Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Night Owl




Photo: Diego Fernandes 2007


Like a large school of fish, a crowd of people is leaving a southern California movie theater. The lights from the lobby behind them turn the crowd into a bobbing, waving mass of silhouettes, each indistinguishable from the other. As the throng of people reaches the sidewalk, it breaks into smaller groups, couples and singles. The cake batter bowl pouring its final drops into a baking tin. A final drop remains poised on the edge of the bowl. A young man deciding on the direction he wishes to take from the theater.

It is the weekend but tomorrow he has promised work to one superior or another. He has no thought of trying to avoid the work, neither has he the desire to return home immediately. The film was very good and has left him with a pleasant excitement which could be nicely capped by a short stroll to the 24 hour restaurant up the street and thirty minutes or so just sipping the rest of the day away with a cup of hot coffee; no harm, the bus wouldn’t be available for another forty minutes anyway. The decision made, his easy stride takes him to the coffee and a window booth in five minutes. He smiles as he remembers his way through the film. After a third cup of coffee his mind suddenly jumps to the present and his eyes find the hands on a wall clock indicating the passage of forty minutes. Almost violently, he throws money on the table for the coffee and tip. Pushing his way through the two sets of glass doors to the street, he notices the way his reflection on the doors tries to escape back into the restaurant. On the street again his dismay mounts when the taillights of the bus pull away from the stop across from the theater. His sudden anger at himself propels his body into three running steps then pulls him to an abrupt halt. His stormy countenance changes to a grin. There’s nothing he can do about that bus now; perhaps there’s a later one. Feeling once more in control, he strolls to the bus stop and reads the schedule for that evening; the last bus of the night is another forty minute wait. He returns to the restaurant.

A smile and an explanation to the sympathetic waitress regains him his former seat at the window and a new but free cup that apparently refills itself magically as the young man returns to his reverie. A buttered cinnamon roll joins the coffee. Thirty-nine minutes later, the young man again bounces money on the table and runs for the doors. He waves to the pretty waitress as he departs. As he pushes through the final set of doors the bus passes in front of the restaurant toward the stop in front of the theater. With an incredible burst of speed the young man follows the bus up the street, knowing he can make it in time. He must make it in time.

The bus does not stop. Even pounding on the bus doors, a shout and an extra burst of speed do nothing to slow its progress. Inside the bus, the driver hears the shout to stop but smiles to himself and says to a young lady in the front seat, next time that guy will be at the bus stop on time. The young lady simpers; the driver is her new boyfriend and she is very fond of him.

Angry with himself and the bus driver, the young man throws himself on the curb and sits cross-legged with elbows on knees and hands supporting chin. The green light from a streetlamp gives him the appearance of a brooding beast. The young man’s anger does not last long; he is not given to worrying over things he cannot change. He is young and he is rather naïve, but he is not unintelligent and as his temper abates he takes stock of his situation. His pockets reveal that a taxi is out of the question. He must walk, or hitchhike. He has never in his life had to hitchhike or felt the inclination to do so. The walk has been made before, but during the day and a warm day at that. The evening is cool and a faint mist is beginning to show itself in bright halos gathering about streetlights. He does not like the idea of hitchhiking. In his mind it feels the same as begging or panhandling. The decision is made to walk. His goal is seven miles away.

Two and half miles of walking in the chilling air and thickening mist convince the young man that perhaps hitching a ride might not be so bad. Five minutes of riding in a heated automobile would not be seriously indebting himself to anyone. It is now two-thirty in the morning a bank sign informs him. Two-thirty; fifty degrees; zero six percent. Six percent?

There are very few cars on the road. Ten or twelve pass him, headlights appearing out of the mist suddenly, some even veer wide to avoid him. A few more autos go by and then a city policeman slows and pulls to the curb in the inverted white cone of a streetlamp. Just my luck, the young man thinks, now I’ll be arrested for hitchhiking. The policeman is very friendly when the young man tells him of the situation. Quite a predicament agrees the officer. I don’t suppose you could or would give me a ride, the young man asks hopefully. The patrolman shakes his head, we aren’t allowed to give rides … your best bet would be to keep your thumb out, sorry. Have a nice evening. Pulling away from the sidewalk and the streetlight, the red taillights of the patrol car fade in the ever thickening, swirling mist.

Well, the young man smiles, at least he didn’t arrest me. More cars, he thought, more cars.

Another mile. Another mile. Two more miles to go. Where are the cars, this is a big city, where are the cars?

