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You might think that having Neal at my side nearly all the time might eventually drive us apart, but that simply wasn't the case for us. I'm fairly certain that if Neal hadn't moved with his Mom from West Hartford, to live with us on the lake, we would have drifted apart eventually. But that's not what happened. Neal and I fell into that easy comradery that comes from being best friends, going through life shoulder to shoulder.
Pretty much everybody that knew us, knew we were a couple, paddling through life like a pair of mallards. If anything, our closeness strengthened our connection to one another. Nothing was ever said about it. I'm not sure if it was because of the Peter Gilbert incidents, or, as I hope to think, we just became so much a part of the normal landscape, that nobody gave a damn.
The year of the national bicentennial celebrations, we both turned 16. Garrett had purchased himself a newer truck, and gifted me his old crasher. By that time, it wasn't good for much, but it was still mine, which meant that it belonged to both Neal and I. As soon as I got my license, that truck took us fishing, brought us to the foot of the mountain for hikes to our favorite cave (you know the one), and helped us to get our first jobs.
Neal and I were both hired as bus-boys/dishwashers at a local restaurant on the lake. It was a very nice place, the sort of establishment that was a bit too pricey for our families to go on a regular basis. The owner liked us both, and hired us on the spot when we came in to apply. It worked out very well, Neal and I traded duties, he'd clear tables one day, while I washed, and vice versa.
I actually enjoyed the work, while Neal, not so much. He did cut a dashing figure in the black bus-boy uniform, and we both quickly moved into backing up the servers when it got busy. Very naturally, we both graduated into server roles, and we soon came to understand the relationship between good service and good tips. The owner, Phillip Cress, and his wife Ethel, came to view us as almost better than their own sons, neither of which had any interest in the family business.
One evening, during the mid-summer rush, I was polishing glasses at the bar, and there was a particularly noisy man there. He had come in with a woman, but she seemed to have left without him. The bar was busy, and this fellow was loudly asking for another drink. Being underage, I wasn't allowed to serve him alcohol, but I offered to get him a soda until the bartender could make his way back.
"Okay, fine," he grumbled, "Two-cents plain then."
I filled a tumbler with ice and some seltzer, dropped a cocktail napkin under it and served it to him. He looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and nodded his thanks. Turning back to my task, I saw Neal arriving with two more racks of bar glasses, still steaming, fresh from the sanitizer. I made a big show of rolling my eyes and groaning.
"Thanks Buddy!" I said, "More glasses for me to polish?"
"You're welcome, Sport!" he rejoined brightly. We were always busting on each other like that, all in good fun. Neal placed the two trays on end of the bar, winked, turned on his heel, and went back to the kitchen with a bounce and a wave.
This of course, earned us a "harrumph" sound from our rheumy-eyed friend at the bar. I ignored him, and continued polishing and putting away the glasses. Eventually, the bartender worked his way back to him.
"What can I getcha?" I heard the barkeep say.
"Bourbon, neat, make it a double."
"Coming right up." There was clinking of ice in a rocks glass.
"Hey, I ordered that neat. No ice," the man grumbled.
"Not for you," the bartender said, "I'm making more than one order at the same time, your glass is right here."
"Sorry."
"No problems, man." Our bartender, Tom Parker, was a pretty mellow dude. Bar customers can get kind of loutish and I've never seen Tom lose his cool with any of them. I had a feeling about this guy though, it seemed like he was in a bad mood, and looking for an excuse to tangle with somebody. Tom moved back down to the other end of the bar to serve a customer who was signaling for another drink. I completed polishing the glasses, stowed the bar towel, and was about to return the glass racks to the kitchen when the customer grunted and waved at me.
"Hey Red," he whistled me over, "You got guys sell butts?"
I walked over and glanced behind the bar.
"We've got Luckys, Marlboro and Larks, but the bartender will have to sell them to you."
"Them Luckys filtered?" he asked. I squinted down at the carton to see.
"Yes sir," I said.
"Fuckin' great," he breathed sourly, "you mean to tell me all you got in this place are cigarettes for faggots and women?" I felt the edges of my ears start to burn, an uneasy feeling formed in my belly.
"I'm sorry sir," I said, "That's all we have."
"No cigars?"
"No sir."
"Geez-fucking-Louise," he sighed with disgust. I wasn't sure what to do, so I waited expectantly, hoping he'd come up with another question, or dismiss me.
"You're a skinny little fucker, aren't you?" he grinned, looking me up and down, "You one of them queers what likes them faggot cigarettes?" I could feel my already crimson tinged face turn hot. I had dealt with a few surly customers by that point, but this was the first guy to call me out like that.
"No sir," I said, trying to follow Tom's example of not letting myself be provoked, "I don't smoke." The guy tilted his head back and roared with laughter, slapping his hand on the bar. This attracted Tom's attention and came back and stood beside me.
"Something you need friend?" There was more ice in Tom's voice than in bin behind the bar.
"Naw," the drunk said, then mumbling under his breath, "Just wanted to know if Red here likes the fellas, that's all."
"I'd say that's none of your business," Tom, pulling bar tab slips from the pocket of his apron and thumbing through them.
"What do you say, Red," the guy pointed to me, "you and your little boyfriend there that brings you the glasses, do you like to pitch or catch?" My mouth dropped open, and I may have attempted to say something, but I don't recall. What I do remember is Tom dropping the guy's tab in front of him.
"I think it's time for you to pony up and be on your way, buddy."
"What?" he asked, innocently, "I just wanna know if he likes up the ass..."
"The only reason you would need to know that is if you wanted to fuck him." Tom leaned over and growled softly, "Is that what you wanna do, man? Fuck a 16 year-old boy in the ass?" The color rose in the guy's face. "You need to go home, pal," Tom continued, "Pay your tab and get out of my bar."
By this time, the normal yadda-yadda of the bar quieted, as people turned their attention to Tom and the troublesome customer.
"Heh, I don't fuckin' think so, Pal," the guy grunted, "I ain't finished drinking yet." Tom reached across the bar and gathered the dude's collar and tie and twisted them up into his fist, pulling the burly man up and nearly across the bar.
"You're done drinking when I say you're done drinking," Tom hissed menacingly, "and mister, you are done drinking. Now pay your tab and get out before I toss you out on your ass." The drunken fool didn't even flinch.
