(Disclaimers, you've seen them)
We found the red VW out in the parking lot, back in the rows where Management wanted the employees to park. I loosened my tie, and then unwrapped it.
"Too hot for work clothes," I said. "I wish I had brought something to change into."
Alexander looked at he and shrugged off his sport jacket. We stood on both sides of the car, doors open, letting the evening breeze blow the heat out of the car. He folded the jacket neatly and removed his tie and placed them in the backseat. He unbuttoned the sleeves of his dress shirt and rolled them up twice with careful precision. He unbuttoned his collar and two more below it, tugging the shirt so it bloused and hung as thought that was the way it was supposed to look all the time.
"It's just a question of attitude," He smiled. He pointed at the jug of home-made wine on the floor behind the driver's seat. "What is that?"
"It's wine my old man makes. He does fifty gallons every year. He puts it in any container he can, and he never can keep it organized. It is like a big likker lending library."
"Is it any good?"
"Well, it is California concentrate and Illinois Concord grapes. It is a little sweet, but it seems to work."
He looked a little doubtful. "We'll get ice and some cups at the drive-in. Trust me, it will be fine."
I got the feeling that homemade wine in paper cups was something he made a point of not doing. I completed my comfort conversion by doing just what Alexander had done. We climbed into the car and I turned the key, fired up the little four-banger engine and turned on the radio.
"Pick any station you want," I said. "Not that there is much to pick from. You can get both kinds of mucis here. Country and Western."
Alexander laughed. "Yeah, I get WLS from home at night when they clear the crap off the air at sundown and go clear-channel. It makes me homesick."
It was not far from sundown now. I was suddenly aware of how close we were in the VW. The failing light bathed his fair skin and brought out light highlights in his tight curly hair. I reached down to the great shift and brushed his arm as he was reaching for the buttons on the radio.
The touch was electric. For me anyway, he seemed unconcerned. I wondered if I would have the nerve to do anything.
I had a crush on a kid in my band class in junior high school. His name was Joe. It was an old fashioned name, and he wore straight-leg corduroy pants, lace-up shoes and a cardigan sweater with plaid shirts in the winter. His skin was sallow and smooth, like a girl. He had big expressive eyes and a sort of sadness about him that I found touching.
The other kids made fun of him because he was slight in build and called him queer. For some reason that excited me, and I looked at him as he sawed away on his violin. His Dad had been a football player, or that was the word, and maybe it his gentle manner came as a reaction to that.
I never had gym class with him. I schemed sometimes on how I could let him know that I liked him, maybe an anonymous note that said I might be wearing some article of clothing, maybe a tie or something, and see if we could start a secret friendship.
I would jerk off, thinking about him, wondering if his dick was long and thin, whether he would moan like one of the girls, and if I could moan like that, too.
I always chickened out, thought and never did anything. By the time we got to high school I was hanging around with the other jocks and my infatuation with the slight boy with the delicate manner had passed.
Or so I thought. Now here I was sitting with a beautiful young black man. I wondered if I would chicken out this time, too. He was so cool looking. And suppose I was wrong? Suppose he was just a nice guy and I didn't understand.
Then the word would get out that I was a homo and the rest of the summer would be spent with icy coldness from my folks and total isolation at work and it would drag on forever.
I decided it was better to just play it straight and put the homo business aside. It was such a hassle. That would be easier. I could wait to explore this at college, when I was on my own for real. I sighed, pleased that the decision had been made.
"What's up Bob?" asked Alexander. "Something on your mind?"
I turned and looked at him. Damn, he was good looking. "Nah, I just have some things going on with my folks. I can't wait to get going for college."
"Yeah," he said. "I'm eager to get on with it, too. I have to make up my mind about Howard or the University of Illinois."
"It would be cool to see you on campus," I said. He smiled and we started talking about the movies.
We were rolling down 31st Street toward the expressway. "It is a western theme," I said. " a double feature with True Grit and Butch Cassidy."
"Maybe you better take me home now," said Alexander. "I'm not sure I can do two westerns in a row." I slowed as we neared the Expressway Twin Drive-In.
"Well, there is Midnight Cowboy and Easy Rider on the other screen."
"Let's do that," he said. "Though I hate to pull you away from the horses."
"Pull away, Man," I said. "I have seen Redford enough. Let's check out Jon `t seen that one."
I turned into the entrance lanes and pulled to the right side. There was a line of ticket booths, set up like toll-gates on the turnpike. The two on the right side served Screen Two, where Midnight Cowboy was going to show.
There were more cars in the Screen One Lot, which was on the other side of the Snack Bar that served both from its position smack in the middle of the compound.
The teen-ager in the booth gave a cursory look in the back seat to make sure there was no one huddled there and I gave him three bucks for the admission. I put it in first and drove slowly along the perimeter road, looking down the lanes.
"Where do you want to park?" I asked.
"Not in the middle. Let's get over to the side where we can drink in private."
"Sounds good. Let me pull up near the Snack Bar and we can get ice and some cups." I pulled up in the back row next to the entrance and we got out and walked in through the glass door. There were two girls working the counter and some kids running around with a harried-looking couple getting a cardboard platter of hot-dogs. Alexander rolled his eyes at me, as if to say "how pathetic."
"We have to get something to eat with a drink or they won't give us the cups," I said in an aside. "I get the Sprite and pour it out and rinse the ice in the water fountain."
Alexander nodded. When the couple got out of the way I ordered a hot dog and a big Sprite, plenty of ice.
"Make it two" said Alexander. I could tell the girl was checking him out. He was a pretty exotic looking guy in this blockhead Dutch town. I envied him that.
We walked out of the Snack Bar, drank some of the Sprite and poured the rest out. The cool sweet liquid tasted good. I swirled water from the cooler over the ice and cupped my fingers over the top of the cup as I poured it out. He did the same and we climbed back in the Beetle. I drove slowly over the inclines until we were on the far left side of the parking area, well away from the knot of cars in the middle and not on the way to the Snack Bar or the bathroom.
I shut the car off, rolled the window up enough to hook the big gray metal speaker into the drivers side. The speaker was big enough to intrude a little into the space in the tiny driver's side and I had to squirm a little to get comfortable. I brushed Alexander's shirt.
"I love the car," I said. "But it is a little small. Could you reach the wine in the back?"
"Sure. But I don't mind the size of the car. At least you have one." He turned and reached between the seat. I looked down the past the unbuttoned shirt and got a glimpse of smooth hairless honey-colored chest and a nipple that was a dark bud. I smelled him, too, something beyond the faint scent of his aftershave. Something rich and tinged with sweat and something else.
He unscrewed the metal cap on the bottle and I produced my cup from between my legs. He filled it half up and then he did the same for his. We settled in, and unwrapped our hot dogs.
It was not full dark yet, but the projector started and the screen was bathed with pale images of coming attractions. There were three or four of them, but I was fascinated by the way Alexander was eating his hot dog. He brought the bun to his lips and opened wide, seeming to tease the frankfurter with his tongue, and then gently and delicately severing it with his pearly teeth.
I gave shivered a little. It was so erotic. I ate mine without the same grace, but the symbolism was clear. I looked down at the cup between my legs, finished the dog in a couple gulps. I crumpled up the wrapper and tossed it in the back seat.
"Easy, Bob. You gotta make things last" he said. He resumed his consumption of the hotdog and licked his lips. I sipped the wine as the dancing hot dogs appeared on the screen. The speaker crackled and buzzed, since this segment was shown over and over again. Alexander took a sip of wine, grimaced, and then said "Well, the price is right."
"Aw, c'mon. It's not that bad. It will grow on you, promise."
The dancing hot dogs finished counting down the ten minutes to the feature film, and the wine began to spread a warm glow through my middle. I thought the dancing dogs looked just like thin erect cocks in warm little jackets. I didn't say anything. I wondered what Alexander was thinking.
"Have you seen this before?" he asked. "I enjoyed it."
"I heard it was kinda dark," I said. "I mean, you know, depressing."
"Stop it. Don't be so sensitive. It is a real story from the big city. Jon Voight is just like one of the blockheads from here who gets to the big city and has to do what he has to do. Ratso is the Dustin Hoffman character. He teaches Jon the ropes."
The theme music and the credits started. "Everybodies talkin' `bout me^Å"
"Can't hear a word they say!" said Alexander. "Do you smoke pot?"
"I'd like to," I said. "I tried it before we moved here and it felt pretty good. I think. We were pretty drunk." Alexander squirmed around in his seat and produced his wallet. He extracted a thin hand-rolled cigarette.
"I only brought a little with me from Chicago, so I only get to smoke one a day. I might be able to find more, but it will take a while to make connections."
He punched in the lighter on the dash. When it popped out it bathed his face in red. He applied it to the end of the joint and inhaled deeply. "You ever had a shotgun?" he asked.
"A what?"
"Here, let me show you." He took the joint from his lips and inserted the lit end into his mouth. The butt end protruded from his lips and he leaned over to me. I was startled and drew back in surprise. He touched my shoulder and brought my face close to his. He began to blow through the joint and an intense plume of smoke came out. I got the point and leaned in close and began to inhale.
It was almost a kiss. Our lips were so close and the smoke as cool and rich and thick. I sucked it down deep into my lungs. When I had a full breath he stopped and delicately removed the joint from his mouth. "Now that is a shotgun" he said with a smile.
I was stunned at the intimacy of the ritual. I wanted to do that again. I wanted to see those lips that close. I exhaled slowly, the sweet smoke leaving me giddy.
"That was fantastic! Can I do it for you?"
He smiled and passed me the joint. I inserted it in my mouth as he had, backwards, and leaned close to him. I looked him deep in the eyes and began to blow air into the joint as if I was whistling. A thin rope of smoke came from the butt and he gulped it in eagerly, our lips nearly touching. When he was full I leaned back, and realized my hand had brushed his thigh. I looked down when I removed the joint from my mouth and saw that there was a bulge in his crotch.
Alexander let the smoke trickle from his mouth. "Yeah, that goes along with it. What do you think about that?"
I took a little hit from the smoldering joint and then passed it back. His slim fingers took it daintily.
"I think I like it a lot. An awful lot."
I could see him smile in the rosy glow of the joint.