Under another streetlight he stops and waits for a moment. His breath is beginning to tear a raw spot in his throat with the effort and the cold air. Looking behind him two headlights float in the fog, an unblinking stare, a great bird of prey, pinpoints of light unattached to anything, pinpoints of light slowly growing into great beacons. The mist seems to rush toward their center then vanish. Even at fifty feet the car is still invisible, but it begins to coalesce around those warm beams of light, a white car, a large white car. The young man cannot identify the make of the automobile. A large white car has silently found him in the fog.

Inside the automobile the driver sees the pool of streetlight and a young man with his arm out and thumb up. He gives a short laugh and to himself thinks how strange the fog makes everything appear. The young man wouldn’t have been visible if not for the glaring white of his t-shirt and the headlights reflecting off his arm. He must be cold. T-shirt, corduroy pants, deck shoes, he must be cold. The driver pulls to a stop beside the young man. A nice looking young man he thinks, a nice looking young man.

Pulling up beside the young man, the white car glides to a silent stop. The young man hesitates. His mind races; someone finally stopped; I’m only a couple of miles from home; my first successful hitchhike; why did this guy stop? No one else did. I am so cold; if I accept the ride, will he ask for gas money; what if he’s turning at the next street? The window hums as it slides downward a couple of inches into the car door. The young man can see his reflection in the glass from the streetlight.

Do you want a ride? Where are you headed? An anonymous voice asks.

Don’t hesitate, just tell the man where you want to go and he’ll tell you if he’s going that way. Yes, I’m going to Seventh Street, is that a long way out of your way?

Get in. No problem.

Get in, the driver said, no problem. He said get in, no problem. It must not be out of his way. The young man opens the door and almost jumps into the car. Thank you, thank you, thank you, the young man overflows thankfulness.

You’re welcome, you’re welcome, you’re welcome, the driver laughs at the young man’s enthusiastic thanks.

It is really cold out there, especially since I forgot to bring a sweater or something, I really appreciate this. The young man pulls the door shut as he seats himself. The car’s heater must have been turned on full because the young man feels his feet warm almost at once, then as he rubs warmth into his arms all his senses become alert. The softness of the car seat, is it velvet? It is like a very soft easy chair. He smells a heavy musky masculine kind of what? Perfume, cologne? And underneath the musk, an odor of, was it sweat? At the moment the young man, though he could not say why, thought of the pretty waitress at the restaurant where he’d had coffee. Coffee sitting so bitterly now on his taste buds.

The young man becomes aware of two other senses almost simultaneously. In his ears, a kind of dull thump or click, and his eyes see in the yellow light from the massive dashboard, the driver.

The driver is a big man. A very big man. A man with arms borrowed from Hercules or Atlas. The driver is wearing a kind of t-shirt with a collar and buttons. A ribbed t-shirt. In the strange light it looks dark blue. A t-shirt with a collar. The driver has very pale colored hair, is it blond or white or platinum? The young man can’t tell. The big man’s face is outlined, his profile outlined in yellow light from the dash. But the young man can’t concentrate on it, just a face in darkness, a normal face on a very big man.

The young man cannot concentrate because the driver wears no trousers, no shorts, nothing. He just sits quietly behind the wheel of his large automobile, his huge muscular thighs spread comfortably apart on the bench seat, his dark blue t-shirt with a collar and buttons straining its seams over his well-developed pectorals, with nothing else on. The young man feels like he has been punched in the stomach. The young man is almost hypnotized by the size of the driver’s erect organ; is hypnotized.It sprouts like a ship’s mast, a skyscraper from the driver’s groin, a groin furred with hair that looks red in the odd light, each testicle is the size of a chicken’s egg. The young man can see, stares at, the driver’s genitals; an enormous organ and testicles like a bull’s, because the driver has no pants on. The young man tries to imagine, to will pants onto the driver but the driver has no pants on, the driver …

Do you like it? The driver says calmly as he pulls away from the curb.

What was that sound, says the young man, what was that sound I heard? The young man feels himself shaking, trembling, fighting for air. What was that sound, the young man repeats.

It’s okay. I just locked the doors, it’s electric. I locked the doors here from my master switch, says the driver, here, do you see? He must have been pointing at his master switch, but the young man is looking at his own door for the lock and the door latch handle.

I don’t think this is a good idea says the young man. I think I better get out here; would you let me out here please. At the next light is fine. I’d like to get out at the next light. Could you let me out at the next light? Thank you for the ride.

