Mikes Perspective

CHAPTER TWO

This kid, Richard, is a glutton for punishment, apparently. Here he comes walking up the ramp with a pack of Marlboro 100s in his hand. Dammit! I was hoping he'd just keep running. My three so-called 'gang' members here today have a short attention span and are now goofing around on the other side of the boardwalk. They haven't noticed the kid is back. The thing is, my heart hasn't been committed to bullying this kid from the start. By now, I've lost all interest in it. Unfortunately, I started it, so I suppose I need to finish it, but I'll do as little as possible to get Richard going on his way. Fuck, if he had just kept running past the 'effing store, we'd be done with this drama...

Yeah, well, he didn't, so I need to stop gazing out at the endless Atlantic Ocean, wondering what my fuckin' life is all about, and finish this 'initiation' to Wildwood's Boardwalk. Ya know, if Richard were an arrogant wise-ass, that would at least be an excuse I could use to rationalize a justification for my bullying, but nothing could be further from the truth with this kid, and, Goddammit, he helped with my bike too. God, I suck.

And, it's not as though we're the only ones on the boardwalk. As I said, many walkers are passing by gawking at us, wondering what's up, and maybe calling the cops. Well, Richie is just standing there looking around. I'm at the ocean-side railing, my back to the railing watching him, slowly shaking my head at the 'boys' who continue goofing off near the street side of the boards, their backs to the kid.

Christ, no one is paying any attention to him, so why the fuck doesn't he take the pack of cigarettes and leave? He seems, amazingly, okay with this bullying crap. Could it be he's so desperate to make friends he's willing to accept whatever it takes? That's a sad thought, and, Goddammit, how long will he just stand there?

Finally, redheaded Tony, giggling, turns around and, seeing Richie, yells across the boardwalk to me, as if I'm blind, "Richard's back, Mike. He bought the cigarettes." No shit.

The other two guys turn around now, and all three of them make their way to Richie, bumping into vacationers who happen to be in their way. With a sigh, I get up and walk over to join them. Tony, standing next to me now, again says, "Richard's back, Mike." I mumble, "Yeah, well, he's been here two or three minutes." Richie, his big bluish-green eyes shining, holds the pack of cigarettes out to me, saying, "Oh, I didn't see you over there, Mike. I got the cigarettes."

Good God Almighty, the friendly expression on his baby-face makes me want to hug him. Heh-heh, he's also trying to get his hair to lie down, patting it, and probably worried I'll start fucking with him again because his hair is sticking up.

Tony, Joey, and Tucker are all grinning with anticipation, looking at me, waiting for me to indicate what they should do. I like these guys, we're friends who grew up together, but sometimes they seem clueless and immature, and, Jesus... can't they decide anything on their own?

Sighing again, I look at Richie and lifts my chin at Tony. Richie asks, "Oh, do you want me to give Tony the cigarettes?" With a small smile, I mumble, "Yes, give Tony the cigarettes, Richard, and thank you for treating the guys to that pack of Marlboro. That's very nice of you, but, um, where are the matches?" My heart isn't in this, but I've got to do something to close-out this 'initiation' horseshit. The kid makes an exasperated noisy exhale, then goes, "Ah, jeez, damn," and without another word, runs back to the store for a book of matches.

While Richie's doing that, Tony rips open the pack of cigarettes and holds it out to me. Shaking my head once, I hold my hand up, showing him I'm already smoking one of my own. So, now, Tony, Tucker, and Joey have one of Richard's cigarettes sticking out of their mouths waiting for the matches. At least one of them, and probably all of them have a cigarette lighter in their pocket, and probably cigarettes too, but they're waiting for the new kid to get back with matches. Fuck, ha-ha, I can't help snorting out a short chuckle because this is so wrong, but whaddya gonna do?

When the kid gets back with matches, Tucker insists Richie smokes too. The way Richard holds the cigarette, and then from his first tentative inhale, it's obvious he told me the truth that day when he said he doesn't smoke. He coughs out the smoke even though he barely inhaled any. The guys laugh heartily and point at him, muttering, "What a pussy." Most of the guys, including me, have been smoking cigarettes since our early teen years.

I wander over to sit on a boardwalk street-side bench, bored senseless with all of this by now, but the guys are looking over at me, so I mumble, "You smoke like a girl, Richard." Getting a little bolder now, maybe sensing that my bullying has run out of steam, says, "Obviously, I'm not a girl, Mike. I'm a nonsmoker." Nodding, I quietly mumble, "Oh, I'm glad to hear you're not a girl, Richard. We don't allow cunts in our gang. Run along now. Your first gang meeting is over. Wasn't it fun?" He hesitates and then mumbles, "Um, yeah, tons of fun," and he pats the hair on top of his head again. Jesus, I pulled his hair so hard it's still sticking up.

The boys exhale smoke and snicker; then, as Richie continues standing there, they exhale smoke in his direction. He's holding his smoldering cigarette at his side, standing there, giving the impression he doesn't want to leave, or maybe he's waiting to see if there's anything else I'm going to do to him. I smile at him, nodding my head toward the exit ramp, and he grins at me. Jesus, that cute grin was kind of cheeky of him considering all I've put him through. Two seconds later, I wave my hand in a shooing away motion, saying, "Go away now, Richard. Thank you for coming."

He looks at the other guys, then back at me, still hesitating a few beats before finally walking quickly down the boardwalk ramp to the street where he drops the cigarette in the gutter and continues down the street to turn at the end of the block, without looking back. I again wonder how anyone could be so desperate to make friends they would willingly put up with this shit. And again, I feel terrible for bullying that poor kid, but why didn't he stick up for himself a little bit?