"Heh," he snorted derisively, "I'd like to see you try."
Not one to mince words, or drag a conversation out, Tom tightened his twist on the fellow's collar, and pulled him a little closer. Without any preamble at all, Tom viciously head-butted the guy and let him slip to the floor, knocking his head on the bar as he fell. The guy's arms flailed as he went down, clearing several glasses off the bar, which crashed dramatically around him. The momentary silence in the bar meant that everybody could hear a musical, little fart as it escaped the fallen patron, now slumped, unconscious, in a pile on the floor. Shattered glass and ice surrounded the sorrowful looking clump of clothes and skin.
As you might imagine, this attracted the attention of Phil, Ethel and Neal, who emerged from the kitchen. Ethel ran over to the guy and rolled him out so he lay flat on his back. His shirt and tie were splattered with wetness, he bled from his nose, and one eye looked like it was going to have a decent shiner by morning.
"What the hell happened here?" Phil asked, his voice more bewildered than angry. Tom had already started clearing the bar top, and wiping up the mess, whistling like it was all in a day's work.
"Guy's drunk," Tom said nonchalantly, "Got mouthy when I shut him off. Then he got really clumsy."
"Clumsy?" Phil said, raising a dubious eyebrow at me, "is that what happened,
he got clumsy?" I just stood there, stunned; nodding slowly. Phil turned and
looked at the other slack-jawed patrons of the bar. "Really? This man `got
clumsy'?" Phil asked, to no one in particular. To a person, each of the shocked
customers nodded in agreement, nobody was going to contradict Tom.
"Clumsy," Tom repeated, "exceptionally clumsy."
"That's just great Tom," Phil said in an exasperated tone, "this guy is probably gonna wake up and sue the pants off-a me..." At that moment, a moan escaped the lips of the fallen guy. Tom picked up his wet bar rag, came around the end of the bar, and knelt down by him. Most gently, he put the folded rag on the guys forehead as his eyes fluttered opened. As soon as he saw Tom he flinched and made a half-hearted attempt at rolling away.
"Easy friend," Tom cooed, "You okay?" The guy blinked and stared back at him, obviously confused.
"Wha...?" the guy's mouth moved a few times before he was able to form words, "Wha' happened?"
"You fell," Tom soothed, pressing the cool rag to the guy's forehead, "I think you may have passed out."
"I did?" he asked, not sounding terribly convinced, "I remember asking for cigarettes and ordering another round... but then..."
"Shhh, lay still for a minute," Ethel quieted him. "Neal, run along and get the broom and dust-pan, will you?" Neal disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors. "Oliver, throw me down another bar towel please." I stood and stared at her for a moment, still not entirely processing the whole scene yet. A familiar buzzing echoed from what seemed a far-off distance. I recognized it immediately and fervently willed myself to not compound the situation by having a seizure. I hadn't had one of those since my fight with Eddie Parnell.
"Oliver?" Ethel said, a little louder to catch my attention, "Another bar-towel please?" Jolted from my momentary reverie, I pulled a clean towel from the pile and walked it over to her. She dabbed at the wincing man's face, mopping up the blood from his nose and mouth. It looked like he may have done some dental damage during his collision with the bar top on the way to the floor. I wondered what it is with people getting their choppers knocked around because of me, and whether this pattern would persist throughout my life. Seems like I am destined to help more than a few dentists get set up for retirement.
Phil and Ethel eventually got the fellow up onto unsteady feet, and he agreed to let them call him a taxi. After he left, Tom, took the guy's keys and moved his car to an illegal parking spot. Then he quietly dropped a dime to a friend on the Parking Authority. The car was quickly towed, and I imagine, impounded.
That's pretty much when I decided that, even though it was not likely to happen, I was never going to mess with Tom.
Early in the summer season, before I got my license, my Dad began to hatch a plan to somehow get power and water over to the cottage on our island in the cove. The island represented nearly three acres of total land, so it could easily accommodate a small compound of buildings. My father figured that if he could make the cottage the main building, and put three or four smaller cabins on the island, we would have another feature to attract renters and retreaters. Neal and I thought it was a grand idea, Garrett was game, only Mom was dubious.
"It's a big project," she said, "Apart from the money it's going to cost to do all this, who is going to want to rent a cabin or what have you, that's only accessible by boat?"
Mom wasn't trying to put the kibosh on the deal, but she would have felt remiss if she didn't point out some of the more obvious pitfalls.
"The cottage is already there, and it's going to fall into ruin if we don't use it," Dad pointed out. Mom had to agree with him there. He was always going over to the cottage to make repairs and keep it in good shape. Making that kind of effort didn't make much sense if nobody was going to rent the thing. The cottage had never been rigged for electricity, but that could be done easily enough. The local electrical utility had offered several times to bring power to the island, as they had done for several others on other end of the massive lake. Now, Dad decided was going to take them up on their offer.
One afternoon, Neal and I decided to take the canoe over to the island, and visit the cottage. With its surrounding copse of trees, the cottage is remarkably quiet, even with all the buzzing of boats and activities going on around the lake during the busy summer season. We wandered through the tall grasses and weeds surrounding the building, and started to picture in our minds what the end product would look like.
The cottage itself sat near the northern most point, the rest of squat, crescent-shaped island which lay beyond its front door. My father explained to us that he planned to update the cottage, a rugged stone affair, and add a wrap-around porch on the front. Beyond the steps of the front porch, we would clear the land to create a fairly large yard, and surround it with four smaller cabins. Two of which would be "family style" cabins, with a bathroom and shower, one large bedroom and two smaller rooms, equipped with bunk beds. The other two cabins would be larger, but little more than bunk rooms divided by a common room in the center, four showers and toilets. Those "camp style" cabins were designed to be single-sex, and could accommodate up to eight campers plus a "counselor" bed in each bunk room, for a total of 16 children or adults per cabin.
At the other end of the "yard", would be a large fire-pit made of stone and log benches. Near the main cottage, would be a small outbuilding where mowers, maintenance equipment and tools would be kept. Dad also planned on including an outdoor BBQ station. The rest of the island would remain wooded, to shield its occupants from the hustle and bustle of the lake, except where it shared the cove with the mainland.
An ambitious project for sure, I felt kind of infected by the completeness of Dad's vision for the island. I was constantly asking him questions about what was going to go where. Garrett's father was on the board of a local bank, so the loan my father needed to make his island dreams come true, was quickly and easily approved. Mom worried about whether we'd ever make enough to pay it back, but Dad seemed confident.
