?" Martin asked, changing
gears as only kids can.

"I hope."

"Me too."  He regarded me with a devious gleam.  "We should go to the
movies some time."

"I'd like that."  He could not know how much I would like that, though I
thought it very unlikely that it would ever happen.  "Hey, you going to the
lock-in?"

Martin grinned, his whole face lighting up.  "Yeah.  Can't wait."

"Me either."  That was the understatement of the century.

The funny thing about time is that when you're waiting for something to
happen, time seems to pass slowly.  However, before you know it, the day
you were waiting for arrives and still it takes you by surprise.

The big day came with a lot of commotion.  School was starting just around
the corner, so for most of those kids, this was their last hurrah.  Parents
dropped them off in the morning with their sleeping bags, changes of
clothes, and various amenities such as cards, Gameboys, action figures, and
the occasional stuffed animal.  Mothers kissed their children goodbye as if
they were leaving for an intercoastal voyage.

The day flew by without incident, and when the normal checkout time came
about half of the kids went home.  The rest were hyper with anticipation of
staying up all night with their friends.  I have to admit that I was
feeling some of that excitement, too.

By the time the group was pared down to the ones who were in for the
duration, Barb put on a stereo and loud music pumped out.  I brought out
the bag of balls, and the boys scrambled to get their hands on one each.
Small cliques formed, boys and girls gossiping and enjoying the company of
one another.

Martin was in one such group of boys who apparently didn't want to do
physical activity.  As I passed by, I heard him say, "Maybe we can find a
place to play strip poker later on."

"That's gay," one boy said.

"Unless we can get the girls to play," another one added.

I guess they didn't realize I was within earshot, because all of them
except Martin jumped when I said, "I don't think that's a good idea, guys."

Martin glanced up at me with a wide, naughty grin.  "Ah, come on.  You can
play, too."

I laughed.  "I know that's not a good idea."  But oh, how I wanted to play!
Sometimes being a responsible adult really sucks.

"Hey, I got one for you," Martin said, not at all ruffled by my dampening
his plans.  "Terminator versus Robocop."

"Terminator, all the way.  Robocop is too clunky."

"Yeah, you're right."

"How 'bout Terminator versus Aliens?"

"Isn't there a comic book of that?" he asked.

"I don't think so.  I dunno, maybe.  There's Aliens versus Predator."

"Yeah, I know that.  I have the whole series.  But I think there's
Terminator versus Aliens, too."

"Well, what about it?" I prodded.

"Hmmm...well, Predator is smart and can plan his attack.  He's got some
cool weapons.  But Terminator is like impossible to destroy and he just
doesn't stop.  Probably Terminator."

"Is there anything that can stop the Terminator?"

"Yeah," Martin said, laughing.  "Sarah Connor."

I laughed at that, too.  He had a point.  Other creatures and creations
were no competition for the metal killer, but a woman brought about his
end.  I loved James Cameron's films with their combination of feminism and
ultra violence.  Women and guns--what guy couldn't get off on that?  Plus,
he had the good sense to center "T2" around a young boy!

The kids had a blast that night.  I spent most of my time mingling around
making sure everyone was enjoying themselves.  We had punch and soda set
out on a table, along with various chips and cookies that were devoured
fairly quickly.  Pizza arrived around 7:30, and the little beasties dove
into it like they had never been fed.  I brought in my TV and DVD player,
along with a bunch of movies.  The "Jurassic Park" films were the evening's
choice, though only a couple kids actually watched more than a few minutes
at a time.

Sometime around nine o'clock, one of the boys, a scrawny and hyper lad
named Larry, asked me to tell him a story.  Several others joined in on his
request, so I had to accommodate.  The first thing that came to mind was
"The Dream Sweeper," the story I wrote with Martin in mind.  I found an
empty piece of floor and sat down, the children forming a semi-circle
around me.  It wasn't long before I had a growing audience, and it didn't
surprise me to find Martin squeezing in at my side.

I recited the adventure of my young hero and the evil he had to fight on a
distant planet.  As often happened when I told my stories, the kids sat
listening with rapt interest.  I don't know how I got the talent for
telling stories to children, and to be honest, I didn't think I was all
that good at it.  However, the kids seemed to have another opinion.

"Tell another one," Larry said when I came to the conclusion.

I had to think about it.  I was thinking about a story involving a traveler
who discovers a lost Mayan city in South America, but I didn't think this
audience would be interested in that.  I drew upon an old novel I had been
trying to write since I was fifteen and never quite got right.  I figured
the kids would enjoy it, since it was an adventure tale involving
teenagers.

This story was a bit long and I had to condense some of the details, but I
could tell by the way the kids were quiet and leaning forward that they
were interested and enjoyed it.  By the time I finished that one, someone
requested yet another.

Resorting to an old standby, I orated ancient episodes of "The Twilight
Zone":

The one about the guy who was the last one alive after a nuclear bomb goes
off and all he cares about is reading, but then his glasses break and he
can't see...

The one about the guy who is given a stopwatch that stops time, but it
breaks when time is frozen, and he's trapped...

The one about the aliens who come to earth saying they are helping mankind
and give them a book that needs to be translated, but it turns out that
it's a cookbook and they're taking people back to their planet to be
eaten...

The one about the bad storm that strands a bus full of people on an island,
and though ten people got on the bus, eleven got off, so one must be an
alien...

The one about the evil stepfather who doesn't like the little girl's
talking doll, which turns out to be alive and wants to kill him...

Oh, I had fun telling these stories.  It always helps when the narrator has
a willing audience that is ready to suspend their disbelief.  It pleased me
to hear Martin often saying, "Oh, that's a good one!" when I was getting
ready to discuss a particular episode.  Apparently, he was well acquainted
with "The Twilight Zone."  That's my kind of boy!

Sometime during the storytelling, Martin's head dropped down upon my arm
and stayed there for a long time.  I was amazed that he didn't feel
self-conscious resting his head on me in front of all the other kids.  A
warm sensation welled up from inside my chest that was neither sexual nor
parental.  It was just nice.

Eventually, my voice began to give out and I had to bring this part of the
evening's entertainment to a close.  Also, my bladder was rather full and I
needed to empty it.  I headed toward the bathroom and Martin joined me.

"That was really good," he said.  "I love hearing you tell stories."

"Thanks."  I was really touched.

We entered the bathroom, and I picked the furthest of the three urinals
along the wall, allowing Martin to have access to the one at the other end
with one urinal between us.  I half suspected he would simply go into a
stall, as many boys his age do.  I was shocked when he chose the porcelain
contraption next to me.

I glanced down at him when I sensed him at my side, then focused my
attention to the duty at hand.  I unzipped my fly and fumbled with the snap
on the flap of my boxers.  My hand trembled slightly yet noticeably.  I had
urinated hundreds, maybe thousands of times in public bathrooms with other
guys next to me and never had this reaction.

Snap.  My penis was free.  Of course, my urine now would not flow and I
felt like an idiot with my member in my hand doing nothing.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head just
enough to see Martin out of my peripheral vision.  His head turned away
from me to face forward.  Was he checking me out?

Instinctively, I glanced at him outright.  He must've caught my movement,
and looked up at me.  That grin again.  I had to do something, as it wasn't
exactly appropriate of me to be staring at this young boy as he was peeing.

"Okay, It versus Freddy Krueger."

"It.  Freddy Krueger can only kill in dreams, but It can screw with your
mind while you're awake."

Satisfied by his answer, Martin turned his gaze downward.  I couldn't help
but follow his lead.  Usually when boys stand at urinals, they are pressed
up so closely that they're almost inside it.  But not Martin; he had a good
space between him and his station.  A steady stream shot out from his
crotch and splattered against the porcelain.

My heartbeat quickened.  I think I forgot to breathe for a long moment.  My
bladder was tensed up tightly so peeing was out of the question for me.

I resisted the urge, but it was too strong.  I had to look.

The little head of Martin's penis poked out of the unzippered fly of his
shorts.  That was all to see; no shaft, no possible hair--not that I
expected any--nothing except a round bit of flesh with a little slit where
water emanated.

I gulped and turned back to my own penis, still hanging out of my pants.
Relief finally arrived and my own urine began to flow.  I sighed deeply.
Martin giggled beside me.

"What?" I said with what I hoped was a humorous lilt to my voice.

"Nothing," he said, grinning his famous grin.

He zipped up, then went to the sink to wash his hands.  I still needed to
finish, so he waited for me.  After my own hands were well cleansed, we
headed back out.  For some reason, I felt the desire to wrap my arm around
him.  He immediately moved in close.  It wasn't really a cuddle, but more
like a walking hug.

The rest of the night was one filled with the chatter and laughter of
children.  They played games, watched TV, hung out with each other.  A few
of them spread out their sleeping bags and actually dropped off to sleep at
a fairly early time.  However, the majority of them appeared to be wound up
so much that they would be active for hours to come.

Barb turned off the music at eleven so those who wanted to sleep could have
a semblance of quiet.  Similarly, I put away the balls.  The kids had
enough to keep them entertained.

Martin spent some time with Brad, who was a nice-looking boy with a sturdy
frame.  I met his older brother once, and he was fat.  Brad would have to
keep up his athletics to avoid putting on the weight.  Additionally, he was
a nice young man, though one who enjoyed rougher horseplay.  Sometimes I
would have to remind him that the kids under our care were much smaller
than him and weren't necessarily used to the roughhousing that he normally
had at home with his brothers.  It seemed that Martin admired Brad.  I
wondered if he had a crush on the older boy.

That brought me wondering about Martin's sexuality all over again.  What
had happened in the restroom?  Was it merely an example of a young boy's
curiosity?  I can understand the sneak peek, but why did he choose the
urinal closest to me?  Was it so he could get a good look at my goods?  Or
did he want to show off to me?  After all, he was allowing a pretty decent
view.

Can a boy of eleven really know his sexuality?  When I was that age, I was
a bundle of confusion and excitement.  I knew very little and the things I
learned were confounding and exhilarating.  There was so much out there in
the sexual world, and I never thought I would ever be part of it.  It was
so alien...so adult.  And yet, so much a part of my young life.

Was it the same for Martin?  In so many ways, he seemed mature and
self-confident.  Did I appear that way to adults when I was eleven?  When
you have no knowledge of what it's like to be an adult, you have no way of
understanding what goes through an adult's mind.  Yet many adults seem to
forget what they felt and thought as children.  It's as if two distinct
species exist under the same skin.  I remember very vividly how it was for
me as a boy.  The fear and anxiety and happiness and thrill of discovering
new things.  Sex was one of those new discoveries that wrapped up all those
emotions and more into one writhing package.

I could only ponder about Martin's sexual state.  He gave off so many
signals, but any one of them could easily be misread.  Was he gay?  That
was the big question, the one I would never be able to ask him.  Could he
be gay at that young age?  In my own youth I was drawn to other boys--not
men, but others my age.  Martin definitely enjoyed the company of other
boys, but also felt at home with girls.  Was that indicative of his being
homosexual?  Wasn't that one of the stereotypes?

And there were other stereotypes that applied to him as well, in particular
his artistic talents.  The singing, dancing, and acting.  I wouldn't be
surprised if he told me he decorated his house.  But that was unfair.
Can't a boy be artistic and still be straight?  Does every stereotype have
to be exploited as reality?

It's not unusual for boys that age to only hang out with other boys, but
there certainly are some who are on the hunt for girls.  He could spend his
time with girls simply because he is attracted to them.  Or there could be
another reason, which was perfectly logical: he didn't care whom he was
with.  Perhaps he was gender blind; a person was a person regardless if it
was a boy or girl.

So many things ran through my mind as I pondered the enigma that was Martin
Reinholt.  Those thoughts were interrupted by Martin himself.

"I'm going to bed," he said.  His energy level had obviously peaked, as his
shoulders were slumped and eyelids were droopy.

"Okay, buddy."

He wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug, his face buried in my belly.
I embraced him firmly and could smell the boyish scent of his hair.  "Sleep
well," I said and released him.  He climbed into a sleeping bag that was
positioned not far from my own.

The girls had all turned in under the watchful eye of Barb Gordon, but a
number of boys stayed up into the wee hours of the morning.  Being a night
owl, I had the late shift, often telling them to quiet down.  Brad was also
up, and when he saw that I wanted the night's fun to wind down, he used his
commanding tone of voice to tell the younger ones to go to bed.  He was a
fantastic right-hand-man.

Morning came all too soon.  Sleepy-eyed and dragging, I pulled myself from
my makeshift bed and stretched.  My sleeping bag was well padded, but the
hard floor underneath was not the best padding in the world.  I couldn't
have gotten more than five hours of sleep, but my muscles and joints ached
regardless.

Martin was bright and cheery.  I suppose he was a morning person.

We roused all the children, most of whom were already up and running
around.  Barb had cereal, rolls, and juice for anyone who wanted breakfast.
I had the task of overseeing the packing, so I enlisted Brad and Martin to
help.  Martin took to it right away, of course.  Brad was like a military
officer, dictating orders.  If I hadn't been so tired, I would have been
amused.

Finally, everything was put away and parents started arriving to pick up
their little monsters.  Barb and I assured every one of them that their son
or daughter behaved him or herself and was well behaved.  Given that we had
no problems, that was the truth.  It was enjoyable for all.

A stocky, shorthaired woman with glasses walked in, and Martin ran over to
her with excitement.  It was not his mother, so I had to assume it was his
aunt.  I walked over to her in time to hear her say, "Get all your stuff
and let's go."

"Hi, I'm Alan James," I said, offering my hand to the woman.

"Danielle Brookes," she said, shaking my hand.  She had a firm grip.

Martin quickly added, "She's my aunt."

"Nice to meet you."

"Same here," she said.  "Martin talks about you a lot."

This was like déjà vu from when I met his mom.

"Lies, all lies," I said in what I hoped was a somewhat German accent.
Martin giggled, but his aunt simply started at me pleasantly.  I didn't
take her for someone with much of a sense of humor.

"Got your stuff?" she asked Martin.

"Yeah."  He turned to me.  "See ya Monday, Alan."

"Yep.  Get some rest!"

His arms slid around my waist and bore down in a quick embrace.  Then he
was dashing out the door with his aunt behind him.

His aunt, huh?  Well, I supposed she and Martin's mother were sisters,
which explained why both of them were somewhat manly.  But then again...

One thing was certain: Martin had an interesting family.  It was one about
which I wanted to learn more.  But that would have to wait, as I needed to
shepherd a dozen more youngsters into the arms of their waiting parents,
and there was a bed waiting at home for me.


TO BE CONTINUED


Copyright Phoenixboy 2003

Please send any comments to phoenixboy000@yahoo.com