Exhaling smoke from his mouth and nose, Joey says, "That was a primo initiation, Mike! You showed that pussy." Standing up, I go, "Ahh, I didn't show him shit, Joey. And, he's not a pussy. I was a ginormous prick, but the kid handled everything, alright. C'mon, let's take a ride on the Double Shot, my treat."

We all head down the boards and, whenever we walk anywhere on the 'boards,' we do so as if we own the place. I'm faking it, troubled by my new kid's treatment and mostly confused by the strange 'feelings' I had when close to him. Yeah, but I can't allow myself to think about it too deeply for fear I'll figure it out.

Life goes on, and too soon, there's very little left of the money I had in my pocket a few days ago. I paid back mom her twenty bucks and then gave Jackie at the gas station the ten bucks I owed him, plus I treated the 'boys' to rides at the amusement park. Later that week, I had Danny buy two beer cases for me, and I bought four large pizzas so the boys and I could have a beer party on the beach one night. To avoid the cops, we had the party way down the beach past all the lifeguard stands, past the boardwalk even. Most of the guys smoked pot, but they bought that on their own. I'm not into drugs very much, although I sometimes indulge, and I sometimes transport drugs to Atlantic City too.

My brother Danny is working on the Decarlo painting crew all week and, consequently, he's home for dinner every night with Mom and me. When he's home, we all have a couple of beers before dinner. Tonight, Danny telling funny stories about his day on the job as a house painter. He has a comical way of telling stuff. So, with Danny's home, it's going to be a good week for me.

The next day, oddly, I'm disappointed I don't see the new kid again. He intrigued me so much I even ride past the kid's house a few times but don't see him. Eventually, my infatuation with him, if that's what it was, fades, and I concentrated more on how I can make some money.

Then, on the following Tuesday, Tony and I are all the way down near the far end of the boardwalk at Eddie's Surf Shop. Tony, coming out of the store, bumps into the new kid, Richard. Literally bumps into him as the kid is coming out of Jenny's Breakfast and Luncheon shop next door carrying a take-out coffee, a 'wrapped' Danish sweet roll, and a pack of cigarettes, none of which he drops when bumping into Tony.

At first, Tony doesn't recognize the kid, growling, "Hey, watch where you're going, dork!" Richie mumbles, "Oh, hi! Um, sorry, Tony." This kid is obviously adept at picking up on our names. Tony goes, "Hey, Mike, it's Richard!" Feeling a weird, um, excitement at seeing the kid, I, of course, can't let that show. No, I keep my phony tough-guy act going, and, getting my shit together, mutter, "Richard, Richard, Richard. Where ya been? You missed the last gang meeting. What the fuck, bro?" He tries to smile friendly-like, but I'm boring in on him, chest to chest, saying, "Wherever is it that you hide, and what's up with that pack of cigarettes you're holding?"

As I'm saying all that, I'm walking him back up against the front of the shop, realizing I've lost control of myself again. It's his fault, though! There's something about him that makes me do this un-cool bullying. His tentative smile is so out of place; it drives me crazy, and my bullying gets worse. Without thinking, I grab his flimsy shorts between his legs. Yeah, he's wearing those dumb-ass flimsy nylon basketball shorts again. Naturally, grabbing his crotch startles the hell out of the kid as he tries saying "Hi" to me, but it comes out as an unintelligible squeak.

The kid grunts and again tries to say 'Hi.' His second attempt is more successful, "Oh, um," he gulps and adds, "Mike, ah, hi." My face is very close to his as I mutter, "Hi," and he goes, "Ah, that is, the, um, cigarettes are for my dad. All this stuff is for my dad." I'm like, "Ya don't say," and he nods his head, his nose bumping mine as he mumbles, "Yes, I get paid fifty dollars a week to do chores like this, and other stuff." Jesus, what a good kid he is.

Well, I've stupidly put myself in this incredibly awkward position, and it's my fault obviously, but being a prick, I take it out on him by tightening my hold on his crotch, making him grunt again, and mutter, "Ow, that's wicked painful, Mike." I move my head next to his, holding his nuts in my fist, and, with the side of my face against his, I whisper in his ear. "I'm not hurting your nuts, am I?" It's unimaginable to me that I've got another boy's balls in my fist! This is another 'first' for me.

Richie gasps, his whole body jerking so much my hand slips on the silky nylon material, and now only two of my fingers, plus my thumb, are holding part of his junk. Unfortunately, for both of us, the part I'm left holding is his dick. The material of his shorts is so thin it's almost like holding Richie's bare penis. Wishing I never started this, but unable to get out of it without losing 'face,' and knowing Tony gossips like a motherfucker, I have to continue doing something.

Reluctantly, I sort of stroke Richie's dick, asking, "How's that feel, Richard?" Now I'm thinking back to when Tony said Richie had a boner when I bullied the kid the first time. And, Tony's watching me closely, so I say, "Ya know Richard, Tony here says you had a boner in your shorts during your boardwalk initiation. He thinks maybe you're queer. Imagine him thinking that, huh?"

Richie gulps as he's shaking his head. He's shaking his head, but nevertheless, he's getting a rock-hard boner right now! I've hardly moved my fingers on his pecker so, what the fuck's going on here? Richard, um, Richie's also blushing like mad, his face turning bright red as he continues holding his arms out with his dad's take-out coffee in one hand, and in the other, the cigarettes and pastry. This kid takes his 'job' responsibilities seriously; he's a real trooper, apparently.