Neal and I wandered the boundaries of the island, I watched him as he walked ahead of me through the tall grass. He was taller now, but I still outpaced him in the height department. True to his prediction, Neal wasn't the tallest among our circle of common friends. He was no shorty, standing about five feet, eight inches, but by then, at fifteen, nearly sixteen years old, I stood about 6 feet. I would eventually top out at 6', 4". So, he stood a little taller than my shoulders, making for a noticeable difference between us. It didn't seem to bother Neal, so it never bothered me, which is good because there wasn't going to be much either of us could do about it.
Neal had developed a lean, yet muscular build, whereas I tended toward long and lanky. My hands and feet felt freakishly large to me, while Neal's seemed perfectly proportioned to the rest of him. To me, he was complete eye-candy. Even if I had not known him as well as I do, my eye probably would have been drawn to his good looks.
As we crashed through the brush, his butt wriggled under his tight shorts, which warmed more than just my heart. That's the way we wore them in the seventies, so tight that they looked like they'd been grown out of since putting them on in the morning. One could say that little was left to the imagination, but with everything compacted so tightly, it was sometimes hard to tell exactly what you were looking at. Of course, Neal and I were already intimately associated with each other's wares, so there was no need of speculation for either of us.
In that regard, however, is where Neal easily outpaced me in the growth department. Neither of us where porn-star material, but where my equipment stayed mostly in the normal range, Neal's dick had thickened. Lengthwise, we were on par with each other, which suited me fine, but in terms of girth, Neal had me beat. This too, suited me very well, thank you muchly. Let us just say that the surplus circumference added an extra "dimension" to our play times together. Since we had literally grown up together, my ability to accommodate him, grew along with him. He was big enough to make our intimate moments together enjoyable and comfortable, and I didn't have to unhinge my jaw to bring him pleasure when the mood struck.
By all measures, we were made for one another. In our mid-adolescence, with all those teenage hormones racing around our bloodstreams, we became even hungrier for each other, if you can imagine such a thing. Thus, it was inevitable that our explorations of the island, would lead us to the interior of the cottage, where we intended to sublimate our passion for one another. I was already painfully hard as I focused on his delicious bubble-butt, during our approach to the cottage.
My ardor quickly subsided when we saw that the side door was hanging at a strange angle against its frame, the window broken out. The remains of a bleached out curtain waved limply in a small breeze, through the shards of glass still stuck to the mullions.
"Holy shit, Oliver," Neal breathed as we inspected the damage, "Somebody broke in."
That was fucking stupid, I thought to myself, because none of the doors to the cottage, had actual locks on them. If whoever had done this had merely tried the knob, the door would have opened easily. In fact, we were used to local youth exploring the island and cottage. We knew practically everybody in the area, and they knew us, I couldn't imagine who'd want to do such a thing. Gingerly, Neal pulled the door open by the knob. The hinges squealed in protest as the broken door swung open, wedging itself into the dirt about halfway, but wide enough to let us squeeze through.
The damage on the inside of the cottage took my breath away. There was no furniture or appliances to damage on the first floor, but the doors on the cabinets in the kitchen that had not been either torn off their hinges completely, hung awkwardly by a thread. The built-ins on either side of the fireplace had suffered similarly. The spray-painted outline of a large, squirting penis graced the entire wall, even crossing the stone mantle and chimney. A portion of the hearth stone lay cracked and broken on one side.
It felt like somebody fired a cannonball through my insides. I had so many good, fun and private memories of the place, and I couldn't believe the damage I was seeing. On the hearth was an area of small, blackened marks, like somebody had burned something there. Above, on the ceiling, smoky rings and marks marched around in an inexpert attempt at spelling the words "Helter Skelter". The entire room bore a peculiar smoky stink that I recognized from the pot-heads who sparked up beneath the bleachers at school. From where we stood, most of the windows were broken out, some completely. The front door, curiously, remained untouched.
The upstairs floors were in no better shape. The vandals, whoever they were, had made it a point to smoke in every room, and it made me wonder how they didn't just set the place ablaze and be done with it. The master bedroom, the empty bedframe had been flipped over, and the springs torn apart. The brass knobs were dented, one of which had been knocked off entirely. Neal looked out through a window into the back yard, remarking that the outhouse had been pushed over, the old timber frame collapsing under its own weight.
Empty spray paint cans littered each room, there had to be an even dozen of them. Seemed like an awful lot of money to spend to vandalize a place. But then, it also occurred to me that people who waste their resources on cigarettes, pot and other drugs, probably aren't the best custodians of their money to start.
Limbic rage is probably the best term I could use to describe my state of mind. Having surveyed the last room, and finding similar wreckage, my emotions began to spill out.
"MOTHERFUCKERS!" I roared, "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUUUUUUCK!" Neal, standing next to me, was shaking. I was too, for that matter.
"Okay," he said, weirdly quiet, "This... this is really bad."
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
"WHO FUCKING DID THIS?" I screamed at the Universe, as if it might answer.
"C'mon," Neal said, tugging at my shoulder, "Let's get out of here and tell your father." I shrugged him off, my fingers balling into fists. "Oliver," he said sternly, giving my shoulder a gentle sock with his fist. "This isn't your fault, let's go tell your Dad, he'll know what to do." I'm glad he said that, in the way he did it. If he hadn't, I felt like I might have gone off on a rage of my own, doing further damage, maybe even triggering a seizure. Instead, I stood there, getting my breathing under control.
Eventually, we picked our way out of the mess, got into the canoe, and silently made our way back to shore. My father was there, pointing up the cinder blocks for bon-fire pit on the shore. He looked up and waved cheerily as we trudged up to him, then smile fell from his face when he saw me.
"Oliver?" He asked, "What's wrong?"
Glass and other debris crunched underfoot as we watched Dad go from room to room to survey the damage. He stood between us in the main room of the cottage, his hands on his hips. He didn't say much of anything beyond a few hums and tsk-tsks; he seemed maddeningly calm. I wanted to say something, but didn't know where to start, it all seemed so overwhelming.
"Well boys," he said, draping his arms across our shoulders while staring out at the giant pecker painted along the wall and fireplace, "Somebody seems to be overcompensating for something."
