Blissy's Song -- 13 (b/b rom.) by Feather Touch
Nothing is implied by the use of media personalities
Chapt. 13.
I have to start this chapter on a personal note. Not since I was a combat correspondent have I eaten deadlines like a `Vette eating road stripes. It's cool to be fifty-five and be able to put the throttle down, lean the mixture, trim everything, and howl for thirty hours as if they were minutes. With a touch of irony I recall noting, some chapters back, the end of the industrial revolution. I think I misspelled Mr. Torvalds' name. Also, I seemed sure that there was nothing new in the pipeline, nothing new on the horizon. Wrong. Now everything is new.
Life is again exciting, right? Those blasted Chinese with their wise sayings, for living in interesting times is meant as a sort of curse. May you live in interesting times. Hmm.
I like to run little got-ya's as I paddle along. You know, I told you so's. One upsmanship's. Tawdry, but my job keeps me rather pinned down, so I need the odd excursion, if only mental. The excursion I'm on now involves my readers. Thousands of them. Many, as I've alluded to a time or two, in publishing, in the arts. You know the type, and the rest of you know who you are. I'm suggesting a little excursion of your own, some mental, some physical.
What I want you to do is picture the window of a major bookstore. Side by side, almost twins, are two fat fresh volumes. The cover art alone is stopping traffic, the high cheekbones, the calm eyes. It's only four inches by four inches. More would be absurd. Boys and girls look and look again. Many move through the doors of the story, seemingly trying not to hurry. Of course you know the titles, you're reading the second this very moment. The thing I want you to try to imagine is this. How are you going to feel looking at that handsome Yankee gazing calmly out through the store window, knowing he's on another's list? Let me whisper a number in your ear. Don't worry, it has nothing to do with salacious inches. The number is one billion dollars. Your share is nine hundred million, mine is one hundred million. If that hasn't got your attention, let me whisper to you once again. This time I'll take a liberty and be a little lewd. Remember, it's a new world when I whisper ancillary rights, licenses, and, so we don't get bored with our impromptu meeting, Plunkett Enterprises. A/k/a Plunkett Real-Life Enterprises. There's more, but there's more story telling and essaying, too. See, I mine, you sell. And while you're selling, don't forget Mr. Schwartz's cut. He created the Brady bunch, I didn't. Not only did he create them, two stunning films bear his name. Also, a point of all print revenue belongs to Nifty
Another group I would like to address is my government. Rumor would certainly suggest Nifty is vetted. Hello, Houston? You have a problem, Over.
Let's do another picture. A healthy one. You know. That Arab at the wheel, stuffed as full of civil liberties and human rights as his trailer is with ammonium nitrate and his head is with allah. Perhaps he's even a doctor. You never know, Harvard's involved, so let's make the far-fetched assumption. He's sworn an oath. To do no harm. The question is, if his mission succeeds, has he?
Let's get back to unhealthy pictures.
Steve Brady pulled out his cell phone and pushed a button. It appeared Alice had things under control at 4442 Clinton Way. He chatted a minute with Bobby and Cindy, then had Peter put on the phone. Most of it was new talk, quick, funny, decisive. Then there was a pause. Steve's eyes rolled at Gregg and Jan. The subject appeared to be responsibility. His words went like this. "Lots of fun, when it's fun, lots of work, when it's work, and lots more work than fun so the fun can stay more fun than the work."
They all heard the delighted giggle from the other end of the line, and joined in. Brady, happy Bradys. Oh, you would think so, wouldn't you just. Readers are like that. Fools for sentiment, sweet cuteness, and relationships. Can be led by the nose, follow the piper, practically skip and gambol along primrose path. Reader, you know what you can do with readers? Trick `em something wicked. Set happy Bradys, all around the pool, then break a glass, for something cruel. Change the whole story in a heartbeat. New York certainly changed in a heartbeat, didn't it? That was the greatest work of art in history or herstory. What an act to follow. Only a god would even try. Thank goodness for Bill Gates, is all I can say. But I diverge. You were being set up, remember. Happy Bradys, sparkling pool, attractive crowd. Look up, look about. Not a cloud that doesn't belong right where it is. Nothing could be more stable, happier, re-centered at its very center. Few writers would tamper with the scene, but few writers are living, breathing function deities, thank you very much.
His dad had placed the phone back on their table and Gregg's mind had wondered to the talent that had gone into the Tame Animal Farm. The clearest example of the clear thinking of the management team had come not five minutes ago.
Jan had turned her back to allow the males to don their trunks. All backs to, this had taken scant seconds, and then the race of the tigers was on. Past the chick, not roughly, but determinedly, then flashing feet and the thunder of their descent of the rickety staircase. Pat, pat, pat and splash, splash.
That management had included the pool, well, it had flat-out saved two fiery pair, that very hour. And they'd filled it with water. How irreducibly, death-bed memory, fabulous that water. To make such dramatic use of simplicity and architectural cliché, well, it was just a marvel. In his own way, Gregg was still giving love to the memory when it happened out of the blue, all at once. A lot of bad things could have happened in that moment; the teen was vulnerable, slashing through new chapters of his life as if they were ripped from a phantasmagoric porno novel. But is just wasn't the day for bad things.
Put simply, put plainly, put real understandable to the modern reader, it was the boy from the toaster snack ad. The locker with the stale pastries falling on the floor. It was the slim boy. The one with the cute right eye tooth. It was there. Ten feet away. He was there. Lots of the boys wore tees around the pool, so was he. He was not only there, he was approaching. Smiling broadly. "You're Gregg," he said. "Can I sit with you guys? I caught you at Valley Dale. I was almost yipping. Everybody was. We just had to be cool.