With me holding his dick, he's been going up on his toes, gasping. I'm committed now, so I mutter, "Jeez, Richard, are you fucking deaf? I asked you how this feels?" The kid babbles, "Please don't... Ahh, ooh! Ummm." This is insane... I'm barely moving my fingers on Richie's hard cock. His back is now against the coffee shop's big plate glass window; he's up on his toes gasping and pleading, "Please stop, Mike. I'll buy the boys another pack of cigarettes."

My face touches Richie's, our noses against each other's cheek, and I'm feeling weirdly very dizzy. Plus, my dick is getting hard too. Then, shockingly, I feel a wetness on my fingers! Did a squirt of cum or pre-cum just shoot out from Richie's boner? Some kind of wetness just ran down to my fingers. He moans, "Nooo," humps his hips against my hand, and a lot more wetness immediately soaks through his flimsy shorts. Tony, still standing just outside the Surf Shop door, yells, "Look! The fag just peed his pants, Mike! Ya better take your hand away, or you'll get piss on it."

Whispering again, I ask Richie, "Um, did you cum in your pants, Richard?" I'm feeling terribly guilty as a question is screaming at me in my head... 'Why can't I control myself around this kid?'

Richie looks like he's going to cry, and then a tear does run down his cheek. It touches my cheek as now my forehead is against his. I feel like I could cry too as I quietly ask, "Are you okay, Richard? I didn't mean to, um..." I stop, although I desperately wanted to apologize or, fuck, I don't know what I wanted to do. Pulling my head away and letting go of him, I step back, purposely blocking Tony's view of the big wet spot on Richie's shorts. In a fog, I mumble, "Don't miss our next gang meeting, okay, Richard? You can go now."

Richie turns away quickly; then, without a word, walks quickly past the shops disappearing around the side of the building. I'm still facing the front of the building as I murmur, "I'm sorry," but say it so low no one can hear. Tony's yucking it up... "You got the new kid to piss his pants." That isn't what happened, but I don't correct his misconception. Instead, I stare down at the end of the boardwalk at the three fire-damaged shops being renovated, feeling I need to be renovated too.

Turning around, I glance at Tony but don't make eye contact because I'm feeling shaky, quietly mumbling, "That's not something you see every day, is it?" Tony goes, "Jesus! No!" Pushing away from the building slowly, I'm rubbing the wetness from my fingers on my shorts, muttering, "C'mon, let's go inside and get a coffee."

We buy take-out coffees and drink them on the far side of the boardwalk. I'm silently looking out at the relentless waves breaking on the shoreline while Tony jabbers on about something that Mac did with a tourist on the beach yesterday. I nod my head as if I'm listening, but I'm not listening. A minute later, Tony asks, "What do you think Mac should have done, Mike?" I go, Huh?" as two more of my 'gang' ride up on bikes, asking, "What the fuck are you guys doing way down here?" Tony says, "What the fuck are YOU two doing down here, dick-heads?" They all chuckle.

Tony tells them what he bought in the Surf shop, and then about the new kid pissing his pants. Ten minutes after that, I mutter, "Oh, jeez, look at the time! I gotta get going," and, after bumping fists with the boys, I take off on my motorbike, thinking maybe I can catch up with Richie. No, that's not happening because I quickly realize he had to have driven his dad's car here. He's not going to walk forty minutes carrying a take-out coffee.

So, instead, I ride on familiar back roads again, not daring to think too much about what I've been doing to the new kid. My unwarranted bullying isn't all my fault, though. I mean, why the hell doesn't he show signs of anger? He never gets pissed-off! He should hate me, but he doesn't act as though he does. And, yeah, so what if he resembles that fag, Ryan Gilmore? Anyway, appearance-wise is where the similarities end. Gilmore is a conceited, arrogant rich boy. Richie is the complete opposite. He's from my side of the tracks. Plus, he has an innocent, sweet, humble way about him. He's extremely likable and ridiculously good-looking, um, really cute, um for a boy his age, I mean. Well, I don't know how old he is, so...

Then, furious at my train of thought, I hit the gas hard and hear the mufflers roar. I've got to stop thinking about the new kid as I'm flying down these back roads that I know so well. I especially know where the cops have speed traps for the vacationers, so I obviously avoid those roads loving the wind in my face and the faint fishy smell of the bay. I'm too far from the beach now to smell the ocean.

All of a sudden, I think about Debbie. I like her as a friend, but there's something disturbing, something that's become blatantly obvious to me. It's the crystal-clear enormous difference in my bodily chemistry when I'm holding her close compared to when I'm holding Richie close during my bullying of him. I get aroused, sexually aroused by that new kid, and I've got to wonder why that is? I mean, no other guy has ever had that effect on me. I'm eliminating Ryan Gilmore from that last statement because, duh, I've never so much as touched him, never mind held him close. Anyway, I've no interest in Gilmore now. Richie has replaced my 'Gilmore' concerns, and he has now become my number one major 'Richie' concern. And, I seriously don't get why that is! Or, is it I won't allow myself to 'get it'?

Then, the following week I get this idea that I should apologize to Richie; offer sort of an apology if for no other reason than to lessen my guilt complex about how I've treated him. The problem is, even for a selfish reason, I can't apologize because he's never on the boardwalk. It's a forty-minute walk from his house. If his old man uses the car for work, walking is the only way the kid can get to the boardwalk. And, I can't come up with a reasonable explanation for why I'd be riding past his house every day, so I don't do that. I mean, I don't know what I'd say; my reason would be for driving by his house if the kid was on his porch and asked me.

How often is he likely to walk forty minutes there and back to the boardwalk? Plus, the few times he's run into me on the boardwalk, he's been bullied unmercifully. He obviously uses his old man's car when buying the take-out coffee each morning, but me showing up at the coffee shop would be too obvious, and, anyway, I'm hardly ever down that end of the boardwalk. And... I wish to hell I could stop thinking about him.