Neal snickered, and I turned in astonishment to see Dad grinning.
"Holy Cow Dad!" I breathed.
"Oh, don't be so serious Oliver," Dad said softly, "I was planning on demolishing most of the interior of this place anyhow. Whoever did this just got me a head start, that's all."
And that was pretty much it. Dad started on the renovations of the cottage a little earlier than planned, but that turned out to be okay. The local Sheriff's Deputy came to investigate, and sorted out the vandals in short order. It seems, a few nights earlier, he pulled over a car load of four, drunk and very stoned boys from a town over. They were already being charged with stealing the boat that brought them to the island, and then running it aground near a rocky outcropping, some 6 miles up the lake. The deputy noted they all had paint-stained fingers, and he had assumed they were just inhaling the fumes. The drunk driving, drug possession and vandalism charges meant that we would probably not be seeing the likes of them again for a long while.
Neal and I helped. It was fun tearing down the remains of the interior. We gutted much of the cottage, down to the studs, in some places. The old plaster and lath fell away fairly easily, and made it easier to put in bats of Fiberglas insulation. I got to swing the hammer stapler by virtue of being taller than even my Dad, something he never failed to poke fun at me about.
Dad picked up a pontoon boat, with the idea that after we were done using it to ferry tools and supplies over, it could be used to transport guests to and from the island. I was thrilled at the idea, picturing Neal in a smart Captain's outfit, piloting the boat. It was kind of a little shock to myself when I realized the uniform I was visualizing Neal in, was pretty similar to the one the Coast Guard light keeper wore when we visited the lighthouse on Block Island. Then, of course, I couldn't help myself seeing Neal with the same sort of enormous prong the light keeper had possessed. The image was too comical in my mind, causing me to snort audibly. Neal took notice, and later on, in our little hunter's cabin, he pestered me until I explained my outburst. He too had a good laugh at the idea, and then demonstrated how perfectly his current dimensions fit him. And me.
It only took two weeks or so, to complete the demolition inside the island cottage. By then, the local utilities had dug an underwater trench between the northern most tip of the island and the mainland, bringing both electricity and telephone service to the cottage. Dad was thrilled the day the set up the pole on the island, and the temporary service box. That meant we now could use power tools which would hasten the renovation by leaps and bounds.
I marveled at how quickly work went, once the island was powered. Before we buttoned up the walls, an electrician ran thick cables throughout the house, installed outlets and prepared the kitchen and new laundry room, with some hug looking plugs. The old butler's pantry, off the kitchen, was where the laundry room was going to be. Of course, that meant a plumber had to come too. Since the cottage had never been outfitted with running water (apart from a hand-pump in the kitchen), or bathrooms, those things had to be accommodated. Two smaller rooms, one upstairs and one down, were conscripted to become the bathroom/shower areas. It reduced the overall capacity for sleeping in the cottage, but the new cabins would more than make up for that loss of space.
The really impressive thing was the work on the septic system. I have no idea how my father arranged it, but a huge barge came down the lake one day, and off-loaded a back-hoe, a payloader, and several, concrete septic tanks. The "yard" area that Neal and I cleared, thank you very much boys, became the leech field. There were some last minute design changes in the system due to the ledge and rock beneath the surface of the island, but nothing a little dynamite couldn't solve. Now that was fun to watch and see, even as did from the shore. Better than any fireworks.
By the week's end, the septic system was complete, and the wiring and plumbing in the cottage was done and ready to accept fixtures. Dad managed to finagle some restaurant-grade kitchen stuff, a Vulcan oven/stove/flattop as well as a large refrigerator/freezer. Within another week or so, we installed them into the new kitchen which now looked over the main room. This would be eventually outfitted with enough tables and chairs to accommodate 50/60 people easily, and still leave room for a comfortable circle of couches around the hearth of the fireplace.
All that remained was to put up the wallboard, then tape, spackle and paint. By the time that started happening, Neal and I were both working at the restaurant too. This meant working in the morning to help Dad, and then off to the restaurant. We became accustomed to coming home and literally throwing ourselves into bed. It was good, honest work, and kept us busy, but some days, it was hard to get up.
With the end of that summer approaching, Dad did hire some help, along with Garrett, to complete the brand new, wrap-around porch. Garrett took special pride in locating local logs, which he peeled and preserved to be the balustrades for the railing around the porch. The end result was as classic an Adirondack Lodge look as you can imagine. The newly renovated cottage looked, smelled and felt just like you would expect for a camp cottage on an Upstate New York Lake. Before autumn started to turn the leaves, Dad had the foundations poured for the additional cabins, so he could rough in the plumbing. We then covered them up with tarpaulins, turned off the water for the cottage, and let it set over the winter.
That year, Garrett took on the new island facility as a marketing project for his college work. By the time spring started peeking out from under winter's blanket, he already had people committing to using the cottage, and booking the cabins. One church wanted to hold its own "mini-camp" there, since one of their camps on the lake had been declared unsafe by the local authorities. Unfortunately, because there were no real beach facilities on the island, they decided to use the mainland facilities instead.
That at least gave us some time to get the other cabins built. Dad, Garrett and some hired carpenters, framed, roofed and roughed in the cabins pretty quickly, so that we were literally just doing the final inspections when the first renters were being ferried across the cove by Neal in the pontoon boat. After that, the island was a complete success. Much to Phil Cress' chagrin, Dad hired Neal and I away from him, to be the stewards of the island facility, which we dubbed "Minerva's Cove", after my grandmother, for whom the cottage was originally built. It was a weird, quirky name to give it, and I loved it.
Neal and I were perfectly suited for the job. We would pilot the regular runs of the pontoon boat, dubbed "SS Mini-Minnehaha", after the similarly named paddle-wheeler that runs along Lake George. We even developed a little safety patter when boarding new guests. Dad outfitted us with neat looking khakis and polos that set us apart as employees; he, Mom and Garrett also ended up wearing these. We all looked so smart in our professional duds, Good Lord, especially Neal.
"So..." Dad breathed into the warm, summer air one night, as we sat along the porch of the Lodge, watching the stars emerge in the early twilight, "This is going to be your senior year boys, got any plans to make it memorable?"
"Prom is probably out of the question," Neal observed, dryly, earning a snort from Dad.