You're being cool, now.
Sure, easy for him to say. If he could talk. Talking would be nice, but it wasn't going to happen, not real fast. The new Gregg. The strong, silent type. Who knew? He could move his head, slowly, carefully. He nodded to a vacant chair, and to a place next to himself.
"Kelly Drake," the boy said, as he retrieved the chair.
The name rang something, somewhere, he didn't know what, he didn't want to know what; he didn't know where, he didn't want to know where; he didn't know when, he didn't want to know when. Kelly. That he was not a Bundy, well, that did sink through, otherwise it was all Bud with no lines to flub.
In a general sense, he seemed to be making a hit at the table. Old word. Making a hit. A piece doesn't make a hit when it clicks into a puzzle. It's just there, held tight on all sides, unless it was an edge, then the math got a little different.
Young boys didn't have edges. Thoughts were still creeping like cold snails. One could reach his talking nerves any minute. If it didn't get lost. Then Kelly smiled, differently than the friendly look shared with Jan and his dad. Well, it may have frozen the snail, but it was a sputtering rocket, elsewhere. They sat long moments, participating in the general quiet.
After five minutes Kelly spoke. "Can you show me around, Gregg?" he asked.
It was just his voice that did it. Just the kiddo lilt, all by its charming, cheering little-old self.
Gregg stood, the rumpled Dacron of his suit maybe or maybe not hiding a little of something. He, little Kelly Drake came and took his, Gregg Brady's hand, cracking a knuckle with all deliberation. They wandered, Gregg supposed. Not far, but just where they could be alone in pool garden. Apparently, they found a bench in a pretty grotto. It really seemed they were sitting side by side, like one awesome inch apart. Kelly was wearing street cloths, that was a real thing. Something to note and try to retain. But the presence of the youngster, itself, that still froze snails.
For long minutes they sat together radiating and in turn being radiated upon.
"I feel the same way," Kelly whispered. "But I was standing up, so, you know, I like had to say stuff so I wouldn't look weird."
That did them both for another significant arc of the minute hand.
Gregg was fourteen, Kelly, eleven. Age had to count. Maturity. How many times had his dad and his step mom, his beautiful step mon, said...
"It was really nice, what you said about us playing." That was good. Gregg, the new Gregg, against lazy snails. He'd teach them.
"You look different," Kelly noted, "it's cool. I mean I like you playing, but I don't think, you know, I would have like dropped my back pack and come out to the pool in my street duds if it was the old you, no offense."
The lord used big loaded jets to execute his mysterious ways. Gregg had no idea what the Plunkett group exercised, but they did it much better, and not just for Gregg Brady.
Already tightly webbed, Kelly tightened the bonds. "My agent said I had a cute smile. Some junk like that. Stupid stuff, for girls, how about my A's in English? So I'm here for kind of special reasons. I guess it isn't really protecting the investment, but I guess really, it is."
"Sort of a trip to the dentist," Gregg commented.
"It would be really neat if you're funny," that awesome sweet voice chirped.
"I had several years as a total clown," Gregg said. They grinned, fived, and synched perfectly on their first "Awesome!" See what English grades do, you younger reader? Every page in every story depends on it.
For example, if you know the awesome power of this language of the gods, then you'll know how easy it is to describe two people falling in love.
"Just don't ask for `Awe some-more."
Now what did I just tell you?
"Guess we got rid of the dentist," Kelly said.
"Clown, too."
"Dude, lighten up. It was just the clothes."
"No. The hair. The teeth. The gambit."
"Bulls shitting in a line," quoth the tender young newcomer.
Their first contact was a friendly nudge.
"Is it really weird, the stuff you have to do here?" Kelly asked.
"I think it will be on television is a few years," Gregg answered.
"Damn," said Kelly, "that's not saying much."
"You're on television," Gregg said.
"Yeah, I forgot," Kelly giggled.
"Just like you forgot the locker was full of Pop-Tarts. You have to be a dork."
"I was thinking of your concert. Who's the cutie on the bottom of the list."
"Cindy. She's eight. Bobby's nine, Pete's twelve and I'm fourteen. Dad's thirty-five."
"Guess I'll have to wait for Cindy. I'm eleven."
"Do you like girls." Gregg asked.
"Rarely," Kelly sighed. "So many you know what's, so few brains. Of course, boys fuck too fast and hit too hard, or the other way around. I forget."
They sat for a few seconds.
"Sorry," Kelly said. "We spent a week on the set and three days on location. I was around the crew too much."
"It's okay," Gregg responded. "It's just that some real special stuff has been happening, and, you know, things kind of change."
"Next thing you'll be a roll model. That could get tedious."
"Line up your bulls again," Gregg intoned.
"Why?" asked the little wise guy, "you getting horny?"
"No," Gregg shot back. "I want to start a milk bar."
The Brady boy reddened almost violently. What had he just said?
"What's wrong?" asked Kelly.
"Something real complicated," Gregg responded after a few seconds.
"Like?"
"This is going to sound really dumb. You know. Lining up bulls. For a milk bar."
"Oops. I didn't catch it. Yeah."
"But not `yeah,' Gregg stammered haltingly.
`What do you mean?" Kelly quizzed, attention fully engaged by the struggles of his new friend.
"Kelly," Gregg whispered.
