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I am behind posting 'Short Grass Prairie' but will catch up soon. Thank you for reading!
CHAPTER SIX *
Tim was off work right on time at three-thirty. He made a dash by his house for a pair of cut-offs and some beer before going to Dan's house. He carried a key to the door, so he opened up the house and turned on the water cooler. He came back outside having changed into the shorts and played ball with dog while the house cooled down. "Damn stickers!" Tim yelled, "That's what Dan get for trying to grow grass." He hopped back to the porch and sat digging at the sole of his foot until he had the thorny ball pulled loose. Dog stood before him holding the ball in his mouth in anticipation. "I'm done Dog. I didn't grab my tennis shoes," Tim told him.
He'd put a twelve-pack in the freezer and noticed a frozen lasagna when he went for a beer. He set the temperature on the oven, pulled it from the box, and slid it in. He took the coffee can from the dog food bag and scooped it full. He poured most of the contents into Dog's bowl and rattled the remainder before adding it. Dog trotted up to the screen door of the back porch and slapped it with his front paw. It opened enough for him to get his nose between the door and the jamb, allowing him inside to the food. When he'd crunched down a few bites, Tim set a fresh bowl of water beside the food and went back inside, shutting the door to the porch.
With the oven lit the kitchen was unbearable. He tuned in the local radio station and sat down in his chair. The cooler had some effect on the living room and having the shades down and the curtains pulled shut created an illusion of coolness beyond what was achieved. Tim loved the darkness. He spent his days in the sun, either doing deliveries or mechanics always wearing shades. He packed a load of snuff between his lip and bottom front teeth and drew a sip of beer into his mouth. His sips were slow and infrequent until he spit out the snuff, having satisfied his craving. Then he leaned back across the arms of the chair and waited for Dan to get there.
The rhythmic droning of the cooler was soon matched by Tim's snoring. He'd fallen asleep in the chair. Dan came in from work to find him splayed across the arms of the chair with his mouth hanging open and a boner sticking out of the left leg of his shorts. He was commando underneath. Dan got a beer and discovered the lasagna bubbling in the oven. He pulled back the covering flap to let the cheese brown and waited. Before he drank half the can the cheese was brown. He set it on top of the stove and turned the oven off. Tim was still snoring away.
Dan braced himself on the chair arms as he bent down. He lapped at the knob of Tim's dick like a cat tongue bathing her kitten. Tim stirred and his eyes popped open. "That's just what I need," Tim declared. "I'm as horny as that billy goat your granny had when we were kids. I don't know what got to me, but I drove around all afternoon with a stiff one."
"Let me wash the dirt off," Dan replied. Tim was already tugging at the buttons on his fly. The only improvement Dan made to the house since he'd owned it was to enlarge the tub and shower. It was a foot wider and that was all the space he could add without tearing out a wall. Tim let his shorts fall next to the chair. He went ahead of Dan to start the water running while Dan got undressed. Dan stepped in and bent to feel the water as Tim drew the clear plastic curtain shut. Then Dan released the spray. "Oh yeah," Dan moaned. Tim had hit a sore spot massaging the soap into his back. Together, they rotated under the spray after soaping each other down.
Tim grabbed the wash rag, a large towel, and a jar of Vaseline. He led Dan by the hand to the bedroom. When he had the towel spread over the sheets with the covers pushed back, he perched on top thrusting his butt in the air and his chest flat to the mattress. "You know what I want, so go for it," he told Dan.
"You're usually on the other end of the stick," Dan responded.
"This time I'm not," Tim answered. Dan worked two fingers of the jelly into his pucker and coated his own tool. He plunged in balls deep in one motion. Their play was frequent enough to bypass and preparation others might find necessary. Tim's breathing was ragged for a moment. Then he drew in heavy breaths as Dan began thrusting.
The curtain on the side window gapped open three inches. Brian peered in. A wet spot in his shorts grew bigger several times before Tim and Dan shot once. Brian squirmed, barely able to remain standing as he watched. When Tim rolled on his back and draped his legs over Dan's shoulders, Dan began long deep strokes and Brian went wild outside looking in. He jammed his fists into his shorts and stroked with both hands until he shot on his chest through the gap at his waist. Glancing at the splatter from his chest down, Brian scooped up three fingers full and fed the jism into his mouth. Brian couldn't take any more. He scampered off across the street to his house so he could change and clean up.
After Tim shot, he and Dan switched places. Dan had delayed his pleasure to give Tim all his attention. "You didn't cum yet, did you?" Tim asked.
"It don't matter," Dan replied.