"I suppose so," Dad mused. "You at all worried about your Dad coming to visit, Neal?" Leave it to my father to approach something head-on.
"Naw," Neal shrugged, "It'll be fine. He and I have talked on the phone a bunch of times. I guess it's time to put the bad stuff behind us." I had been present for a couple of those phone calls. Their conversation had been pretty straightforward, and Neal told me that Ned had gone out of his way to make sure Neal understood that none of what happened was Neal's fault. They even managed to have a civil conversation about Neal and me, which was difficult for Ned, I'm sure. In the end, they had sort of agreed to not revisit that subject, content to let sleeping dogs lie. Ned was coming up for a weekend visit, with promises to take Neal fishing and do some father/son stuff. Neal wasn't sure he could ever let Ned entirely back into his life, but I admired him for giving the guy a chance. I'm fairly certain I'd have harbored a lot more resentment, but I get that he missed his father.
"How about you, Oliver?" Dad prodded, "What's going on in that lofty brain of yours?"
"Well, Dad," I chuckled, giving a sidelong glance to Neal, "there is something I've been meaning to ask you about."
"Oh?" Dad raised an eyebrow.
"Well, you see..." I stammered, "It's just that, well..." I looked over to Neal, who was sitting rigidly now, his eyes wide. I guess he didn't expect me to bring it up so quickly, we had only discussed it the night before. "Neal and I are thinking about joining the Navy after school." Dad sat bolt upright in his Adirondack chair.
"The Navy?" Dad exclaimed, he turned to Mom, whose fingers came up to touch her lips.
"Oh my goodness," Mom blanched, "are you boys really serious about that?"
We turned all seemed to turn to Neal, who looked around at us all, nodding.
"Yeah," Neal confirmed, "Oliver and I were talking about it, and it seemed like a good idea."
"You know," Dad pointed out, "Even if you do basic training together, you'll never get stationed together. That's at least four years you'll be apart."
"Yeah, we know," I said, somewhat forlornly, "but we talked about that. Even if we just went to college, our interests would probably take us to separate classes and courses and stuff, we'd probably be separated anyhow. At least for a while."
"We both have to complete our educations," Neal added, "kind of, broaden our horizons."
"That is remarkably mature of you two," Mom said proudly. I could still see the apprehension in her face. "Have you discussed this with Terry yet?" Mom asked.
"Not yet," Neal shook his head, "but I was going to tonight."
"Good idea," Mom agreed, "She'll want to be included in your decision."
"Probably worth mentioning," Dad said shrewdly, "if the Navy ever gets wind of you two..." We both nodded, he didn't need to finish. Dad had already impressed upon me the dangers of being outed in the service. Everybody in our circle knew us as a couple, but we had long grown accustomed to being discrete.
"Dad?" I asked, "Did you like the Navy?" Staring out across the lake front, he took a moment to answer.
"Well, Son," he said firmly, "it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. How does that sound?"
"Sounds about right." I nodded.
During our summer work, Dad insisted that Neal and I take a day off at least once per week. We decided, one weekend, to take a trip over to Gaslight Village on Lake George, about ninety minutes away. With some money saved up from working, we borrowed Mom's car (the truck wasn't good for a trip that long), and booked a room at one of the small, tourist trap motels near the lake. The room wasn't much, be we weren't there to hang out in the room.
It took most of the morning to get there, being that we didn't leave very early, so we arrived about noon. Once we got into Gaslight Village, we wandered around a bit. Neal was more an enthusiast of the rides than I was, but I went along anyhow. We rode the Dragon Roller Coaster, which was definitely not one of the scarier ones I've seen, and well within my tolerance. The Ferris wheel was fine, but that one caused Neal some consternation, due to its height and decidedly rickety feel.
We attended a "Meller-Drama" in the Opera House, which featured a classic villain, which we all booed and hissed, as well as the comely maiden and handsome hero, for whom we clapped and cheered. Gorging ourselves on typical park food like sausages, French fries, cold fountain sodas (which were pretty terrible actually), and funnel cakes, it wasn't long before we'd exhausted everything the park had to offer, in terms of entertainment. The evening's entertainment was to be a square-dance with a local band, which didn't sound like fun to either of us. We decided to exit the park and check out some of the other destinations around Lake George.
Naturally, we were drawn to the House of Frankenstein Wax Museum. A relatively new addition to Lake George, the converted store front home offered chills and thrills (in air conditioned comfort!). We gladly paid the paltry admission price. Luckily, Neal had brought along his Kodak Instamatic camera, we got another tourist family to take a couple of shots of us with a figure of the Frankenstein Monster out front before we dared to venture inside.
Even though themed with the Lon Chaney version of the Mary Shelley story, the "museum" camped it up with scenes from stories by Edgar Allen Poe, Victor Hugo and various other authors. Around each corner, we met each surprise with giggly delight, and sometimes disgust. Not because of the gruesome scenes presented, but because they were so obviously not real, they seemed almost comical. In more than a few places, we took liberties with our hands in the darkness. At one point, Neal jumped out of his skin as I reached around and groped him.
Still, as silly as it all was, we were disappointed when the fun ended. The path through the museum led us back into the sunlight, through a gift shop where we could pick up innumerable little tchotchkes. We felt obligated to buy something, so I got a trick package of gum that snapped at the fingers of your victim if you offered them a piece. Neal got a pair of so-called X-Ray Specs; a cheap frame featuring hypnotic looking cardboard inserts with a small, polarized plastic lens in the center. They did little more than give the wearer a headache. Neal accidently left them in the restroom of a local sandwich shop; we didn't feel inspired to go back for them.
That night, we fed quarters into the "Magic Fingers" bed, and giggled like fiends as the shaking mattress made my voice all jiggly as I tried to sing "House of the Rising Sun". Soon, we exhausted our supply of quarters. The television turned on, but didn't get very many channels, and of those it did, none of them were very clear. The one thing that worked well was the air conditioning, which we dialed down to low. After a mutual, but chaste, shower, we streaked through the frigid room and dove under the covers, naked as the day we were born. Laying together, I pulled Neal over, on top of me, gazing up into his amazing eyes.
"What?" he asked, biting his lower lip. I felt him harden against me.
"Just... I... " I stammered, "I wonder how I got so lucky?" Neal's eyes sparkled, they seemed to well up a little.