"What," came that diamonds and pearl voice.
"Kelly," Gregg repeated. Why was it suddenly so hard to talk, for, it seemed, about the tenth time in half an hour. Was he actually going to have to sit right down and lose it?
Kelly didn't repeat his interrogatory, just looked puzzled.
"Kelly, not you." Gregg floundered. Think. You're big now. Tonight you're going to be a man. At midnight. Until then, you have to practice. Keep things tied together.
"Okay," Gregg re-started. "We were talking about bulls, and milk. And it first, it was unintended comedy, lame, but we're not in the union. So then, that brought up a memory. Really hot and really fresh. And that memory brought up the not-you Kelly. That's just the outline."
"When you're eleven," Kelly said, "outlines like that get you excited. I mean, you know, you were eleven."
"Okay," Gregg said, "try this. You asked about this place, right?"
"Yeah," the cutie acknowledged.
"Okay," Gregg said, his voice dropping in a familiar way that made him giddy on the spot. "And you don't, like, you know, totally hate all girls."
"I was just kidding around," Kelly explained.
"Good," said the older boy. "Because, yeah, there's stuff going on."
"Really? Have you seen anything?"
"Kelly," the Brady replied.
"Wha..." He caught himself, and they both giggled, again bumping, then recovered with cool aplomb for an eleven-year-old. "What about Kelly."
Gregg couldn't help it, he reddened again. He wanted to come right to the point and say it out loud to his new friend, "Have I got a date for you!"
It was like that old rural joke. Well, fella, truth o' the matter is, it appears you can't get there from here. Bull. He was a New Brady living in New America. Grab that puppy by the horns, and twist.
"Okay," Gregg said. Patiently. Gee. Patiently. When had he ever been patient? Would Johnny Bravo ever be patient? It was a delicious feeling. Compoundable. The more patient you were, the more you'd have of it.
"Okay," he repeated, feeling maybe he was getting a bit full of himself. "Look, at this place, see, it's not like the Mustang Ranch, you know, consenting adults, bosooms with about six o's. It's different."
"Everyone looks real nice and normal," Kelly observed.
Gregg grew physically dizzy at the thought of how normal Kelly had looked after her father had done what she wanted him to while he was lying beside her on the dirty squeaking bed. Maybe the old billy-goat-whiskers had been right in his advice to the country driver. That didn't make him any less a Brady. March young soldier, or go sit under that bush and get a corn going for when I circle back. Now he was fantasizing. When do you suppose that had started?
"Look, Kelly," Gregg began, "Kelly. Her dad did stuff with her, you know, that big guys do with their girlfriends. Or husband with their wives."
"You could really see?" the young actor asked, his eyes impressed.
"Have you been to your room yet?" Gregg asked.
"My junk's in the lobby, I've just been there and here. Why? Is something wrong with the rooms."
It had to end somewhere, and here it did end. Gregg chocked manfully for six or eight seconds, then he started grunting and panting with laughter. He hugged Kelly gently, gripping his arms lightly to reassure the youngster that he wasn't the butt of anything, and also be sure he was still simply there. Then he lost it, like going into second gear, and Kelly couldn't help joining in, mystified though the cute tyke surely was.
Sputtering and stammering, Gregg finally got to the point. "There are holes, Kelly. Dozens of them. Even in the bathroom and the shower and up in the ceiling, and, if you're on the second or their floor, in the floors."
"Holy cow," the boy said, innocuously, but the cow thing did it for another whole minute. Go away you stupid hick geezer, I'm getting there the New Brady way. He didn't mean to be forthright in his thoughts, he was just in one of those moods.
"Look through the holes. That's the idea, I guess. Plus, the walls are like hardly more than cardboard, only sheathed on one side. You can hear everything."
That did sound intriguing and off hand Kelly couldn't think of any of his buddies who wouldn't like to hang out in such a novel place. Okay, though, peeping. Voyeurism they called it. Loads of people liked it, so it must be popular. "Porky's." And who ever talked of anything else in middle school, anyway.
"Gregg," the younger boy began, "I hate to tell you this, but, well, you know. Peeking?"
"Judge not, least ye be judged," Gregg intoned "And hearken to my story before you casteth your stone."
"I don't have a stone," Kelly said.
"No problem," Gregg retorted.
"Okay," the older boy began again. He was taking so many deep breaths he was going to oxygenate or something. "Yeah, holes, and yeah, you can look almost anywhere from room to room. That's one set of facts, uninteresting except in the case of fire, when it might allow earlier warning of the guests. Good, done with and out of the way. The other set of facts would be interesting, if there were no such thing as a hole."
"You mean Kelly?" Ah, a nice responsive mind. His dad would like that.
"Kelly," Gregg affirmed.
"And she was doing weird stuff?"
"Look," Gregg said, trying for a bit of pace. He wondered if Kelly was a dancer, but this was not the time to find out. "Maybe it used to be. Who knows. It's just that what it is is so real, you know, when you can see right close up."
"So what does that make Kelly?" Kelly quizzed, "a nympho or a snake lady? I mean, come on Gregg, I may not have done anything, but I've seen stuff. It's on the cable. She wasn't dead or anything, was she?" Typical eleven year old. Thank god they were cute, because the could be a little dense.
"Kelly," Gregg whispered, suddenly more intimate in his town, "Kelly is six. She's the girl in the Cheerios ad..."