What's he doing in Wildwood anyway? Vacation? What was it he told me? Something about moving in with his old man, but from where, and is the move permanent? And how the fuck old is he anyway? The kid looks about sixteen. I yell out loud, "Fuck this!" Blanking my mind, I drive to a gas station/convenience store to fill the tank and buy a soda. I've still got eighteen dollars left from all that money I had a week ago. Yeah, as I told myself a while back, I need to be looking for work instead of acting like a fool thinking about that kid.

After pumping the gas, I go inside to pay for the gas. I also buy a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a Pepsi. Drinking the Pepsi, I drive away slowly, trying not to think of anything. Done the Pepsi, the can gets tossed into the brushes along the road as I admit to myself... 'I can't help it, I'd like to see that fucking kid again.' Everything about him is very, um, curious.

When I get home, I find that Danny has hooked me up with a two-day painting job working from 7 am until 3 pm. Good, that will take care of my money concerns temporarily. The next day I report to DeCarlo's painting company and try forgetting about the kid.

I'm in a much different position on the painting crew than I am with my 'gang'. With my boys, I'm king shit. Working here, I'm taking shit from the older guys all day. I do the work without talking back even though they give me all the shit jobs. Danny told me to grin as if I don't mind listening to all their snarky remarks about me being his 'cute little brother.'

Hmm, yeah, when I'm working part-time with these painters, I'm sort of like Richie on the boardwalk. I'm the way he was as he put up with my bullying. The older painters get their 'rocks off,' basically, bullying me. It's a dog-eat-dog world. Well, no, it's not exactly the same thing because I put up with the shit for a good reason...money. Anyway, I work Thursday and Friday, getting paid $140. So, fuck it, I've got money in my pocket again, so I'm in a good mood again. Money talks while bullshit walks, whatever that means.

Thoughts of Richie have faded somewhat by Saturday as I'm getting sunburned from being on the beach with Debbie. We're with another couple, Bill Ball and his girlfriend, Barb Picket. I don't like either one of them, but I make a point of not being rude, so Patty doesn't get pissed off at me. I need to tell her something.

Yeah, my main reason for going with Debby to the beach was to have a sincere talk with her, gently telling her I'm not good enough for her and, anyway, I'll be working most of the time for the rest of the summer on the tomato farm. When I get around to telling her that, she says she understands and, in the end, even though the words 'breaking up' were left unsaid, that's the bottom line, and we both understand that. Debbie seems okay with it.

After taking her home, we have a quick kiss, then tell each other to have a good rest of the summer. I ride off on my motorbike, feeling as though a load has lifted from my mind. I feel bad about it too, and I'm also weirdly disappointed that Debbie took the news so well. I know she understands we're split-up, so I thought she'd maybe shed a tear or something. The more I think about that, though, I laugh at myself because I guess I want it both ways. No, not really. I'm happy about how it played out... her being okay with it was perfect!

The next day I follow my routine of working-out first thing in the morning, then eat something light for breakfast, take a shower, and then ride my motorbike to the boardwalk to screw around with the boys. Depending on the guys there, guys who aren't working their part-time jobs, we might play miniature golf, betting money on each hole, or we could spend an afternoon in what's still called a penny-arcade. Yeah, but don't bother bringing pennies; nowadays, it's mostly video games, and nothing costs less than fifty-cents, and most games cost a dollar. We go there when it's raining, and when it's not, there are amusement rides to go on, especially the Double Shot, or we take swings in the batting cage or shoot basketball hoops... whatever.

And, most days, we end up on the beach illegally playing 'ball' of some kind, and eventually, we'll go in the ocean to ride waves and doing what's called 'body surfing,' usually body surfing into unsuspecting individuals for laughs. Yeah, there are many things to do at the beach and on the boardwalk, more than the ones I just named, but after years of doing them all, I desperately want to be doing something else. We all need to grow up eventually.

So, the summer days slide by into the second week of July, which is my last week before working full time on the farm. It's now been ten days since I last saw Richie, and for all I know, the kid moved back with his mother, wherever that is. Anyway, today is one of those days when the boys are getting on my nerves, so I need some solitude. That, plus Danny's been breaking my balls about getting a haircut, so I need to do that today.

As usual, I don't have any place I need to be, so I make up something. Today, though, I do know where I need to be... the barbershop, I tell the boys that, and maybe I'll see them later. Riding off, I head for the same barbershop Danny took me to when I was a little kid. The shop is way down near the end of town, not 'near' the boardwalk at all. It's close to our house, which is ten blocks inland where housing is a lot more affordable. No tourist would rent a house that is as far from the ocean as our house or Richie's house at the other end of town.

At the barbershop today, there's no waiting. I get right in the barber chair, and Dom, the barber, doesn't need to ask what kind of haircut I want; he knows the Sullivan brothers get buzz cuts. Ten minutes later, I'm walking out of the barbershop with a crisp buzz cut and looking forward to seeing Danny tonight so he can rub my head, telling me, 'It's about time, bro.' We'll probably rough house a little bit with me faking I'm as tough and cool as he is because I want to be like him. The difference between Danny and me is Danny doesn't need to fake it; he is a cool tough guy.

So, anyway, I'm feeling bad-ass with my fresh haircut, but what to do now? Well, since I'm down at this end of town, I'll ride to the end of the boardwalk I rarely see. Yeah, I'm curious how the renovations are coming along on the fire-damaged shops; see how the rebuilding of those burned shops is progressing; when Tony and I were at that Surf Shop near the burned buildings, that's when we saw Richie. I haven't seen him since then, and I haven't been back since then either. Because of the construction going on there, there are few beach bathers, so maybe I'll find the solitude I'm looking for.