"Naw," he whispered quietly, "I'm the lucky one. If you hadn't found me, I'd have probably ended up some frustrated rent-boy turning tricks in Bushnell Park."
"Seriously?" I asked, astonished.
"Think about it," he nodded cheerfully, "I didn't even know I was gay until I met you."
"Didn't you say you messed around with your friends?"
"Yeah," he agreed, "but they messed around with me too, it wasn't anything more than normal kid stuff. But I always had these feelings and I knew I wasn't like the other guys. I liked girls just as much as they did, but then you came along, and changed all that."
"Okay," I reasoned, "so how does that mean you'd have ended up so bad?"
"Mostly my dad," he said, quietly, "because he doesn't understand, and... because he drinks..."
"I see," I nodded, "I think I get it."
"Honestly, Oliver," he pressed his lips to mine, "if you hadn't come along when you did, I think I would never have known true love." His words caught in his throat and a tear spilled down onto my cheek. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him to me, showering him with desperate kisses. My erection rose, brushing the inside of his legs, he must have felt it because he closed them tightly to capture it between them. I felt Neal grind his dick against my belly, it throbbed strongly.
Truthfully, I had been waiting for this moment for the whole day. There was something inherently naughty about taking a lover to a cheap motel room. For some perverse reason, the tacky décor, the vibrating bed, all served to heighten our sense of misbehavior. As we wriggled together, madly kissing one another, the tip of my penis worked its way in between the cleft of his butt, and began knocking on his rear entrance.
Neal gasped in my mouth as he felt the insistent pressure. He pressed his palms against my chest and sat up, straddling my hips. Reaching behind, he took a firm grasp of me, aiming my dick straight for his hole, and tried to push it in. Going in dry was not something we'd ever tried, but Neal seemed desperate to get me inside him. He bore down, which did let him open up just enough to get the tiniest bit of my head in, but only temporarily. Gamely, he continued on, pressing and pushing, moving any way he could think of to encourage me into him. The effect of his ministrations and determination on his face, made me hard as steel.
The tiny penetrations eventually took their toll, and I bucked against him. Groaning, I unleashed a torrent of spunk against his anus, which suddenly provided the needed lubrication. I experienced an exquisite pleasure unlike any I'd known before, as I plunged deeply into Neal, before I even stopped spurting. My body tightened up and my orgasm intensified, the breath rushing out of me in spasms.
"Oh Jesus!" Neal cried out, his stone-hard penis spraying all over me, he hadn't even touched himself yet. Neal collapsed on top of me, our heaving chests warm and slippery against each other. We took barely minutes to recover, as my rigid dick was still inside him. Still breathing a little raggedly, I thrust slowly into him once more. Neal lifted his head, looked into my eyes, and grinned wickedly.
"A little more slowly this time?" I asked, waggling my eyebrows at him. Neal snorted, his shoulders shook in silent laughter.
"Yes," he agreed, nodding enthusiastically, "Maybe a little."
We rolled over very slowly, somewhat acrobatically, not disengaging at all. Neal slung his legs over my shoulders, allowing me to thrust in deeply and deliberately. He threw his head back and gasped as I brushed that special place within; I felt him tighten around me. I groaned.
We did take our time with each other. As I slowly pistoned in and out, I took him in hand and gently stroked him. We didn't say much of anything to each other; his eyes glittered as he looked up at me, the look on his face made me feeling like I was glowing all over my body. At one point, he reached up and cupped my face in his hand, brushing my hair from my eyes.
Slowly, the look of concentration returned to his face again. Closing his eyes, he clasped his hands around my neck and pulled me to him for a very intense kiss.
"Oh God," I muttered, bottoming out in him once more, "I'm gonna..."
Neal nodded in hasty agreement, eyes screwed shut. His penis swelled in my grip and contractions started racing along its length. Neal shuddered beneath me, gripping me with his internal muscles. Fighting the urge to start pounding, I withdrew almost to the point of pulling out, and slowly plunged back into him. My penis began pulsing wildly, as I emptied whatever reserves I had left, into him.
We finally separated, and I fell down beside him, still gasping for air. He immediately rolled over to lean against me, draping an arm over our messy bodies.
"Fuuuuuck," he breathed into my shoulder, "Holy fucking shit." Neal wasn't one to swear lightly, but in this case, it seemed entirely justified. I nodded my silent agreement.
I think, were it not for the overachieving air conditioner, we would have laid with one another like the rest of the night. The cool, dry air stared to work its evaporative magic, and we soon became uncomfortable enough to stir from our post-coital bliss. We peeled off one another, and made our way to the shower. Beneath the hot water, we washed away the physical signs of our love-making, but not the afterglow.
We continued to kiss and caress as we soaped ourselves in the shower. Unbelievably, Neal got hard again. He gave me a playful look of pleading in his eyes, while biting his lower lip. I dare any red-blooded boy to resist such a face, I surely could not, and I didn't. As the warm water flowed over us, I took him into my mouth, feeling his foreskin slide back from the pressure of my tongue. He moaned and shook as he stood there, I gripped his butt, pulling him deeper into my mouth.
"Unghhhhh," he breathed softly, his fingers intertwining with my hair. Encircling the base of his cock with my fingers, I pulled his foreskin taut, while drilling the tip of my tongue into his frenulum. His legs nearly buckled, and the slippery floor of the tub made things treacherous; Neal held a firm grip on the handhold to keep the both of us upright. Eventually, the water began to run cold, so we stopped momentarily to dry off, leap naked through the cold air of the room, and retreat under the covers, shivering and laughing.
Once safely warm under the covers, I slid down and set back to work. Neal never lost his hard-on, and it took me a solid twenty minutes of earnest effort to finally bring him across the finish line. When he came, he had little left to give; I still swallowed his meager offering. I let him subside in my mouth, letting my aching jaw rest. His limp penis eventually slipped out and by the time I settled in next to him on the pillow, he was already asleep with a most beatific smile on his face.
I kissed his slumbering cheek, nestled my nose into the soft cloud of his raven hair, and drifted off myself.
Lizzy stood by the lifeguard chair and stared up at me as I sat and surveyed the water.
"What?" I asked, giving her a sidelong glance.
"You, you big lug," she said, pointedly, "Look at you up there with your Foster Grants and little red speedo, I think you're trying to drive me crazy."