Honest to god, he hadn't meant to shoot the kid. He hardly knew him. Plus, he didn't have a gun. It wasn't an issue, he just didn't have one. So why was this outwardly healthy boy dying right in front of him. Or was it death? It was a hell of a close call, that's what. But yes, the nipper was coming around. Why look, the little dear was trying to speak.
"Kelly Grunwald," the youngster breathed, as in religious fervor. "Oh, Gregg, tell me it's not a joke. I put five thousand fire cracker's under my agent's stoop the day I got the Kellogg's part. You're not... how could you be... you're Gregg. I'm sorry. She's with Fisher Cutbait, the action agency. I've seen her twice, once forty nine days ago, and the second time, seventeen days and three hours ago. Have you seen her dad? He's awesome. Is he here, too?"
Easy company, this little newbie in the Brady ken. You didn't have to be nice to him, just tell him simple facts, and he did the nice thing all by himself. Condensed happiness. Just add anything. Gregg thought of adding Sven, pictured the formula bubbled like a very witches brew. Better incorporate the ingredients with a touch.
"Kelly," he asked, "how much do you know about, you know, like different kind off stuff?"
"I guess that's why I'm here," the boy responded.
"Well," Gregg went on, "to answer you question, yes, Mr. Grunwald is here. But, you know, we should like, you know, talk about some stuff."
"Okay," Kelly said, "talk."
"Thanks for making it easy," Gregg gulped with a nervous grin.
"I didn't mean it wise," Kelly whispered. "Sorry. I know you're trying to tell me something."
"Thanks," Gregg breathed, taking Kelly's right hand in his left. "Is this okay?" he asked.
"It's nice," the boy affirmed, squeezing quickly.
"Has anyone ever done, you know, like anything unusual with you?" Gregg stammered.
"No such luck," Kelly said, with a wry grin. "With this stupid face, everyone is fluttering all the time. You know. It's like sometimes the lions can't catch the Zebras, because they get confused by all the stripes and can't figure out which one to grab."
"I can see your problem," Gregg said, staring into the limitless eyes of the absolute cutie.
"You've changed, Gregg," Kelly pointed out. "Now that you're no longer a groovy guy and a magnet for the babes, it's going to rain. Hot and cold, long and short, fat and thin, boy and girl, young and old."
"So then nothing will happen for me either," the boy noted. One day ago, it would have been noted, glumly, but now? What was there to be glum about? Sure, school might change from a negative polarity, repelling by dint of bottled personality, to attracting, by virtue of no personal display at all, but, as the little guy had just said, more is less. Neither was right. Ordinary was right. What the Plunkett seemed to be doing was expanding ordinary. Giving it added depth and life while offering a savvy buffer between ordinary and the excessively extraordinary. Of course, Kelly was the very definition of excessively extraordinary, but maybe he as the exception that proved the rule, along with... Kelly, Jan, his dad, and by god, himself... Hmm. He was glad he had someone to talk to about more practical subjects.
"Okay, look" Gregg, "have you ever got laid?"
"No," Kelly said, glad his friend wasn't a total Puritan, though loving that part plenty.
"And like staying overnight with other guy, or anything, and like something happened?"
"No," Kelly confessed. "You know, when that happens we just play videos and talk about sports and junk at school."
"No fooling around?"
"I think one boy wanted to. You know, like take a shower with me."
"Do you like him?"
"He's my smartest friend. All poetry and show tunes. Library freak. Too cute to be a nerd, but he tries his damnedest. He'd be my best friend, but I play ball a lot, so I have to have a jock for my best friend, I think."
"One thing this place will do," Gregg commented, "is teach you not to think."
"Sounds pretty sophisticated," Kelly responded. "I mean moving around in a plane where you don't need to think. Hope they don't reduce the standard, or well be in school again."
It was fun holding hands with him. He could help his jokes with a squeeze. Even when he wasn't kidding, it still felt nice.
"What's your smart friend's name?" Gregg asked.
"Kelly," the boy replied with a grin and a squeeze. A truth squeeze. And why not? Christina Applegate set the world on fire with her years as the Bundy bimbo. Boy or girl, who cared, as long as it was Kelly. Gregg laughed and tried to stay on message.
"Would you have been freaked, if, you know, you'd been taking a shower and he just got in with you."
"I don't know." It was the younger male's time to be a little hemmy-hawy.
"Think about it. You know. Save hot water. Your mom makes you do it, or he comes in to wash your hair because he likes you. I mean, it's not gym class, and there's a lock on the door, and everyone's away, so no one will ever know what happened. Then?"
"As long as he didn't use that generic shampoo that smells like strawberry road kill," the boy quipped. They were an easy pair to set off, and that's a fact.
"Kelly," Gregg whispered, "what if it wasn't your friend, what if it was Sven?
"What." the boy said.
"In the shower. You know, like he was your uncle, and you really like him, and you were on a trip, and, like, you know, you only had a little hot water. Would you get in the shower with him."
"I guess so," Kelly said, his sweet voice dropping instinctively. He yawned. Bright eyed and yawning. Where had he seen that before? Never mind, never mind, they weren't getting any younger and if that mop-headed six year old kept storming the ramparts, well...
"Would you feel embarrassed taking your underpants off in front of him?" Gregg asked, his voice sickening as deliciously as... forget it.
"Wow," Kelly said. "I didn't picture it that way. To me, I was washing, and he came in behind me and did my hair."
"Do you want to keep it at that?"
"I don't know," the young beauty replied after a moment, "that sounds like just the clean part."