From the barbershop, I ride the ten blocks straight down First Street and park the bike at the last ramp on the boardwalk. I don't bother locking my bike because there's no one here to steal it. Wandering up the ramp, I walk past the Surf Shop and the Breakfast Shop, stopping before getting to the fire-damaged shops. Terry's Soft Serve shop is still doing business, so I buy a chocolate-dipped vanilla soft-serve cone and take it to lean against the railing at the ocean side of the boardwalk. Enjoying the sweet imitation ice cream, I savor the quiet that's only interrupted by the unique squawks of the ubiquitous seagulls. I'm almost hypnotized from staring at the seemingly endless ocean, contemplating eternity.

This is good; I'm feeling pretty good with my fresh haircut, enjoying this soft-serve cone, and NOT being pestered about 'What can we do now, Mike' by the guys. Pushing off the railing, I walk past the ice cream shop to get closer to the construction. Then, looking down the boards, I see Richie walking onto the boardwalk at the very end! He stops to look at the shops under construction. Not wanting Richie to see me, I step behind a large sign that warns 'DANGER... construction'.

My heart is pounding too fast as I watch Richie putting his hand on the sides of his eyes as he looks through the window of the last shop. Ha, that's what I was going to do when I got down there. After that, he walks over to the ocean side of the boardwalk and does what I was doing... he gazes out at the endless ocean. This sign blocks me, so I can stare at the kid without him knowing I'm here. He makes me jumpy, and I don't know what to do or how to act if I can figure out what to do.

Yeah, it's obvious why he's at this end of the boardwalk. This is the first part of the boardwalk he'd come to walking from his house from where he lives. It's also probably why I haven't seen him. And, hell, he already walked a long way to get to this end, so it's another long walk to the end of the boardwalk my boys and I hang out at.

Hmm, Richie looks the same, meaning he still needs a haircut, and he's wearing those flimsy nylon shorts again. He has on another sleeveless t-shirt too, this one a faded red color. Richie has limited fashion options, apparently. Oh, today he has on a pair of ratty-looking old sneakers without socks! Well, they're in better shape than the sandals he normally wears; jeez, the poor kid. Damn, though... I'm glad to see him, but what should I do?

What is it about this kid, though? Why does he fascinate me so? I have the strongest urge to walk up to him and give him a tight hug and tell him how sorry I am for mistreating him. Ironically, it's those very urges that make me bully him. I've been trying to submerge urges of, of what? Sympathy? Well, yeah, I do feel sorry for him. It's more than that, though; it's more like an urge to gently brush his long hair out of his eyes, then hug the shit out of him and maybe give him a brotherly kiss right on his rosy-pink, bow-shaped pouty lips. Christ, where do these bizarre thoughts come from?

Yeah, well, none of that is ever fucking happening anyway! I've been expecting to outgrow boy 'crushes' for years now. I've read boy-crushes aren't uncommon for younger guys to experience, but by 'younger,' they mean like thirteen-year-old boys. That's around the age when some boys have a short crush on one of their childhood friends. Years ago, there was this kid who I had my first crush on. Oh man, I thought he was really special. We hung out together that entire summer, but the opportunity never presented itself to do, you know, do anything, um, gay-oriented. Well, I thought about him when I jerked off every night. But that was it. Eventually, I forgot about him and expected to begin sensing the same 'hots' for girls that my friends talked about. That didn't happen, but I keep expecting it to happen. Not yet, though, and my latest 'concern was an interest in that fag Ryan Gilmore. That is until I met Richie.

I'm cursed or something, and yeah, this is a helluva secret I've been dealing with all these years, my untoward interest in certain attractive guys. That's a concerning thing to deal with. What I'm saying is, obviously, these urges should have faded in me by now; faded years ago. I expected I'd outgrow this crazy shit when I was fifteen, then sixteen, then seventeen, and now, well, fuck it! So, what's up with this shit hanging-on as it has? I'm not gay!

Anyway, mysteriously, I'm 'over' Gilmore now, but he's been replaced with the new kid, and... OH, NO! Two of the Lira Painting Company guys just came out of that rebuilt hot dog stand, and they're leering at Richie. They've been painting the inside of the shop, I guess. Both guys light cigarettes directly across the boardwalk from where Richie is at the railing, his back to the painters. These guys are bad-ass hard-cases... criminals, actually.

Unfortunately, I know about both of those cretins. And, one of them, Jose, hates me. Last year he bullied me, pushing my motorbike over and smacking me around. Danny found out about it, and he kicked the living shit out of Jose. Naturally, Jose is now looking for me so he can kick the shit out of me again. Yeah, it's a never-ending cycle. The fat fuck who's with Jose is Punchy Toms, an overly tattooed sociopath.

I better get my ass off the boardwalk before they see me. NO! What am I saying? I need to do is get the kid away from those two psychos. They'll do much worse bullying to Richie than I ever did. Both those assholes are in their late twenties, and they're mean motherfuckers. Both served time in prison for assault and battery, although they've done worse shit than that. The work they do for the Lira Painting Company is mostly dealing with drugs, but, like Danny, they paint and do roofing occasionally too. The DeCarlo Painting & Roofing Company and the Lira Painting & Roofing Company are actually drug operations that launder drug money through the legitimate companies they own, not that I give a shit about that.