Do you like it? I think you probably like it, says the driver. Why don’t I pull over where we can relax, you know, and you can feel it, touch it. Touch it all you want. You a very nice looking young man. Would you like to touch it?

No, he doesn’t really want me to touch it. He doesn’t really. This is not really happening, this man has no pants on and people always wear pants when they drive cars. You can’t get out of your car if you have no pants on. Where are his pants? No, I don’t want to touch … I don’t want to touch it; I would like to get out at the next light please?

The big man, the driver, sounds angry, don’t play innocent, you like my cock, you want to touch it.

Please, sir. Mother always said to say sir. To say yes sir, no sir. Yes ma’am, no ma’am. I am not trying to play innocent; I just want to get out here at this light, if you will please open the door. I can’t find the door handle. How do I open the door? Please sir, please open the door. The young man can feel himself losing his air. The car is very hot. He can smell the driver’s desire. He can see the driver’s desire. The driver has no pants on.

The young man takes a deep breath as the big man turns away from the main road. I have to go that way sir, I have to work tomorrow. Please.

The young man finds the door handle and pulls but the door will not open. The door will not open. The driver chuckles. A friendly chuckle, I have to unlock it from the master switch. The big man sounds very kind. I like you, young man. I think you look very nice. I want you to like me, am I so bad? Look at me, am I so bad? The young man could not look at him. Come on, says the driver, very softly, look at me, I’m not so bad. The driver watches the road casually while a heavy right arm moves gently across the space between them and a massive hand locks around the young man’s chin. The driver turns, forces, the young man’s head slowly toward himself. You see, I’m not so bad.

The young man tries to pull the driver’s hand from his chin, but the driver slowly tightens his thumb and fingers into the face, the jaw of the young man. The harder the young man pulls on the driver’s wrist the tighter the driver squeezes. The pain is terrible. The young man finally lets go; the driver still holds his head but stops squeezing his fingers into the young man’s cheeks. See, I’m not so bad, am I?

Somewhere along the road the lights on the street stop being there. There are no more streetlights. It is dark except for the headlights and the yellow light coming from the dashboard. The driver turns the big white car to the side of the road and then turns into a circle of trees. The driver must have known the place.

When the car makes its final stop, the driver lets go of the young man’s face. I want to be nice to you he says. I want to make love to you.

Why, says the young man, why do you want to do this to me, I just wanted a ride. I just wanted a ride. The young man feels tears running down his cheeks and wipes them quickly off. Mother said men don’t cry. The driver is watching him cry in the yellow light of the instrument panel. The big man is watching him cry. Men don’t cry.

The driver pulls the young man toward him maybe to hug him, but the young man beats at the huge arms and says don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Then the young man slides as far away from the big man as he can get. I don’t want to hurt you says the driver, I want to make love to you. I want you to like me, but I will hurt you if you make me. I will hurt you.

The young man is more frightened than before, more frightened than he has ever been in his life. Why do you want to do this to me? Why are you doing this to me? I just wanted a ride. I just wanted a ride because it was cold. I have to go to work tomorrow, please just let me out.

The big man just looks at him and says sadly, I don’t want to hurt you.

The young man takes a deep breath and says calmly, please let me out, I’ll walk home from here, please.

For a moment the driver just looks at him, then he slides his arm slowly across the back of the seat until his fingers are just brushing the young man’s cheek, then he slides his body a little closer, then he puts his hand against the young man’s ear. Then with his whole hand against the side of the other’s face, he gives a sudden push and the young man’s head hits the car window. I don’t want to hurt you he says. The young man’s nose is bleeding. The driver reaches over with his left hand and wipes the blood from under the young man’s nose. He does it very gently. Then he wipes the blood on his leg. I want to make love to you, not hurt you. The young man is silent.

The driver wipes more blood from the young man’s face and looks at it in the yellow light. Then he looks at the young man. This is your blood, he says. The big man slides his body just a little closer, I like you, I want to make love to you. He puts both of his huge hands on both sides of the young man’s head. The driver leans his head forward as if he is going to kiss the young man but when the young man says, you’re sick, he pulls his head back calmly as if he is thinking about it, then slaps the other very hard with his left hand, the one with blood on it. More blood comes out of the young man’s nose and splatters against the big man’s arm. The young man can see it in the dim light. Black spots on a big pale arm, like the man hadn’t been very careful when he was painting his house. But it isn’t paint, it is blood. The young man’s blood, and his right ear is ringing from the slap, he isn’t crying now, but tears have spurted from his eyes when the big man hit him.