Was he going to get jealous? Kelly the girl was out-of-this-world too young for him, but maybe not for Kelly the boy, especially considering their rather substantial bond of working for competing cereal giants. But Kelly the boy? That was getting differenter by the freaking minute. From an instantaneous and dazzling crush he'd moved to a stage of falling in love even faster than things had happened when the Bradys moved into Room 275. Jan in the shower. Being so close with his dad. The pretty voice through the wall. The sublime minutes in the cool miracle of the pool. And now...
"Okay," Gregg began once again, "you're in the shower, facing the wall, he comes in behind you, he washes your hair." This was getting dreamy. "When he's finished, he puts the shampoo back in it's place. Now his hands go up on your neck, because you have a long slim neck, and it's wizard, and then his hands go down on your shoulder, real soft and gentle and moving around, then his voice gets really low and kind of rough sounding, and if you were looking at him, you might see him yawn a couple of times, then he asks you if you have a girlfriend or if you ever fool around with your friends when you have sleepovers. How do you think you'd feel if stuff like that started to happen, you know, his hands on you, and asking you real personal questions."
"You mean, if like nobody else was in the house?" Kelly knew of course, for the aspect of security and privacy had been addressed in the opening statement, but he had to say something. If he didn't, Gregg might think he wasn't interested and change the subject.
"Yes," Gregg whispered.
"If the door was locked," Kelly said, "I think I'd let him do what he wanted, you know, if he was gentle and stuff."
"Kelly," Gregg's voice was now dank and secretive, "what if, you know, you liked feeling his soapy hand on your skin, and he put his arms around you, real gentle, and started to wash your chest and your belly. Do you think you'd, you know, get big?"
"Yes," Kelly whispered.
"What if he wanted you to turn around, so he could look at you. You know, like a pervert?"
"As long as he wasn't dressed in armor so, you know, I could see him too, I think I'd let him look."
"You'd take you hands away?"
"If he really wanted me to," Kelly whispered, his voice sicking out just fine as far as Gregg was concerned. They seemed to have passed a significant waypoint in their embryonic relationship (had he ever not known him?) and Gregg paused to take stock. Reviewing the overall situation, there was only one thing he was proof-positive, absolutely and indelibly sure of. And it was a vital point. His ticket to everything that happened in the next moments of his life. He needed time to be with Kelly the boy, and the thing he knew if he knew nothing else was that Kelly the girl and her beautiful young father were sound asleep.
"How about if he wanted you to hold your arms way up high? Would you do that?"
"If he did," the hushed and ragged response came.
"If he stood like that, and, you know, was really excited, and he wanted you to touch him, you know, down there, would you?"
"If I really like him," the boy replied, "I might. Have you done stuff like that, Gregg?"
"I did some stuff with a baby sitter, but it was a long time ago. I'm going to do it tonight, at midnight. But no, to answer your question. I saw somebody doing it, but I've been too into Gregg the wanna be the last few years for anything exciting to happen."
"My babysitters were mostly prunes of the AARP brand, and a couple of college girls. Not exciting."
With a friend, the more you talked about, the more you had to talk about. This did not include marriage, but both boys were way too young for that.
"Only one of mine was," Gregg acknowledged.
"Did he come a lot?" Ah, the innocence of that sweet mouth, those clear bright eyes. Yes, by the thunder of the great spirit in the sky, the Plunkett was the right place on earth for this angel. Anywhere would be, he brought heaven along like a salesman brings samples. But The Tame Animal Farm would give him permanent residency status. He'd be smiling like that, and driving them wild, when he was king of the walker Olympics. Back to the subject.
"Babysat a lot," Gregg replied, gently nudging his way through the heartrace of a minefield surrounding him with dread and delirious exultation with every grin and pensive lip nibble of the boy that liked Toaster Strudel with its sugar-syrup icing. Jesus, child, he harangued himself, next thing you'll be imaging is don... He couldn't finish that word. Not in his present shape.
"Let's swim, then we can talk some more – K?"
Panting, spouting and giggling they came to rest, arms up over the ledge of the pool. Steve and Jan waved cheerily. They were both deep in big books. Being a new Brady was so neat. There they were, happy, here he was, happy, for sure, Pete, Bobby and little Cindy had found something to keep them happy. His mom had been glowing like a teen queen when she'd come in for late breakfast. Marsha? She was shopping. It wouldn't make her happy, but then nothing was likely to. He'd settle for seven out of eight, and Alice seemed to be making up for the princess of prig, anyhow.
"You didn't even take your clothes off," Gregg teased.
Kelly blushed, which in turn set Gregg off. The both muttered Sorry. What a bond that was to share. They were so excited they couldn't even talk about it.
"Do you want me to take them off?" Kelly whispered down his elbow.
"Yes," the boy answered. No more words needed for that response.
"I can do it here, if you'll help me," Kelly said.
Those Plunkett engineers again. Maybe his dad could work for them. They approached their work with a passion for detail. Putting in a pool, so he could strip that slim young body without exploding. Thoughtful and competent, that's what they were.
"Okay," Gregg said, thrilled at an opportunity to frolic. He eased from the side of the pool and arched slowly backwards, claving to the bottom of the pool, and completing his reverse arch at a pair of wet shoes on what looked like two pretty big feet. He couldn't see much, but he didn't have to. Shoes were shoes.
Kelly was impressed he got them both at one go. His mature male friend drained them and squeezed the socks before taking a breath.