What I give a shit about is Richie potentially ending up in the hospital. Jose, and especially Punchy, will fuck around with him the way a cat fucks around with a mouse. Punchy is a queer pedophile, or that's what I've heard anyway. Oh, balls, Richie just turned around, and, with a smile on his cute face, he yells something across the boards to the two psychos. He won't be smiling when he gets his broken ass thrown in the Dipsy Dumpster. Yeah, along with me, if they see me.

That fat fuck, Punchy Toms grabs his crotch and smiles at Richie, but then Jose snarls something to the kid that sounded like, "What the fuck is you's looking at, punk? Don't look at us, ya skinny motherfucker..." Yeah, that's intellectual Jose, alright! Still trying to smile, Richie says something else, but it's too low for me to hear, and then Punchy yells, "Come on over here, buddy. Don't mind him. We're kidding with you. C'mon, I wanna show ya something cool we just did inside."

Adjusting my sunglasses, I'm not sure what to do here. My soft serve ice cream is dripping on my hand as I'm thinking how Danny would not approve of this, but, nonetheless, keeping the sign between the painters and me take a few steps closer to the 'trouble,' calmly calling out, but not too loudly, "Richard, look at me. Ignore those two and come towards me. Don't go near those two assholes."

He turns head turns to see me. After giving me a tentative smile, it fades... maybe recalling my earlier bad behavior. Dropping the ice cream cone, I take two more steps toward him, glance at the 'painters,' my balls shriveling up a little just imagining what those two would do to me. So far, neither of the psycho pricks has looked my way as, obviously, they didn't hear me urging Richie to walk away. They're both shirtless, showing off their obscene bodybuilder's hairy torsos. I can almost see the 'stink' coming off them!

Christ, I hope I don't look as scared as I feel, or as scared as the kid looks now. The painters are grinning like wolves as they concentrate on their latest potential plaything/victim. Trying to sound a lot calmer than I feel, I step out from behind the sigh now and quietly say, "Don't run, Richie, but start moving. Casually walk this way. C'mon, start walking!" I'm not sure he heard me, but because he's looking my way, so do the painters. FUCK! They see me now!

Okay, those scary motherfuckers see me, so I say, much louder and sterner, "Richie, do what the fuck I just told you. Come to me." He still hesitates, maybe thinking I'm going to bully him again, so he's got a decision to make... should he take a chance on being bullied by the two new bullies or the bully he knows.

The painters aren't sure who I am yet. They're shading their eyes from the sun shining over my shoulders. Although it seems much longer, it hasn't been thirty-seconds from when I said my first words to Richie. Obviously, the quicker me and the kid start running our asses off, the better. The two painters are not geniuses, but even these two cretins will figure that out pretty soon and start running across the boards to grab the kid.

Richie, still near the boardwalk railing, is about equidistance between the painters, standing outside the shop on the street side of the boardwalk, and me further up the railing on the ocean side. Now that the sign isn't hiding me, I take a few more steps toward Richie getting within maybe thirty feet of him. The fat fuck, Punchy, says to his partner, "Well, will you look who da fuck it is," and he yells at me, "Hey, Sullivan, how they hanging, faggot?" I flash him the middle finger, and Jose yells, "Tell me som'in shit-head, is your chicken shit brother still in jail?"

Having made the correct decision, now Richie starts taking small steps, slowly inching his way in my direction. To keep the assholes talking, I go, "No, you pussy, my bro plea-bargained out of that shit. Too bad, you didn't." He goes, "The Sullivan cunt brothers!" and I yell, "Hey, my bro asked me about you the last time I talked to him. He asked me if your skanky sister was still giving two-dollar blow jobs under the boardwalk."

Both of them snarl, "You motherfucker," drop their cigarettes, and, forgetting about Richie, they start running towards me. Oh fuck, and they're surprisingly fast too. I did not expect these hoodlums to be athletic. Yelling at the kid, "Run your fucking ass off, Richie!" I take my own advice and run for that ramp, the one I walked up ten minutes ago.

It's quickly obvious that Richie was not on his high school track team as I'm already further ahead of him than when we started running. Above the sound of thumping feet on the boards, I can hear the kid already gasping for oxygen. He's 'game,' though, giving it all he's got. Good thing he isn't wearing his sandals today.

Nobody is saying anything as all our energy is going into this race. Oh man, there's my motorbike at the bottom of the ramp, and am I ever glad I didn't lock it. Jeez, I was hoping to find solitude... this is NOT what I had in mind.

I'm on the motorbike now, fumbling with the key. Looking back, I see the kid maybe three yards in front of Jose, who is the faster of the two gangsters. Richie is about the same three yards from me. I kick up the kickstand and stomp down on the starter lever and hear the awesome sound of the motor roaring to life.

The kid is gasping, breathing heavily, as I yell, "C'mon! Get on behind me. If they catch you, they'll put you in the fucking hospital," and under my breath, I mutter, "If you're lucky." There isn't much of a seat behind me for the kid to sit on, but he jumps right on it and almost goes right off the other side, but I grab his arm, yelling, "Hold on to me... tight!" His hands grip my waist as I do a wheelie taking off.

The kid was not ready for the wheelie, and his hands holding onto my waist weren't holding on tight enough, so he slips off the back of the bike, landing in a pile on the street. Motherfucker! The fat fuck, Punchy, has stopped at the top of the ramp, leaning over with his hands on his knees, having given up on the race because he's, well, he's a fat fuck. Jose, on the other hand, is almost on top of the kid.

I'm looking back helpless, resigned that the first fist being thrown by Jose will take the kid's head off, BUT, in his haste, Jose stumbles, almost going over on his face. The kid, quick as a cat now, is up and hopping back on the motorbike. I'm pissed at him, yelling, "Get both your fucking arms around me this time, ya dumb fuck."

