Breaking into Cars

by Emery C. Walters

  Breaking into Cars

  By Emery C. Walters

  Published by Queerteen Press

  Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.

  Copyright 2015 Emery C. Walters

  ISBN 9781611527537

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.

  * * * *

  Breaking into Cars

  By Emery C. Walters

  Well, that went well. Not. Why I had ever thought my father would understand, I do not know.

  I’d finally had it out with my father. My father, Deputy Sheriff Underdog himself, I mean, Bartlett, was not best pleased to find out that not only was his number two son gay, but that he’d also been caught trying to break into a neighbor’s car. The fact that said neighbor had taken my backpack from me, blackened my eye, and locked my stuff in his car earlier today, had nothing to do with it. In his eyes, it was all about appearances. Reasons—A.K.A. excuses didn’t matter—I figured it was just me that didn’t matter. It didn’t help that the neighbor was the son of the sheriff, Uberdog Russell, whose son Terry was my age and apparently thought I was easy pickings because, well, you know, gay and all that. However, his nose was broken. Other than his two friends holding me while Terry hit me, it was a fair fight, and I didn’t throw the first punch.

  Anyhow, now I was also likely to be facing assault charges because Terry Russell and all his friends said I had struck the first blow and that nobody had hit me back. They said I only needed stitches in my eyebrow because I slipped and fell. But I don’t slip. Yeah my mom had me take ballet for six years after she saw The Nutcracker one year, but it came in quite handy when I switched to karate later on.

  My dad, in my opinion, is such a big brown-nosing boot-licking suck-up that he would just as soon see me rotting in jail, being someone’s bitch, as he put it, than stick up for me and listen to—and believe—my side of it. I’m not going to think about how much this attitude hurts me, because if I do I’ll curl up into a little ball and cry, and frankly, I’ve done enough of that over the years. So I have a plan instead, and it involves getting my stuff back and getting away from Dad. Far away.

  I’m angry and sad and hurt and confused, all at the same time. There’s no way I could just pick one emotion to go with. I’ll let my body decide what to do, by simply waiting and seeing what happens. You can’t always carefully and calmly plan out every move, though, come to think of it, somewhere under my rage, upset stomach, and wishing I was an orphan, something is clicking around and making an outline, and carefully planning what I’m going to do. I haven’t been let in on the plan yet is all.

  I’m counting on Terry’s need to look cool and all-powerful. He’s already back from getting his nose taped—it’s been broken before in football—and it actually looks better now after my little impromptu remodel job. Gays love to remodel, you know…okay, enough of the stereotypes. I’ll try to be bitter and sarcastic without them.

  Since they only live across the street, I watched him as he got into his car, powered down the windows, and drove off with music blasting, to the old fashioned root beer stand/diner where everyone goes (a leftover from our parents’ days). Once there he will brag about beating up the queer and borrowing his shit. I’m counting on his need to be cool to keep his windows down and his car unlocked while he goes inside for his brag session. That way everyone will see that nobody dares mess with him or his car, and his cool quotient will go up even higher. I wonder what he will say happened to his nose. Certainly not that the queer hit him. Maybe he slipped?

  I’m not just going to reach in and get my stuff, even though I could—no. I’m going to climb in and hide on the floor of the back seat because I know when he leaves he’s going to bring a girl and drive up to lovers leap (so called) which is out of town and near the highway where I can get a ride with a trucker who does not kiss my dad’s and Terry’s dad’s asses. Voila! Terry will be my unwitting accomplice! Maybe with any luck, he’ll get blamed for my disappearance? Maybe I could cut myself and leave a bloody trail in his car…

  By the way, I’m Jack; formerly Justin but I didn’t like it; so I’m reinventing myself as Jack. I’m eighteen, barely. A week ago, I was seventeen. I’m heading to California to college eventually anyway, but I think I may just end up at my Mom’s uncle’s ranch in Arizona. She’s always saying Uncle Bill was old and should sell the ranch. I think she wants his money. I think he might just need some help. I’d rather do that than stay here and go to jail; wouldn’t you? Though I don’t know anything about horses or cows (gay—well, you know. But I suppose I can learn). Maybe there will be a rodeo…a boy can hope.

  * * * *

  I’m at the diner now; I can see the kids inside. I see Terry’s car—check; windows down, doors unlocked. Nobody would dare, right? I slip the door open and get in the back seat. I leave my backpack right where it is, patting it and saying nice things to it like it was the dog I never got to have. Oh, we had a dog all right, but it was Dad’s dog and went to work with him. Terry’s smelly old sweats are on the floor and I bury myself in them. They remind me of the locker room at school—another good reason to leave town.

  Time passes. Then the door opens and I brace myself, but it isn’t Terry. I don’t know who the hell it is but they slide in on top of me and bury into the old clothes just like I did. A hand presses against my crotch and it’s all I can not to scream. I hear a gasp that echoes my own. Then I hear Terry and some girl approaching, and the person buries themselves in with me, even scooting their head into my armpit. I just hang on. Even if they are an axe murderer, they’re on my side, right? I hear extremely muffled giggling and press my arm closer to my side. The giggles stop and breathing ensues. Good, I don’t need to add murder to my rap sheet. Anyhow I’ve forgotten to bring my knife; so I can’t even kill myself, let alone anyone else.