"What are you wearing, you know, underneath?" he asked in a shaking whisper, blushing. Again, the delicious feeling was echoed by his young friend. "The world wants to know, Mr. Strudel, boxers or briefs? Sorry, we live on Clinton Way. It just came out."
Kelly thought it was pretty funny. Guys sat for hours, even days, writing lines for his work on the set. Gregg should drop by.
To answer Gregg's question, he said, "Looney Tunes, wouldn't you know it? Your mom buy your stuff?"
"Tell me where you back pack is. Maybe I can get your suit and bring it."
"I'm too excited, Gregg," Kelly whispered. "I don't want to wait. I know what this place is about. At least a little. You know, like free. And I want to fit in, so I've got to start sometime. You ever do a first rehearsal with four ADs and two interns?"
"Just Marsha," Gregg winced.
"She looks a little Marsha," Kelly noted.
"Don't get me started," the older boy said.
"Get me started, Gregg," Kelly whispered, "get behind me and pull down my pants. You know what you were telling me about pretending Kelly's dad was my uncle, and he came in the shower behind me. Now you pretend you're Mr. Grunwald, and I'm a little kid. You can even pretend I'm Kelly if you want.?
Playful. What a lost character that was. Jewish children were not playful. No, no children were. Bicker Backer Stale Cracker, Hollywood Does It Again. But it took two to play that game.
"Does it feel funny," Kelly whispered over his shoulder.
"The morons put a pool in the place," Gregg answered, "it's real safe feeling all electric, and someone built a pool."
"Filled it with water, just to make you happy."
"How do you feel?"
"Like the water has nothing to do with it," Kelly whispered. "I mean, it might feel even better if, you know, we were up in your room."
"There's holes in all the walls," Gregg reminded Kelly. "How would you feel if someone was spying on us?"
"Why," the kid giggled, "what are you going to do, molest me?"
"Have you ever been molested," Gregg whispered.
"I haven't, I told... "
"Then how do you know you're not being molested, now?"
"Good question. If you did what you're doing under my tee, then you'd be molesting me, right?"
"Maybe half right," Gregg acknowledged. "You can molest a kid, just using words. Or touching him or her, anywhere, if you do it a special way. Even a doctor can molest a kid while he's examining him, if he knows how."
"Well," Kelly observed, "it definitely feels like you're molesting me, even if you aren't up under my shirt, yet."
"Good," Gregg whispered. "Any time I do to much – it's my firs time in years, and my first time leading, ever, so I may not be very good at it – tell me, and I'll cut the crap."
The underwater touching went on slowly, gently, for a minute or two.
"What are you pretending, now; about Sven?" Gregg whispered.
"I'm pretending," Kelly whispered back over his shoulder, "that handsome Gregg Brady is sexually molesting a young boy at the side of a swimming pool, and that lots of people are trying to see without noticing they are being noticed."
"I'm glad you brought up sex," Gregg said, after giggling at his young mate's aplomb, "because there's something I need to talk to you about."
This set both boys off and the lifeguard had risen in his chair before they got back to a choking version of normality. Another strike against the pool. One could drown is a state of bliss. The old Gregg would have made a point of informing his father of the defect. The new Gregg took it like a man.
"Where were we," Gregg finally asked.
"As I recall, you were starting to pull my tee up. You weren't fast. You weren't efficient. You seemed to dawdle and play at your work, Slacker, but you were on the job."
"I could call for help," Gregg suggested with a giggle.
"No you couldn't," Kelly retorted with a nudge that sent the older boy back from the ledge, and a sweep of his left arm which brought the young powerful teen dancer behind him once again. Gregg supported himself with his chin on the child's shoulder, and ran his hands right in over the boy's slim girl chest.
"Okay," he whispered very gently
"Yes," came an equal break in the throbbing silence.
"If we were up in the room, in the shower, you know, forget about the holes in the walls, would you let me do this, or is it just because we're in kind of a public place."
"I'd let you do it to me in private," Kelly said very quietly.
Gregg's hands roamed down, found the lower hem, and rose again, pulling the wet tee shirt with them. Finding the boy's warm skin at the top of his slacks made both the striplings grunt with shock. Gregg brought his left hand up out of the pool and grabbed the railing. He turned Kelly slightly away so it wouldn't be quite so obvious what he was doing to the youth. This was going to take some minutes. Both boys fantasized at what it would feel like to be doing what they were doing on the soft carpet of their private bedrooms.
Eventually they had to get along with their business, and Gregg again positioned himself behind his young mate. The soaked tee came up, over and off the raised arms. Gregg pretended a tangle in Kelly's left hand, and the child helped in the subterfuge by keeping his arms stretched high as he could reach toward the sky. Ah, the American Western. While jockeying, Kelly presented his now naked back to his teen friend and was immediately rewarded with a gentle hand on his bare chest. Left elbow and left elbow they perched, seeming to try to untangle the wopse of wet tee supposedly hung up on Kelly's watch, while Gregg molested the slim eleven year old boy thoroughly minute after minute. By the time the shirt was free, their private giggling had given way to a low constant pant. Chalk up another star for Mr. Pool.
Now they were arms akimbo again an inch or two apart, trying to pacify the lifeguard without being obvious about it. Shoes and neatly folded tee sat in front of them They couldn't help glancing at the neat pile and blush at the paltry nature of their symbol of order and implied innocence.