"Nah," I teased, tugging at the elastic of the little swim suit, "It's just the uniform that comes with the job." As was my habit, I undertook another silent count of little heads bobbing in the water.
Lizzy tugged at her own red suit, straightening the white cross printed over her hip. She and I traded off on guard duty during the busy swim season. Dad had paid for all of us to get Red Cross Water Safety certified. Neal couldn't do it because his asthma kept him from meeting the swim requirements. There were two others from town who worked during the weekends to give us time off, Ted Rodgers and Selena Rodriguez, but we only occasionally saw them.
Ted, an amiable, buff-looking college student in his junior year, took the job mostly to keep his father off of his back about working. Selena was nice enough, she had huge knockers and barely fit into the suit. We noticed that the men-folk among the renters, made it a point to swim when she was working the chair.
"Besides," I shrugged, "Isn't Ted more your type?"
"I must say," Lizzie mused, "He does fill out that speedo quite nicely." I laughed at her as she made a show of running a finger along her collarbone and pulling her hair aside. "But," she continued, "That's pretty much it with Ted. Not much going on upstairs." That much was true, and I nodded my agreement. She motioned me down from the chair, but I sat their stock still; my count was off.
"Hang on a second, Lizzie," I said, scanning the water, I hoped it was only because she distracted me. She was suddenly all business.
"How many should we have Oliver?"
"Sixteen," I reported, "seven girls, nine boys." I put my whistle to my lips and let out long shriek to signal the kids to stand up and walk out of the water. There was a collective groan from the children, but they started to comply. I looked over to Lizzie, who was counting heads now too.
"Shit Oliver, I only see fifteen!" she said, a little panicked. Looking at the children wading in, I saw a shadow beneath the surface about twenty feet from the shore. I grabbed the rescue tube as I launched myself from the chair. "I have all the girls Oliver," Lizzie shouted as I pushed my way into the water, "You're looking for a boy!" I got out to where I thought I had seen the child, but the sun glare off the water meant I couldn't see beneath the surface. The water was up to my chest, so I began to flail with my arms and step around the soft bottom in an attempt to feel for the child.
"Dammit!" I swore, turning around and trying to peer beneath the water. Finally, I stuck my head in and opened my eyes. There, a shadowy bundle lay just beyond my feet. Taking a deep breath, I ducked down, and groped around. Finding a little arm, I seized it and pulled the boy to the surface; he was limp and blue.
Dad, who had heard the alarm whistle, was walking down to the waterfront from the lodge. When he saw me dragging the kid from the water, he began to run towards us, all the while yelling for my mother to call an ambulance. I put the kid down on the beach, just past the water, and turned the limp little boy on his side to clear his airway. One of the girls screamed.
"Oh my God," she exclaimed, "That's Willie Schmidt!" After she said that, I recognized the tow-headed boy, a rough-and-tumble eight-year-old, whose mother was a first time renter. The girl turned and fled before Lizzie could corral her. I had no doubt Willie's mother would soon be on scene.
Turning Willie onto his back, I tilted his head and tried to blow rescue breaths into his lungs. I was met with a large flow of water from his mouth and nose. Spitting into the sand, I turned Willie once more onto his side, tapping him forcefully between his shoulder blades. The fluid abated to a trickle and I tried ventilating him once more, that time with much better success. Feeling no pulse at his neck, I started compressing his chest with the heel of one hand. The minute I started doing that, the other kids seemed to understand what was going on and there began a wave of sobbing and crying.
With no response from little Willie, I looked up at Lizzie; I felt like I wanted to cry.
"Keep going Ollie," she encouraged me, "You've got to keep going."
I did keep going. It seemed like it took forever, but was probably only 4 minutes or so. My dad was at my side by then, rubbing my back and speaking words of encouragement.
"C'mon Willie," one of the kids in the crowd bleated plaintively. It became a rallying cry for them. Slowly, and with more and more fervor, they began cheering on Willie, who looked like a rag-doll beneath me. Finally, after an eternity, little Willie gave a cough, vomited and began breathing on his own. Willie's color improved immediately, his eyes fluttered and he stared up at me.
"Willie?" I asked, "You in there buddy?" I thought I recognized what Willie was going through, having had the disorienting experience of waking up from a seizure before; I felt it had to be similar. Willie blinked at me, looking very confused. Just then, his mother came shrieking his name as she crossed the lawn, and bolted down to his side. As soon as she fell down next to him, tears streaking her face, Willie turned to look at her, and slowly started to cry. She gathered him up into her arms and swayed him as they both bawled.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looked to see my father positively beaming at me.
"Son of a gun, Oliver," he grinned, "you did it! You saved that boy's life!" I shook my head, it felt full of cobwebs. Looking, I saw Lizzie, comforting the kids. Parents were starting to run to the waterfront, their worried faces becoming relieved when they counted their children among the unharmed. Neal came down too, he had been helping my mother in the kitchen.
"Let me check him," I said to Mrs. Schmidt. She nodded, pulled Willie's arms from her neck and set him into my arms. I brushed his hair back from his eyes, they still looked somewhat distant, like he wasn't all there. "You okay, Willie?" I asked him. He kept looking around, I could tell he wasn't comprehending much of anything yet. I wondered how long he'd been submerged. It could not have been more than 3 or 4 minutes, I was fairly vigilant about keeping my counts going. In the distance, I heard the wail of several sirens. They were on the other side of the lake, it would be a good ten minutes before they actually arrived.
I continued to try to stimulate Willie back to full consciousness. I took a moment to look him over for any injuries, but he didn't have any that I could see.
"I don't understand," Mrs. Schmidt wailed, "You're such a good swimmer Willie, what happened?" Willie looked at her, but he didn't answer. It was clear he could hear her, but he didn't seem to be making much sense out of what she said; he looked puzzled. "Oh my God, he's drooling!" she exclaimed. I looked at his slack-jawed countenance, and wiped away the drool with my thumb, only to have more flow out from his lips. Willie burped noisily, it sounded wet and ominous.
"I think he might vomit again," I said, turning Willie over to rest him on my hands. The kids, who had been inching ever closer to him, scattered like cockroaches as Willie heaved and retched up more water, and what looked like breakfast, into the sand. I looked over to Lizzie, she looked positively green; she never did well with kids barfing. I felt warmth spread across my leg.
"Eew gross," one of girls exclaimed, "He's peeing all over Oliver!"