  Well isn’t this pleasant? We’re driving along in his automobile (luckily it’s a full-size sedan), and the girl up front is giggling and something is probably happening in Terry’s pants. Road head? I don’t want to die…my own dick is patted and the giggling in my armpit raises the ante by adding a snort or two. Someone thinks they are hilarious and, apparently, immortal, and I must too because I almost laugh, too. What would Terry do? Pull over? If he’s not going to pull over for what’s going on up there, he’s not going to pull over for something going on back here. His radio is too loud anyhow. A voice in my ear is just audible over Terry’s awful taste in music. “Who are you? I only know you’re a guy.”

  I don’t answer, trying to figure out if I know the voice…or if it belongs to a guy or a girl. Probably someone my age; so I should know them, right? I mean adults don’t do this kind of stuff, do they?

  Anyhow, I sure wasn’t going to interrupt Terry right now, and I felt I had enough to worry about as it was. However it d
idn’t much matter because whoever was on top of me didn’t much care and just as the breathing up front got serious, he—or she—sat up and leaned over the front seat and said, “Whatcha doin’?”

  Terry screamed and the car went sideways and the girl screamed (as best she could) and we crashed into something hard. I could hear the airbags inflate and there were dings and whistles and moans and giggles and tinkles and then everything came to a stop. Next my arm was snagged and a voice whispered, “Come on, stupid, we have to get out of here!” and I managed to grab my backpack and slide out of the broken back window after my newest and unknown now-best-friend. This person was cussing and complaining about the beautiful car that moron Terry has just trashed.

  We were right near the turn for lovers leap, and another car had apparently been right behind us. They turned in and parked and two people came running up. There was smoke coming from Terry’s car. I said, “Well, fuck,” and went back and freed the girl and helped her out her side window. She seemed well enough to continue screaming; so I let the other couple take care of her and went back around to see to Terry. Just as he looked up at me, flames started tickling around the dashboard. There I was hanging inside the car through the window. I loosened his seatbelt—odd how he’d buckled up and then was so careless anyhow—and realized there was no way I could yank Terry out through the window. His girlfriend was slender and so was I, but Terry was stocky and musclebound.

  So I broke into his car again, this time through the windshield. It was already cracked from the tree they’d hit, but don’t ask me how I got it torn out enough to drag him through.

  He’d seemed paralyzed inside the car but wasn’t, because as soon as I had him away from the car, he took a swing at me. I’d just saved his stupid life and this was the thanks I got? Fuck you! Now I was mad, but I left him alone. I’d been calm through most of this, but I knew I was barely under control. It wouldn’t take much for me to start screaming and hopping up and down in terror and anger. My heart was pounding, and I was breathing in quick gasps. The guy from the other car came up to us and took Terry, and they walked away after the girls. The car was almost fully flame-engulfed by then, and some yokels from up the hill came running down screaming, “Look! A bonfire! Hotdogs! Marshmallows!” Some shit like that. I went back to my new best buddy, took my backpack from her/him, and we turned and walked on down the road. My heart was still pounding and my blood was boiling, as I was still so very wound up.

  We could hear sirens and a fire truck went screaming by us as we walked, but nobody bothered us. After a while my breathing began to settle down, and I noticed my hand was being held. I felt comforted…and still had no idea who this person was. As soon as I had calmed down, I had to run into the bushes to throw up. Go figure.

  After that we sat on a log back from the road a ways in a clearing. We looked at each other with some recognition. I went, “Bri…” and Britt went “Jus…” and we both stopped.

  “I’m Jack now,” I said.

  Britt said, “I’m Brandon.”

  So I said, “I’m gay.”

  And Brandon said, “I’m transgendered.”

  So there we were.

  Brandon laughed and took my arm. “You should have seen Terry’s face when I sat up! His eyes were rolled back in his head! I think he was coming right then, I mean, he probably would have crashed anyhow; what an idiot, and her, too. They were okay, weren’t they? I couldn’t believe you ran and pulled them out! He’s never been one bit nice to you! And there you went and saved his useless ass.” Brandon’s eyes were lit from within, and she—I mean he—was just staring into my soul.

  Gender schmender, I thought, I think I love this person. My smile must have said it all. I thought we were going to kiss and all that, but we didn’t. The moment was lost when the fire truck went trundling back the way it had come.

  “We’re only about a mile from the truck stop,” I said. “That’s where I was headed, and then out to…” I didn’t know how much to tell.

  “Can I come with you?” Brandon’s voice was wistful. “I can’t go home again. My stepfather,” she gulped. He. I would get it right; I would. My arm found its way around—him. I put my head on his shoulder. I nodded yes. And we sat there a while longer, peaceful, together.

  “Do you like horses?” I asked finally.

  “I love them.”

  After a minute Brandon asked, “Are you scared to hitchhike?”

  I nodded. Yes, yes I was, but oddly I felt a lot braver with Brandon there, even though he…was…had been…just a…shit. A girl, okay? Had been!