Why are you doing this to me? Why? I just wanted a ride, I just wanted a ride. What is happening?

I saw you by the road and I thought you looked cold. The big man looks like he has tears in his eyes. Why is he crying? I think you are beautiful, I want to make love to you. Am I so bad? I don’t want to hurt you any more, but I will if you make me. I’ll take you where you want to go, but first I want to make love to you. I want you to take off your clothes so I can make love to you. If you don’t do what I want I will rip them off, and I will hurt you very badly.

The young man says something rude, but when the big man starts to move very quickly he screams wait, wait, I’m sorry, I’m sorry and in one motion pulls off his t-shirt. He holds out the shirt to the driver like it is a gift and says again I’m sorry, this time more calmly and then again, I’m sorry.

The big man puts his hands against the young man’s chest like it is something he has never seen before and makes a small sound in his throat. The young man is shaking so hard he nearly throws up. Please sir, I think I’m going to be sick he says trying hard to hold back the vomit.

The big man says then like a policeman or a doctor, you are not going to be sick. And it is almost like magic, the young man doesn’t throw up but he is still shaking and still very scared. Please don’t make me do this the young man says, please don’t make me do this. The big man smells the young man’s t-shirt like it is something holy. Both hands holding the shirt pressed against his face. How old are you, the driver says, you smell like a little boy, you smell like a beautiful little boy.

Please don’t make me do this. Let me go, I promise I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise. Please.

The driver knocks the young man’s head up against the window again but not as hard as the first time, and then he slaps him again but not as hard as the first time. I want to make love to you, not hurt you. Don’t make me hurt you again. Take off the rest. Take off everything. I want to see all of you. You are very beautiful. Take off the rest.

The young man starts to say please but very quietly, like a priest, the big man says every time you say please I will slap you. Do you understand? If you say please, it will be like you said please slap me. Then he says give me your hand and when the young man holds out his hand the big man takes it and puts it under his t-shirt against his chest. The young man can feel the massive muscles under the shirt move. Does that feel good, I have no hair on my chest, does it feel good? Then he slowly, slowly moves the young man’s hand down toward his groin. The young man tries to pull his arm back but the big man keeps a very strong hold on it and when he is just touching the course of hair that runs from the navel downward the young man pulls extra hard and says please … the big man just lets go of his arm and makes a small tsk-tsk sound, shakes his head and with his right hand pushes the young man’s head up against the window again, this time very hard.

The driver pulls his t-shirt over his head and gazes at the young man for a moment. He seems even bigger without his shirt. In the pale light he fills the car. Then he leans across the young man with his enormous body and holds him against the seat while he pulls the young man’s shoes off.

Wait, wait, the young man cries. What have I done, what have I done? He can feel the inside of his cheek has been cut by his own teeth. I just wanted a ride, a ride. The young man can taste blood in his mouth and feel tears on his face. The driver has unfastened his corduroy trousers and is jerking them down over his hips. Even though he is kicking his legs and trying to hit the driver with his pinned arms the other man is so strong it is like an adult with a small child. His underwear has come down with his pants and when the big man has them all the way off the young man urinates from fear. The driver does a strange thing; he wipes the urine on himself like it is cologne. Then with one arm holding the young man against the seat and another arm pinning his legs the driver lowers his head to the young man’s sex. The young man is so frightened he is seeing bright sparks behind his eyelids and can feel his heart pushing against the driver’s arm. The big man’s mouth is sliding on him and saliva is running down between his legs because there is so much of it.

The young man hears himself screaming as though from a great distance. Stop. Stop. Stop. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you doing this to me? I wanted a ride. I only wanted a ride. What is happening, what is happening to me? Oh God, I only want a ride. Stop. What is happening to me? Stop. Stop. Please stop. Please, please, please, stop …

He is seventeen and it is the young man’s first sexual experience.

4 comments:

Unknown said...

You have a gift for writing my friend but I hate to tell you blogging is not about writing is about socialising.
I speack from my own experience :)
What you need is to publish your work on ezine - that is electronic magazines, just google it - and make your blog more of a writers journal a place for your friends rather than a self publishing place.

Anonymous said...

Harrowing, terrifying, heartbreaking.

Ann Tracy, Maine's Digital Alchemist & Artist said...

OMG... that was so frightening

lakelady said...

and I cried another time...