Winning the City Redux by Theodore Weesner

Author:Theodore Weesner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Winning the City Redux
ISBN: 9781938231063
Publisher: Astor + Blue Editions
Published: 2011-04-29T16:00:00+00:00

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TURNING INTO A dark field, dousing the headlights and disgorging into cool air under an autumn moon, a quasicommittee meeting proceeds among the leaders, Lucky, Grady, Chub, in which a pecking order is affirmed . . . based on who knows what? “Rough and tough and hard to bluff . . . time for a taste of that wonderful stuff,” someone hoots, only to draw the reply, “Taste?! You’re making me sick!”

Dale can tell he isn’t the only one who is nervous but imagines he’s the only one who is tempted to bolt. As the last to join the team, he’s last in line, and feels cowardly and confused in the moonlight, sick in his stomach as they await their turns. Dale knows, too, that he will be charged as chicken! queer! phony! (the most devastating charges to be leveled against a fourteen-year-old) if he reveals in any way his desire to be elsewhere.

He stands as one of a pack of dogs exhaling breath into moonlit autumn air, while anxiety coats his eyes. Some carry on ordinary conversations about free throws made and missed, homework due on Monday, blowing their hands for warmth. Apparently veteran gangbangers of Crazy Johnny, they might as well be in a cafeteria line waiting to select meat loaf or soup as one of them calls, “Hurry it up, I’m losing my boner!” triggering laughter as others trigger added tittering by stepping close enough to give the car’s hood some slaps, to rock the vehicle from side to side while a teammate is humping Crazy Johnny in the back seat. “Fire one!” someone shouts.

Every several minutes the car’s rear door opens and a happy camper climbs out, saying, “Next . . . number five,” and a player in line says, “That’s me but my zipper’s stuck!” drawing anxious giggles from the next person in line to close the car door on his rear-seat encounter with Crazy Johnny. In the meantime, finishers gather at a distance and joke over having gotten her to squeeze, push, pump, the degree of slop and smell, the outlandish size of her opening wherein one notes having fit “like a weenie inside a pail,” while another says, “Gee . . . I fit in there like a glove.”

Numbers six and seven. Each climbs into the unlighted space, closes the door, and their minutes pumping unto Eniwetok commence ticking away. Dale keeps wondering how it will go in the car and, as he waits, overhears finishers arguing at a remove over the acceleration rates of a Chevy V-8 versus a Ford straight 6.

“Number eight . . . who’s bringing up the sloppy rear?”

As if it isn’t known, Dale thinks. There’s no turning back then as he makes his move toward the dark space, all but sick to his stomach.

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