Jose never fell, just stumbles into a trash barrel; then, reaching out for the kid, he just misses getting the back of the kid's t-shirt as I take off again. Richie slides almost off the side of the seat when I made the turn, but I swing my arm out behind me and grit my teeth, holding onto him as he hangs off the side of the bike, almost pulling the bike over on its side. Then we're on Ocean Drive, just missing the back door of an SUV. Horns blow as I swerve, my knee brushing the SUV's fender, and we're gone...

Looking back, I see Jose leaning over, his hands on his knees like his asshole partner as he breathes deeply. I throw him the finger over my shoulder, hardly believing how close that fucker came to catch us, but I need to pay extra attention to the traffic now because I'm still going much too fast, swerving in and out of slower vehicles. When I feel safe, I slow down a little. Fuck, I'm shaking, thinking how close that was to disaster. Jose's last effort was to spit a 'lunger' at us... the pig! Yeah, his disgusting ball of mucus whizzed by my right arm, and I felt some wet spray from it. Gross!

Punchy got his breath back in time to scream curses and threats at us, but we're safe for the time being... my heart still pounding as I turn off Ocean Avenue heading for the back roads and away from the painters' wrath. I'm still speeding because I don't know where those two assholes parked their van or if they plan on chasing us. I doubt they will, but better safe than sorry.

In ten minutes, we're away from tourist territory and on a stretch of my favorite straight back road, and I pick up speed again. It rained last night, so the dirt is hard-packed, and there's very little dirt-dust being kicked up behind the motorbike. Goddamn, but this bike was a lifesaver!

Hmm, yeah, if I'm ever in a situation like that one again, I'll remember how fast those two pricks can run. I never expected them to be that fast, even fat Punchy for a short distance. Only now does my adrenaline kick in and become noticeable. It makes me feel a little sick to my stomach, but that fades. I don't think Richie understood the full extent of the danger he was in, but I'm sure feeling a mixture of relief. Also, anger, I'm pissed at the stupidity of that entire incident. What animals we all are! On the other hand, I'm also feeling kind of good for saving the kid's ass. That pays him back a little for the terrible way I've treated him.

And, I notice he's gotten over his shyness. Now he's hugging me tightly around the waist, fully leaning against my back, the side of his face against my shoulder. Jeez, I actually feel like the big bad-ass, tough-guy hero I pretend to be most of the time. I'd feel even better if I hadn't given a thought to saving my own ass before doing the right thing and saving the kid's ass too.

Yeah, I'd be the biggest piece of shit on earth if I abandoned him to those scum-bags. And, those scumbags fucked up too. Yeah, they did because there's supposed to be an 'understanding' between both criminal enterprises to leave the other alone... a truce of sorts. Yeah, but while that's true, I have no intention of telling Danny about this skirmish, and those guys aren't telling anyone, so they're not going to get in trouble with the bosses. They won't because the bosses won't know about it. Still, I've got leverage to use against those two in the future, if necessary. The reason I'm not telling Danny is I'd need to explain why I give a shit about this new kid, explain why I interjected myself in someone else's problem, and it would be too, um, complicated to explain.

Richie's hugging his arms around my waist, so I intentionally keep going fast enough, so he'll feel he needs to continue doing that. It feels good being hugged by him, and I know that's kind of sick of me, but I don't care... it feels good.

It's almost a half-hour before I slow down, and I only do so because we're entering Margate City, another crowded tourist town with automobiles clogging the streets. Neither of us has said a word since the escape. I do a slow U-turn and head back the way I came at a slower speed, a speed that's also known as 'the speed limit.' Richie loosens his hold around my waist a little. Without a better idea, I take him to his house, which is only a twenty-minute trip because going back, I take the Garden State Parkway into Wildwood.

By the time I get to his house, it's been over an hour since we left the boardwalk. It was a nice long pleasant ride with the kid basically hugging me the whole time. I drop my legs on either side of the idling bike across the street from his house and sit here. It's a few seconds before the kid gets off. He's wobbly, laughing nervously, saying, "My legs feel numb." I force myself to look straight ahead, not sure what to do or say. After a few seconds, he adds, "Now my legs are all pins and needles."

Without looking at him, I say, "Don't ever go up on that part of the boardwalk until the renovations are completed. When you're getting that stuff for your old man, walk an extra block on the sidewalk before going up on the boardwalk. Those guys hate us, hate us because we're not like them; hate us with a passion. They're sick in the head." He just looks at me.

I don't know what else to say, so I start to drive away, but Richie goes, "Hey, Mike, wait! Please wait for a second. I want to thank you. You saved my ass, um, I guess. So, well, thanks for the long ride too. I, um, loved it." I glance at him, feeling my balls tighten. That was by far the most he's said at one time since I met him, and he looks so, um, well... he's a cute motherfucker. He shrugs and says, "That motorbike ride was the most, ah, well, it's the only fun I've had since moving here." He goes from one foot to the other as I stare at him and then ask, "Are you living here permanently now?"

He moves over to stand right next to me, too close, actually. He's in my 'space' and seems more relaxed as he says, "Um, yeah, I'm here permanently, I guess. I've been here past summers. Um, for a couple of weeks, but this time my mom threw me out, so I'm living with my dad full time." I frown, mumbling, "Your mom threw you out?" He nods, " "Yep, her boyfriend didn't like me, so I'm living with my old man now."

That blows. Hmm, I go, "Huh. What grade are you in?" He goes, "I graduated last May, and my dad said he'd help me afford to go to community college in the fall." Really? That's a surprise because he looks younger. Just to be sure, I go, "Oh, so, um, what, you're eighteen or, um, nineteen then?" Nodding, he goes, "Next month I'll be nineteen, yep. You're out of high school, right?"

I'm blowing out my cheeks before annoyingly exhaling because I don't like being interrogated. I sarcastically mutter, "Yeah, I'm out of high school. Well, I guess I'll see you around." I straighten the bike getting ready to take off again, but Richie quickly says, "Wait, um, would you, I don't know, like a Coke or something? Or, ah, dad has beers in the refrigerator."

He obviously doesn't want me to leave, reinforcing my theory that this kid desperately needs to make a friend. I mean, if he wants me as a friend after the way I've bullied him, he must be desperate. I stare at him a bit, then turn off the motor, mumbling, "Yeah, okay. I am thirsty, but not for a beer." He smiles at me, which, for some reason, makes me nervous, so I mumble, "Push the bike across the street while I light up a smoke." When I get off the bike, it almost falls over, so he looks panicked for a second before grabbing the handlebars and struggling to keep it upright. Heh-heh, he wasn't expecting that I'd just step away from it.

I'm kind of stuck with this tough-guy persona, stuck with acting like a tough prick, so I start walking across the street, letting Richie figure out how to roll the bike to his house, which ain't as easy as you might think. The kid bumps the bike off the curb onto the street, struggling, as he says, "Your bike is so cool, Mike." I keep walking without commenting, but he's right; it's a very cool bike. It's a hybrid between what you think of as a motorbike and a motorcycle. I call it a motorbike because my feet are in a 'back' when I'm riding it, not straight down as they'd be on a motorcycle... if you know what I mean. If you don't, so what?

Walking right up onto the porch, I look back to see how the kid's doing with the bike. He's straining to get it up the curb but finally gets it on the sidewalk, and now he's trying to balance the bike on the kickstand as he mumbles again, "Cool bike." I give him a sneer, but I'm glad he likes my bike. I've got a cigarette in my mouth now, and, as I sit on the porch railing, I light it. He's got my bike on its kickstand now and says, "I'll get us a couple of Cokes," and he goes inside.

What am I supposed to do now? I'm uncomfortable acting like the prick he knows me to be, but I can't just change and act like I'm 'human.' If I do that, I'll come off like a fraud, which I basically am. I hate being a bully, but it's my disguise. Disguise from what, you ask? That's what I haven't figured out yet.

The kid is back with two cans of Coke and a bowl of potato chips. He offers me the chips along with his extraordinary smile. His smile makes it hard for me to catch my breath, so I ignore him and look out at the street as I'm inhaling smoke from the Marlboro cigarette. Weirdly, I'm feeling something like panic, not knowing how to react to this kid. He's like a windup toy of smiles and friendliness. I'm used to hard cases when I meet someone new, both the new guy and me acting tough, testing the Alpha dog theory. This Richie kid is totally out of my normal range of experiences.

As I said, I'm uncomfortable, so, for something to do, I flick the half-smoked cigarette out to the street. Richie goes, "Oh, that was cool." I give him another withering stare and take a Coke from him, ignoring the potato chips he's holding out to me. The Coke is wicked cold and tastes good! I let it roll down my throat. Yeah, Danny showed me how to drink without swallowing. It was a bottle of beer he used showing me how to do that, and this Coke, oddly, burns more than the beer did going down. Maybe from the heavy carbonation in sodas but, whatever, I need to stifle a cough, which wouldn't be cool.

Richie's leaning against the railing next to me as I mutter, "Thanks," and then, not knowing what to do, I light another cigarette. Goddammit, this kid makes me nervous! What's up with him? And why am I staring at him again? He smiles, and then because I'm staring, he asks, "What?" I shake my head, and he says, "No, really, what was it?" Oh sure, I'll tell him I'm staring at him because he's so fucking cute and friendly... like a puppy dog.

Now he's staring at me staring at him, so I say, "Yeah, well, okay. I was gonna tell you. Um, if you, um, that is, oh yeah... if you wanna be in my gang, you need to get a buzz cut, like mine." He grins, probably not believing that could be true, and it isn't. Still, it pisses me off that he appears so relaxed when I'm not, so I say, "Come closer." Then, I realize I'm acting like that asshole pervert, Punchy Toms, but don't know what else to do.

Richie was already too close, and now he gets so close we're touching, and I mumble, "Just stand there." With the cigarette in my lips, I put a hand behind his head while my other hand pushes his hair back flat on his head and, talking around the cigarette, I mumble, "There, you look good with your hair like that. You're not so faggy-looking without the long hair on your forehead, almost covering your, prett, um, your friggin' eyes." Fuck! I almost said pretty eyes.

The kid's squinting his pretty greenish-blue eyes, squinting at my cigarette smoke that's drifting in his face. I'm spellbound holding his head like this, and after ten seconds without either of us saying anything, I let my hand slide down his face and mutter, "Well, do you want to be a member of my gang, or not?" Christ, I sound like I'm fourteen years old.

Still squinting his eyes, Richie says, "Yeah, sure I do. Thanks, Mike." I look away, my dick vibrating in my jeans as I mumble, "Well, get a buzz cut then." Hoping off the porch railing, feeling like a total jackass, I put the half-full Coke can on the railing, walk down the steps, get on my bike and start it up. The mufflers roar in my ears as Richie says, "Um, Mike..." and I do a wheelie leaving a tire tread on the sidewalk, bump off the curb at the end of the block, and then step on the gas hard, flying down the street with no idea where I'm going.

To be continued... Part Three of Nine in a week.

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