It was hard to stop giggling. Getting harder. They still had Kelly's pants to go. And he was wearing Looney Tune underpants. Suddenly they were both very glad for the life guard. As one, they looked at him and smiled. He returned the standard "Plunkett Look." You guys are awesome, so how about you stay nice and safe and comfy and happy so we'll get to see you, tomorrow. Point taken.
"You ready," one of the boys whispered.
"Yes," the other replied nervously, cavalier attitude of the management, of not.
The stallion again moved gently behind the colt. Pawed his tender belly, then found his light summer belt, undid it, found the catch, moving just a little slower now, and unfastened it; dragging it out, found the child's zipper, and lowered it fully and all the way to the bottom. Gregg kept his hand purposely from touching. That was thanks to the cool water of the pool. If they'd been alone in his bedroom, he would have fondled the child, openly, and probably with both hands. He'd been fondled with both hands by his baby sitter, and he knew it felt almost explosive.
"I'll bet you wouldn't have done it that way if we'd been in private," Kelly whispered. The boy sharing the wanting, hinting at it as best he knew how, was liquid thrill.
"You just said a mouthful," he replied.
"I've got to get back to work, darling," Gregg quipped. "Don't you think you're over dressed for a day around the house?"
"Oh, heavens, honey," Kelly replied, falling into the foolery as fast as he'd fallen in live, "I was excepting a young seal, fresh out of training, to stop by and help with a little this and that around the house. If you think I'm over dressed for that, why, darling, I just know you'll oblige your sweetums, won't you, big boy."
Know Gregg knew why he'd seen Kelly on television.
"If the seals follow that cabbie in a suit running the defense department," Gregg said, "they're going to end up shrimp on the barbie. You might want to invite several."
It had started in fun, but both boys quickly realized that the overall quality of national leadership hollowed out the attempted levity. Utterly and beyond the pale, atrocious. Fit only to lead mass prayer services.
Though they hadn't discussed it, both also knew, instinctively, that without the miracle of Microsoft and allied enterprises, American history would have ground itself out like a dead cigar twelve years earlier. That the country had survived into the new millennium was, by ten times, the greatest outright miracle in the history of the spinning planet.
Philosophizing was fun, you know, for those long softer intervals that came with a mature friendship. Both were glad there was nothing mature about their friendship, and, still thinking in sync, Kelly turned his back and Gregg made a final dive to lower and remove his slacks.
Although kittenish when dressed, Gregg was thrilled to find the boy was boyish underneath. Long not quite shanky legs, and feet quite large for eleven. He couldn't stay long, being underwater, but he did feel a lot as he practically fondled the drowned slacks free of the alabaster limbs and big boy feet. Dancer. He hadn't asked. Now he didn't have to. Oh, to be alone, dry, comfy, and able to touch Kelly there. It was like a nuclear thought, only safe submerged.
"We've got to do an eye trap," Kelly said. They were now back to their side by side positions, Kelly on Gregg's right.
"What do you mean?" Gregg asked, thrilled at the deviltry in Kelly's almost lisping whisper.
"For the life guards. For you dad and Jan. For everybody."
"I think the seas metaphor had gone to your head. Remember, it's me doing all the diving."
"You've been promoted," the gamming boy continued. "No more underwater recon. You're now in diversion and interdiction. Illusion."
"Thank you sir," Gregg intoned. "The family can use the extra money, I can use the parking space, and the team can use a more authoritive player."
"That's the military for you," giggled Kelly Drake. "give a guy a mission, he wants to be a general."
"Well, that's easy," Gregg pointed out. "Just give me another mission."
"You already have it," the cutie reminded him.
"Illusion? Walk on the pool? Disappear under the surface for ten minutes. The choice is yours."
"No," whispered the voice of the young boy. What was wrong. Didn't he want to play anymore?
"What?" Gregg's voice instantly hushed to match it's mate.
"I want to feel you, Gregg. Doing stuff to me, under water. Making your, you know, yourself go up inside my boxers. Secretly. So just you and I know what's happening. Everyone else had to guess."
Suddenly they felt like two giant bull frogs in a teacup. Very conspicuous. It was one thing to horse around after a kid jumped in with his clothes on. But what Kelly wanted was lingering, carnal, sensual and hardly to be done slam-bam, oops, I didn't mean it, or I was just kidding. For a minute, it seemed like mission impossible. Then god all but spoke out loud, and the answer was born. If I ever grow up to write cliff hangers, the New Gregg Brady thought to himself, I'm going to tell this story... and leave the audience hanging. Tune in next week. After all, how many times did messages that were comprehensible come from on high? The neophyte writer wanna-be didn't know long he'd hold the suspense, milk it. But the old pro does.
"Do you have a wallet?" Gregg asked, his voice back to their whisper.
"Cripes, yeah! It's in my pants," the boy rejoined, a startled look in his eyes. Instinctively he reached for his neatly folded slacks.
"Wait," Gregg hissed almost silently. Go slow. Take it out. We can examine it together.
"It's wet, what's to..." Then the boy caught on. Luckily the pool buffered the thermal shock well enough that the cute little hands crept to the pile of neat with clothes, and in a minute drew forth the wallet. He brought it to the verge of the pool where his big friend could help. Propped again on their left elbows, the children unfolded the bill fold and began doing a clumsy job of hauling out cards, paper and money.
Gregg's right hand went to Kelly's now bare chest and belly. He pinched the tiny little nipples he'd never seen, and fondled the boy from the back of his neck, and over his beautiful bird-like shoulders, down under his arms and along his sleek flanks to the trace of softness just as the line of the boxer shorts. They both pretended they were reading a soggy note.