I cursed silently to myself, not because I was getting pissed on, but because I knew things were not going well for young, Master Willie Schmidt.
"Where is that ambulance Dad?" I grumbled.
"It'll be here soon, Oliver," he reassured me, "Think you can keep him going until then?" I nodded, and kept up my efforts to stimulate Willie by rubbing his back and head.
"Stay with me Willie," I said loudly. Willie turned his head and looked at me, but the thousand yard stare was still there. Reflexively, Willie stuck a finger in his mouth and made a series of unhappy little moans. He looked and acted more like a four year-old than eight.
When the EMT's took Willie from me and dashed off in the ambulance, I stood there to watch it go, feeling very empty. Dad tried to usher Mrs. Schmidt up the beach, toward her cabin, when she turned on me.
"Why weren't you watching him?" She screamed, "You were supposed to be watching him!"
I stared blankly at her, not knowing what to say. A yawning pit of despair opened in my belly and I thought I might fall into it. She was right, of course, I shouldn't have let Lizzy distract me, and it was all my fault. I watched Willie's mother yell and gasp for air. Dad took her arm and moved her away from me, but she continued to berate me from over her. Slowly, I collapsed to my knees into the sand. Lizzie and Neal, who had witnessed Mrs. Schmidt's tirade, came directly to my aid.
"Oliver!" Neal knelt next to me, "Are you okay?" I didn't answer him, I just shook my head as I pressed my palms into my eyes. I wasn't crying, I was too numb to cry. Or was I? I'm not sure because with the way I was breathing, long, ragged sighs, I may well have been crying, but it was weird. My nerves buzzed and sparked, and felt agitated and twitchy.
"Neal, go get his Mom," she said quietly, "Go now."
I pulled my hands away from my face and rested them on my thighs.
"Oh my God Lizzie," I breathed, "I don't know what to do!" I stood and paced the waterfront. The crowd of kids had dispersed, their parents taking them back to their respective cabins. Lizzie stood close next to me and stared up into my eyes.
"Oliver, listen to me," she said sternly, "You just saved that little boy's life."
"But, I let it happen," I sighed, "it was all my fault. I shouldn't have taken my eyes off the water."
"No Oliver," she shook my shoulder, "Seriously, I watched you, you did absolutely everything right."
Neal came down with my mother, who was wiping her hands on her apron. Her presence was very much a balm to my jangled nerves. I still felt like I needed to bolt and run for miles, but less so when she showed up.
"Hey Ollie," she spoke softly to me, brushing my hair from my brow, "Let's get you back into the house and get you showered, okay?"
I looked down at her, and then realized I stunk of pee and puke. I elected to dip myself in the lake for a moment, just to rinse off; I didn't want to track that into the house with me. The water felt good, and seemed to wash away some of my nervous energy. Walking back to the house with Mom and Neal, I felt less crazed. Several people stopped me along the way, and shook my hand, thanking me for saving Willie. That was nice of them, but doubt still lingered in the back of my mind. The scene replayed in my mind over and over again as I tried to figure out what I could have done to prevent it.
Shortly before dinner, Dad came and told me that he'd received a phone call from Willie's mother at the hospital to say that Willie was doing poorly, and they weren't sure if the little guy was going to make it. My heart sank. The unexpected applause I got when I walked into the Lodge at dinner time, didn't make things any better. I sat with Lizzie and Neal, who did their best to be bright, talky and encouraging. I only picked at my food, and ultimately fled, retreating to my room to lay on my bed and wish the world away for a while.
That night, both Neal and Lizzie flanked me on the bed. It was a little cramped, but having them both there to comfort me, really helped my state of mind. Neither of them said anything much, they knew that's not what I needed. I did not sleep well, but in the morning, strangely, I felt much better. I kissed both of them, in turn, good-morning. They each smiled at me.
"Ugh," Lizzie said, "Sleeping in your clothes sucks, I feel absolutely weird and gross."
"Me too," said Neal, promptly dropping his duds without any thought of modesty whatsoever. Lizzie grinned and threw a towel at him.
"Go on into the shower then, Mr. Nudist," she chuckled, "before I am obligated to jump your bones!" Neal swung hips, waggled his dick at her and stuck out his tongue before dashing across the hall into the bathroom. I couldn't help but laugh, my boy was shameless.
"I guess I better join him," I shrugged.
"Yeah, you two have your fun, I'm going run to the Lodge, take a shower and get some clean clothes on," she giggled, "I'll see you at breakfast."
After Lizzie departed, I slipped into the hot shower behind Neal. We both cleaned each other up, but not much else happened. Having not eaten well the day before, I was close to starved. Mom had scheduled chocolate-chip pancakes for that morning, and I was not going to miss out on those.
Whatever relief I felt that morning, quickly evaporated when I walked into the Lodge and Mr. Schmidt, a huge line-backer sized fellow, recognized me and stood. The muscles in his jaw clenched, and his hands were balled into fists; I pulled up short when I saw this, bracing myself. Instead of hitting me, he let out a strangled sound and swept me into a crushing bear-hug. I'm sure my face must have telegraphed my confusion. Other adults stood around us, offering soft words of encouragement. Mr. Schmidt finally let me go and took my face in gentle hands and kissed me on the forehead.
"I just wanted to express how deeply grateful I am to you for saving my boy," he said, his voice quaky and tremulous. He didn't let my face go, but kept looking into my eyes.
"Is... is he okay?" I asked, worried for the answer.
"He has pneumonia from the water in his lungs," Mr. Schmidt said, "and it was touch and go for a lot of the night, but he seems to have turned the corner this morning."
"Thank Jesus," I heard my mother say; she was there among them.
"His color is much better, is breathing is fine and he was asking for something to eat. I think he's going to be alright."
There was a burst of applause, and much to my acute embarrassment, somebody started up with "For he's a jolly-good fellow..." Had there been a rock nearby, I would have crawled under it.
"Also, my wife asked me to send along her apologies, she was..."
"It's fine," I said firmly, "I understand."
"Well, at any rate," he continued, "she'll probably want to talk to you soon." I didn't relish the thought, the current attention from everybody didn't suit me very well. If the meeting were at least private, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
"We have a genuine hero in our midst this morning," Mr. Schmidt said, turning to my father, "You should be proud of your son."
"I am," my father smiled broadly, "of that, you may rest assured, I surely am."