"Like hell it don't," Tim answered back. When Dan climaxed, they cooled down in a slow sixty-nine on their sides. Then they rinsed off in the shower and went out on the front porch. Tim laid back, sucking on a honeysuckle blossom. Dan leaned against a post and sipped his beer.
"Hi guys!" Brian exclaimed, walking up to the porch. The three went inside to the cool and took their seats. Brian sniffed and smelled the odor of sex. That and what he'd just seen had him hard again and ready to go. "That honeysuckle sure smells sweet," he commented.
Desolation was a terrible name for a town. Without a doubt, the person who bestowed the name on this little town had seen greener scenery. At the turn of the century a hopeful resident built an earthen dam where the usually dry creeks came together. Above that point the beds and basins widened where floods and water had eroded them. Over the years more floods washed away the little earthen dam three times. In the twenties it was replaced by a wide concrete spillway and held back water covering seven square miles, mostly backing up through normally dry creek beds and shrinking by more than half as water poured into dry fields during the summer. It was not a large lake, but every drop of water is important in dry country.
Old man Miller had his fishing spot on the lake. Only twenty or thirty trees reached deep enough to find moisture year round on the banks. When the water levels dropped every year as it was pumped to houses and fields, trees with shallow roots died. Miller's spot was under a big tree near the dam. Catfish were fine for him. He liked cats the best for eating anyway. The big old lazy ones stayed in the deepest water near the dam, except during spawning season. The game fish tended to be found near points where one of several creeks flowed into the lake. Crappie preferred to find shelter and food by one of the many spots where Christmas trees had been dumped into the water in years past.
Miller was seventy eight and long retired from the railroad. The tracks that were once used nearby, no longer had any traffic. His pension was good enough to make ends meet. You could tell from the size of his belly, with suspenders holding up his pants, he didn't miss any meals. Mrs. Miller had her house to herself for nearly forty years. She wanted him out from under foot so she could spend the day in peace. Within a year of his retirement, if Bill Miller remained at home during the day Ellen Miller found task after task that needed doing. Honeydews were what were called for to get him out of her way. Miller liked fishing all right, he liked hunting, and he liked anything but continuous honeydews. The heat got bad, but under the shade of the big tree with a breeze off the lake, he managed. Every morning he made a five gallon jug of sweet tea and packed some leftovers to eat later on. If it got unbearably hot or was too cold to go out, the old men in town gathered in the community center and played dominoes until the day had passed. Women had their own place at the church hall. This separation of the sexes kept a lot of marriages tolerable for the past many years.
Catching fish wasn't Miller's objective. The fewer times he had to play dominoes with that bunch of cantankerous old farts, the better. Half of them cheated anyway and the other half couldn't see good enough to keep count in the game. He'd been gone most of the time when working on the railroad. He knew who the other old men were, but they weren't close friends. Miller's attitude was that there was no point in making close friends now, just to see them die and lose them.
He went fishing. His radio was all the company he needed. All his old country favorites played every day and Paul Harvey added the personal touch at noon. He never missed Paul Harvey. A fish better not bite at noon unless he wanted to hang on the line until Harvey was over. Miller would just rebait the hook.
Dan and Tim fished across the lake from Miller. You could swim the distance easily and see figures on the other side, but not close enough to get a good view. It was a very private place, this little lake. One spot was a swimming beach where sand covered the shore and the water stayed reasonably shallow for quite a distance from shore. Even when the water level dropped, it held its character. It was not in sight of Miller's spot or Tim and Dan's, much to the delight of local teenagers who avoided anyone out of their age group. There might be some jet skis or a boat on the lake from time to time, but it was really too small to have much fun with them. Desolation Lake fit the place very well.
Today was the day of Martin Culler's funeral. It went unnoticed except for the presence of Bob, Maria, and Charlie. Martin had never been a church going man so the words said at his grave were left to the three of them. As they were about to leave and let the grave diggers finish their work, Maria's Priest showed up. He had been asked, but since Martin wasn't in his congregation, he had declined. At the last moment a change of conscience occurred and he decided no one should meet god alone. He said the obligatory words more for Maria than for the man being buried.
Back at the Esterhazy Ranch afterward, the three sorted through Martin's things. His clothes would go to charity and be boxed up. He had very little in the way of personal possessions other than that. Ranches provide clothing on a regular basis to their employees as well as food and lodging. A phone was their only expense. Household items would remain in the event another hand was hired in the future. He drove a truck provided him by the ranch. In one drawer was his will. It left everything to Bob with only the stipulation that Bob do something good with it. He left $168,000.
CHAPTER SEVEN *
Dean sat on the couch in his friend's converted garage. Junk was stacked along one wall. A pool table, the couch and some band equipment with a drum set filled the space. There was a beergerator, a small refrigerator like those used in dorm rooms, in the corner. It was detached from the house except for a breezeway. The sheetrock walls had never been finished or painted. He was here because of his own actions, and because it was the only offer Dean had. The clothes Dean had left were in a black garbage bag on the floor and beside them, his electrician's tool belt. "If you need to piss just go out back, but for any serious business knock on the door and come in," his buddy from work had said. It was supposed to be a very temporary arrangement. There was a window unit to cool things off, a boom box, and a TV to keep him amused. He made six or seven hundred dollars a week just like his buddy, and there was no obvious reason he couldn't rent his own place within a few weeks. There were things that weren't obvious, like why Dean was homeless, and where his money went.
Dean flipped on the boom box and quickly changed the station to country. Country was the music of construction sites. Since he was eighteen, nearly ten years ago now, he had grown to love it more and more. He loved sliding across the dance floor polishing belt buckles with the ladies. He loved to dance the two-step. He loved women of all types. Most of all, Dean loved crack cocaine and would do whatever it took to make sure he had some.
What Dean liked about this garage most was that they hadn't felt the need to put in any windows doing the conversion. One door opened to the breezeway and that was all. He fumbled through the garbage bag and came up with a washcloth. He dampened it from a gallon jug of water and grabbed a yellow flashlight from his tool belt. A second one was there also, a red one. It worked. The yellow one had another purpose. He unscrewed the end cap and poured a glass pipe and several baggies containing rocks onto the small table beside him. He packed a small chunk into the pipe, held it up applying flame to melt the rock, put it to his mouth, and sucked in the white smoke. A few seconds later Dean sneezed. He repeated the same motions except for the sneeze several times, stopping to allow the pipe to cool between hits. Then he stroked the glass pipe with the moist washcloth and leaned it against an astray on the table. His whole mood changed.
All Dean's thoughts, good and bad were of Laura. He wasn't in love with the bitch. He wined her and dined her at first. She was just his mark. The sex wasn't bad, but he could get sex anytime. He took her out dancing, but mostly he carried her across the floor. She couldn't two-step worth a shit. Maybe she could now from all his efforts. He showed her his paychecks for a few weeks. He made sure not to run out of money, too. Her rent came due and she asked him for money.
"Sorry baby, I'm paying off some bills and ain't got any free cash." That was his story. Dean promised that soon he'd pay it all and make it up to her, knowing he would never do that. After the first few weeks he was never there from Friday evening until late Sunday night. She had sat near the door waiting for him too many times. A free ride was what she was to him, in more ways than one. One day she had come home from work to find the TV was gone. The dust in the shape of the set was still on the table where it sat. The deadbolt was locked as were the windows. He'd run short of cash and pawned it. The ticket was in his wallet. He said, "No baby, I haven't been here. Who has a key to this place besides you and me? Should I be watching my stuff?"
The week before their split, he had rolled up five thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills and hidden it inside the cushion of her couch. He'd been dealing the crack to cover his needs and make extra cash. He'd even gotten her to smoke some a few times saying it would make the sex better. Usually when Dean smoked it, sex didn't happen at all. If it did, he inflicted pain and never climaxed. He could get himself off and for that, the drug enhanced the pleasure. The drug was his sex.
Laura moved all her things while he was at work the next day. He had to find her, to find the couch and his five thousand dollars or stay on this couch in the buddy's garage. Yeah he had beaten her up a few times. Her mouth just got to him. He beat her up the night before she moved out. It was her fucking apartment. When she moved out, Dean was homeless.
Dean found her car parked where she worked. He'd used it before and had extra keys made. He parked his car down the road and walked back, driving away with hers. She wouldn't tell him where she moved. He couldn't say he had money hidden in her couch, so he said "Come back to me baby or I'll tear up your car." She refused to even see him. The next day they told him she had quit and had no knowledge of her plans. He smashed the car into a wall and walked away with a bloody forehead from the crash. Another couple of rocks in the pipe and he forgot all about Laura, but not about the five thousand dollars.
He was hard. He pushed his jeans off into a pile at his feet and rolled into a ball with both knees held under his arm pits. He swallowed half his tool and worked the base with his hand. His other hand worked three fingers into his ass. Seven or eight times, he neared the edge and slowed his pace. Finally, he couldn't hold back any longer and blasted into his mouth, gulping it down ravenously. "Damn, that was the best sex I've had in a month," he declared. He picked up the pipe and loaded it again.