"Are you pretending Sven's doing this to you in the shower?" Gregg whispered.
"Your dad," came the return. Mostly I know it you doing it to me, but just when you asked, I wondered what it would feel like to have a man doing it, and I thought of your dad because he'd sitting just over there."
"If it was him," Gregg continued, no sign of recovering sicko in his voice, "would you let him keep doing it, and, you know, go all the way with you?"
"I'd sure hope he didn't stop," Kelly said. "And even more, I hope you take the hint."
"We're bound to last, don't you think?" the teen quizzed.
"Yeah," Kelly said. "Can you think of a grater nuisance?"
Both boys giggled and took advantage of the distraction to get Gregg fully behind Kelly, with both arms reaching around to toy with the soggy wallet.
"I'll be back in just a second," Gregg said, and he dropped back, pretending to splash and spout water, which he actually did, while pretending, then he came back up behind Kelly, wrapping both arms tenderly around the warm, slim middle of the lithe eleven year old. His chin sagged against the tender childish shoulder, and he panted very gently in the boys left ear. Kelly's fingers slowed to a crawl with their bits of paper and money.
"Did you take it all the way off?" Kelly whispered.
"Yes," came the strangled whisper in response. "Are you ready for me?"
"I think some people are looking," Kelly responded.
"No one comes for the housekeeping," Gregg said.
Again the illusion of two kids giggling over something in a soggy wallet. What really happened was that Gregg used the moment of foolery to duck himself. He surfaced very slowly.
"Gregg, I can feel you, you're up inside my underpants."
"Spread your legs a little bit for me."
"Okay."
"Gregg," the whispering went on. It had never been so intense. "You're huge. I mean, how would I know, but you feel like a big animal."
"You feel like a kitten," Gregg sighed into the ear at his chin as he again wrapped the sleek young male body in his arms, and thrust and eased himself further up between the long, white boy legs.
"Can you feel me against, you know," the teen panted.
"Something's causing a fire," the child whispered.
"I can feel you against me. You're big to, Kelly. Really big."
"It's the feet," Kelly managed to whisper. "One girl at school, Ellen Fitzroy, that's all she looks at. Not my cute tooth. My feet. She has a brother, Roger, he's probably got the biggest feet in school."
"Is she a happy girl?" Gregg prodded.
"Seems to be."
"Know you know why."
"I'm going to date her. She's just the right age for me."
"Sounds like a plan," Gregg said.
Gregg tried not to surge obviously against the child in his arms.
"Are you going to go all the way?" Kelly whispered.
Mr. Pool groaned. "There go my filters," he thought to himself.
"Can't," Gregg explained. "Remember when we first talked? There's something special happening tonight."
"Can I be there? I want to see it."
"You can be there, for sure, but you won't see much," Gregg elaborated.
"Why not," came the sick whisper. Was it sick enough? One way to find out.
"Do you promise not to be shocked or get uptight if I tell you. You don't have to be my friend, but promise you won't get mad, okay?"
"Of course, you ninny, unless you're going to use a knife or rope. That I could miss."
"It's a lot sicker than that," Gregg whispered.
"What?" The boy was not impatient, but that was not going to last. But it was a plunge. Rolling the dice with the first utter love of his life. The kid could freak right out of the hotel
"Can I kiss you on the back of the neck, before I tell you, just in case, you know.
"You can kiss me any where, any time for any reason, but if you don't tell mw what's going on, my kisses are going to be delivered by cold, dead lips. Blue. Lifeless. Get it?"
Gregg did, and settled for a place just under the awesome little fairy ears young boys seem to sprout is if by matter of course. It was a perfect place and felt delicious on the boy's drying skin.
"It's my sister. Jan. My dad's going to be with her tonight. She's a virgin. He wants me to be with her first, because, you know, I'm not as big, plus, he wants to feel my, you know, on him. It's meant to be very awesome for a guy to, you know, feel another guy when he's with a female."
"Sounds like vestigial atavism," Kelly said.
"It's okay?"
"If you're going to be a cuckoo bird, leave the pool or you'll drown."
The teasing lilt focused what remained of Gregg's brain on a fiery ride into the future, with a beautiful sidekick. Very good news. Somehow he had to return the favor. This was no measly wet wallet scam. He needed something big. Something huge. Something monumental. Something for his friend that was outta' sight, over the top, and around the moon.
"I think Kelly may be waking up from her nap," he whispered to the beautiful child actor.
After the car races sometimes the winner goes out on the track and does big donuts. Jackie's communist sometimes painted on glass so a lenscamera could record the bold slap of his work. Donuts, flamboyant slashing with s brush. Artists showing off. Can a writer show off? I know one who would like to try.
First would be a plaque for the remains of the twin towers, assuming they are left more or less as they fell. It reads as follows: "Awake to the needs of lesser people, or you shall be awoken."
The second one has religious significance. If you think I'm not a god, please keep it to yourself. If you are right, the talent comes from my mother.
The third one is just plain brutal. It is addressed to my fellow Americans, and was inspired by the telethon: While you have the greed off a pig eating a toddler, you have none of the beauty.
After that, a virtuoso would lighten the presentation. When they foreclose on America, will Carlton Sheets be there in our hour of need?
And let's close, just to show we have a sense of humor, with the bizarre and ludicrous. It's called The Homeland Security Office.
Okay, that's my little sketch pad. Time for a break for all of us. See you in the next chapter, god willing, and the sheiks don't rise.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx