The Legend of the Ditto Twins (14 page)

About the
time the parts salesman was packing up his cases, Clark was padlocking his bike
to the stop sign.

Go-To Guy
meandered up. "
Whaddayah
want to do today?"

Clark
shrugged.

"You
wanna go out to the rest stop? Check it out?"

"Shit.
It's a long ways. You got a bike?"

Go-To Guy
shook his head.

Clark
stalled. "It's a long walk."

"We
could hitchhike, man."

"Nah,
I don't think..."

"You've
never hitchhiked before, have you?"

Clark
gulped. "Lots of times. Let's go."

Half an
hour later, the two youths were dropped at the rest stop. Clark peered around,
surprised he wasn't more nervous. Of course, he'd been there before, but always
with me. Now he was alone—well, except for Go-To Guy. The place seemed the
same—travelers stretching their legs, families hurrying in and out of the
restrooms or fast food shops.

"Uh...
You hungry?"

Go-To Guy
snorted. "I didn't come here to
spend
money."

"Gotcha.
Go ahead. I've gotta go take a leak anyway. Meet you back here in fifteen
minutes?"

"Half
an hour." He lit a Marlboro. "Hey. In the john, watch your step.
Don't speak first. And most of all, don't ever show hard. The place is
patrolled. Plainclothesmen."

"Man,
I'm just gonna pee."

"Stay
cool. Sure you don't want to come with me?"

"Nah,
I'll just hang out. On that bench over there."

"Okay.
Look, a word of advice. If anyone tries to hit on you, first thing you do is
ask him if he's a cop. He has to answer you. It's the law. That way, your ass
is covered."

The
moment Go-To Guy vanished between two freshly planted evergreens, Clark
muttered, "We shouldn't have come..." Then he remembered I wasn't
there. Marking time, he paced from one end of the parking lot to the other,
even dared to smoke his first cigarette in public, but the more he paced, the
more he realized he really did have to pee.

To his
surprise, the men's room was nearly empty. The first thing he noticed was the
smell of disinfectant. Keeping his eyes to the tiled floor, he marched directly
to the nearest urinal. Unzipping as fast as he could, he leaned close to the
cold white porcelain to urinate, but nothing happened. He waited. Nothing
happened. He closed his eyes and tried to think of Niagara Falls. Nothing
happened. He jiggled his penis. Still, nothing.

A soft
voice said, "It's a bitch isn't it? Being pee shy."

Too
terrified to reply, he did, however, allow himself half a glance at the man
standing at the next urinal: overweight, pinkish complexion, a
Hawaiian shirt, his eyes
hidden behind aviator sunglasses. Clark jerked his eyes back to the tile wall
in front of him. The man tried again.

"I usually just go piss in
the bushes."

Clark nodded noncommittally but
didn't speak. He knew he shouldn't have, but he looked down. The guy was
playing with himself. Instantly my brother reached down to stuff his own dick
back into his jeans, horrified to see that he himself was sporting half a
stiffie. Somehow, he managed to get his unruly equipment back in his jeans and
flee.

After lunch, when I asked Clay
what was next, he smiled cryptically and headed toward the ramshackle wooden
shed at the back of the lot. To me, it seemed as big as an airplane hangar, but
he called it the shed, so I will too.

"More inventory," he
said as we approached it. "But first, cigarette number two of the
day."

"If you drop dead on
me..."

"Not gonna happen. I'm
having too fuckin' much fun."

I found my cigarettes and
lighter.

"A Bic?" he said as I
offered up the flame. "In our day it was a Zippo." He exhaled with a
faraway look in his eyes. "But always Marlboros. Always Marlboros."

"'
Our
day'?"

"Jay." With one finger,
he gently scraped the ash away from the glowing ember and watched it float to
earth. "Clayton and Jayson. The Golden Boys."

"Why do you suppose Mom
never told us?"

"Because I loved him more 'n
I did her. But I..." Looking me right in the eye, he said, "I'm not
playing games with you, Mark. But it's a long fuckin story, and I'm in no shape
to start it now. I've got to take a nap, get my fuckin rest, or they'll throw
me back in the hospital, and I'll miss out on our great fuckin odyssey."

"I'm
here for the summer."

He
grinned, unlocked the sheds weathered, wooden doors, and motioned me to push
them wide. He didn't say "Open Sesame!" but he might as well have. In
the hazy light stood more than a dozen automobiles, most under tarpaulins.

"Take
your pick."

"But...I
thought it was a bonus... at the end of summer... after I'd proved
myself..."

"You
already have."

"But...
uh... do I have to choose today?"

"Sooner
you choose, sooner you can get to work on it."

"It's
just, I'd like to check with Clark before I..."

"So?
Call him. Tell him to come on out this weekend."

"I don't
know if Mom would..."

"Fuck
your mother. I speak, metaphorically, of course. God knows, I speak
metaphorically." He released one of those rolling laughs of his, and I
whooped too. "Call Clark.
Not
collect. Tell him there'll be a prepaid ticket waiting for
him on Friday afternoon at Greyhound. Tell him to get the earliest fuckin' bus
he can catch."

"Clay..."

He shook
his head as if annoyed. "You're welcome. Okay?"

"But...
but what do you want me to do this afternoon?"

"Doofus.
Your job is to go over every fuckin' car in the place, so that you'll be able
to make an informed decision, once you and Clark talk it over." He turned
to go, then stopped. "Get me up in time for 'Jeopardy.'"

"Clay..."
The only words that came out were, "You're a fuckin' saint."

About the
time I headed into the shed to select my summer bonus, Go-To-Guy returned from
his foray into the woods.

"Any
trouble in the john?" he asked.

"Uh...I
didn't go in. It felt too..."

"Still
have to take a leak?" Clark nodded. "You can piss in the bushes"

Clark
hesitated. "I won’t
get
attacked
or anything, will I?"

Go-To Guy
groaned. "I'll stand guard."

And so
the two of them wandered into the woods, as so many other men were doing. Clark
found a dense cluster of tall weeds, waded into it, and assessed the
surroundings before unzipping his fly. While hap
pily
draining his bladder, his eyes darted nervously about until he noted, with a
start, a figure no more than ten feet away, leaning against a tree, moaning
softly. The guy was wearing a numbered football jersey. Cautiously, Clark
separated the thick weeds to get a better view and then saw a second man,
older, kneeling directly in front of the ersatz athlete, his back to Clark, his
head bobbing furiously.

"J
eez
,
aren't
you finished yet?" whispered Go-To Guy.

"I
told you, I really had to go," hissed Clark, zipping up before turning
around. "Do you see that?"

"What?"

"The
jock in the football jersey. Getting head."

"Oh,
yeah.
He's usually
here on
Wednesdays. No
classes."

"Classes?"

"At
the university. He drives down. Pre-law. Name’s Joe, I
think. You want to take the scenic route back?"

"Uh...
sure. Just stick close. Don't leave me, okay?" Snorting, Go-To Guy led
Clark into the thicket. Slowly, they strolled through the al fresco wonderland,
Clark making copious mental notes
to
share with me, Go-To Guy relishing his role as corruptor of
youth. They had just paused to light up when a very short, very thin man, his
dyed blond hair at odds with his wizened face, appeared directly in front of
them. Dressed in plaid shorts and a Sponge Bob shirt he must have purchased in
the boys department at K-Mart, he slowed to lock eyes with Go-To Guy, but
according to the ground rules of this particular playing field kept moving. Ten
feet away, he stopped.

Go-To Guy
smiled. "Uh... I know that dude. The Munchkin. Big spender... queer for
freckles."

"Oh,
sure. Go ahead. I'll just go wait on the bench."

"Nah,
stick around. He likes an audience."

"Thanks,
anyway, but..."

"He'll
pay."

"For
what? Just for me to watch?" Clark started to turn and take a second look,
but Go-To Guy stopped him.

"Man,
don't stare! Look, you don't have to do anything. Especially, don't touch him.
He doesn't like to be touched."

Clark
hesitated. After all, he'd never seen a blowjob before. If I'd been there, I
probably would have stayed too.

"Twenty
bucks. Maybe more. Want me to go talk to him?"

Clark
shrugged guiltily. "Whatever."

Before
the word was out of my brother's mouth, Go-To Guy had loped over to the elf and
within moments had negotiated a deal. Money surreptitiously changed hands. Ten
seconds later, he was back, handing my brother two tens and a five.

Hesitantly,
Clark took them. "Only what if someone else comes along? Tries something
with me?"

"Just
shake your head. That usually does it. If the asshole's persistent, just tell
him you're HIV positive. That scares em off real quick. And, hey, be sure to
call me Biff. Out here, I'm Biff."

Clark
watched the ill-matched pair, one a full foot taller than the other, as they
moved further and further away from the highway. He followed at a distance, as
furious with himself as he was turned on.

In time,
"Biff" chose a tree to pose against, and pushed the elf down directly
in front of him. The diminutive septuagenarian yielded willingly, shuddered
happily, found Go-To-Guy's arm, and began to kiss every freckle in sight.