  This would take some work, but I didn’t care. “Let’s go,” I said. “Shall we be friends, or brothers?”

  “Boyfriends?” Brandon laughed, and even as dark as it was, I could see him blushing. I wondered if he could see me smile. Just in case he couldn’t, I took his hand in mine. Before we went out to the road I looked at him, and thought about how I looked, too, other than smoky or with soot on me. We were about the same height, with Brandon, although six months older than I was, a bit shorter and stockier. Our heads were both covered with curly mops of unkempt hair, though his showed a history of being combed and brushed. Both were shades of brown, his more golden and mine darker with a lot of red in it. Our faces were both full of youth, or maybe it was just leftover baby fat. It looked like neither of us needed to shave yet. Oh boy, wouldn’t it be nice if we were rugged, instead of pretty? Well we’d have to cope, and the stitches on my face and my raw knuckles would have to suffice. Plus I did know karate, remember. I was glad to remember that; it made me less afraid.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, I mean, I’m sorry about why you’re here, but, oh shit,” I got out, blushing. Brandon just smiled at me. Okay, he leered a bit.

  “I’m trans, not lesbian,” he said. Like that helped.

  * * * *

  We caught two rides that evening. Both were from single men. Both raised one eyebrow when they saw us holding hands. We figured we’d better go back to being friends again. After the second ride ended, I knew I was done for the day. Brandon was yawning as well. We were at a rest area along the Ohio Turnpike. It looked seedy and dirty, like some place hookers would hang out. We were afraid to use the bathroom. There was a pick-up truck parked right in front of it, and there was a mattress falling off the back. We exchanged a look that said everything—Should we? No. Shall we? Yes.

  We pulled the mattress off so easily I was sure it would have fallen anyway, and carried it back into the woods behind the back parking lot. Technically, it wasn’t breaking into the vehicle.

  We walked a little deeper into the woods to pee. I noticed that Brandon was actually standing up just like me. I was totally confused. Then when we did lie down on the mattress, we couldn’t sleep anyhow. My stomach growled. Brandon laughed. We watched the stars sparkle between the tree branches for a while, and then fell asleep.

  It couldn’t have been much later when I suddenly woke. My head was nestled on Brandon’s shoulder and his legs were over mine. We must have looked like a giant pretzel. I could hear his heart thumping below his—well, his chest. There. I knew they were breasts but I’d respect his identity if it killed me. Pronouns were hard. I realized I was, too. Anyhow, I wondered what woke me and I heard a voice saying, “Busted! Where the fuck are you?! Get back here!” I could hear bushes being shaken and an occasional thud or sharp crack of a stick being broken. There was a lot of cursing and creative swearing going on.

  I thought he must have said Buster, like to a friend or a child, but he kept calling and I realized he was indeed, saying Busted. Then I heard his voice, it was a man, snarling, “Okay you stupid mutt, stay here then. I’m not walking any farther into these blasted fucking dark, snake-riddled…” and his voice faded as well as the sounds as he apparently headed back to his car. I heard an engine start, backfire, and tires burn rubber. Ted Nugent blasted out of the car’s speakers, something about hunting.

  I went to go back to sleep but suddenly reali
zed more weight was on my legs than there had been a few minutes ago. Then I realized Brandon was awake. He exclaimed, “Something’s crawling up my legs. Help me! I’m scared of snakes!”

  Oh yeah, so was I, but I reached down. My hand felt all around Brandon’s crotch. Nothing was there (well, duh.) and then I felt hair. Hair or fur; did Ohio have hairy spiders? Big ones that made your hand wet? Suddenly I saw two sparks of light! I sat up and almost had a heart attack, gasping for air. Brandon leapt to his feet beside me. “What? What is it?” he screamed, all falsetto, I mean, soprano.

  And then I laughed. “Busted!” I said, finally figuring it out. It may have been the frantic licking from a long wet tongue. “It’s a dog, Brandon, just a dog!”

  But Brandon didn’t sit back down right away. “I gotta pee now, like, right now!” he laughed shakily. I was humming a song when he came back. The dog was stretched out where Brandon had been sleeping. “Someone’s taken your place,” I told him.

  Somehow we must have gotten back to sleep because it was light out when I woke up, and I was the filling in a dog-boy-whatever sandwich. I hadn’t opened my eyes yet when someone kissed me. I think it was Brandon because a voice whispered, “My hero. Now find me some food.”

  I opened my eyes. “Bossy, are we?”

  Brandon reached over me to pet the dog. “We’re hungry.”

  I finally got a good look at our dog. I say ours because when I watched Brandon, I saw love in his eyes. I just assumed it was for the dog. Anyhow, what else could we do with it? Its owner had left. So I said, “Busted! Find food! Fetch!” and snapped my fingers.

  The dog’s tail wagged, then his brown eyes lit up, a sharp gleam in them. (I say his because when he stood up, well, I could tell.) His ratty sort of yellow fur stood on end. He stood up. He was big. He shook himself, barked twice, and ran off into the woods.

  “Oh my Lord!” laughed Brandon. “How did you do that?”