Gotta Dance with the One Who Brung Ya - sex, scandals and sweethearts

by Jon McDonald

  “Not on this here table you don’t,” Martha scolded. Charlotte deposited the jump rope on the big sideboard with the set of white ironstone pitchers just waiting for the next batch of ice-cold lemonade.

  “You seen Otis, Miss Martha?” Charlotte asked politely hoping for a real answer rather than a grunt and a “Shoo.”

  “He be off in dem woods, I do believe. Skee-daddled off outta here bout half hour go.”

  Charlotte danced to the swing door and looked out through the screen into the deep breathing blackness of the pine woods that came up almost to the back of the house. She never liked going in there. She much preferred the sunny garden with the swing set her father had constructed for her on her last birthday, backed by mountains of red and pink rhododendron.

  Otis was a few years older than she was - bragging that he was a full-fledged teenager at thirteen. Martha was his mama and kept him close by doing kitchen chores ‘stead-a sending him out with the loggers. Mind you, that certainly suited him for sure. He was slight - small for his age, but handsome as a new pair of shoes. His hands were delicate and adept at fixin’ things ‘round the house. He would much rather play house with Charlotte in her playroom, or help with the taters, than go out with the workers to the forest or shoot cans off the fallen oak by the creek. But his favorite thing, though, was to weave strings of ribbons and little flowers in Charlotte’s hair on a day when it was raining and they would sit up in the playroom by a toasty fire on a winter afternoon after lunch.

  Otis was very light skinned compared to his mama. He used to say his daddy was probably some traveling Carney, catching his momma by surprise behind the Ferris wheel, but Martha kept very private bout Otis’ paternity. And it was very clear nothing more was to be said on that subject.

  Charlotte gazed into the depths of the dark woods calculating how much time before church and, swallowing her distaste for the forest, leapt off the back porch and scampered into the woods even before the screen door snapped shut. Martha looked up from kneading her bread with a “humf” and gave it a quarter turn before punching at it again.

  Charlotte raced through the edge of the woods where the light still filtered in near the back of the house, but she slowed and proceeded cautiously as the light dimmed further along. She almost felt her way, weaving through the trees hand over hand till she saw a little clearing up ahead. She heard noises and thought it must be Otis. She slowed and proceeded forward quietly, thinking to jump out and give him a fright. But as she got closer she could see two figures. One was Otis but she was not sure who the other one was. All she could see was that it was a large solid man - perhaps one of Papa’s sawmill workers.

  Something tensed inside her and she froze. She knew from some deep recess that she must not go forward. She peered from behind the scaly bark of a dark tree – hidden and silent. Otis was bent over, his arms stretched out before him supporting himself against a sentinel pine. His pants were down around his ankles. The other man was grasping Otis’ shoulders and throwing his body up against Otis’ backside. He was breathing heavy and squeaking strange muffled sounds. Otis turned his head towards her. His eyes were closed and a pained grin distorted his face. Suddenly he opened his eyes and saw her. He let out a deep sigh, and startled Charlotte, who turned and fled back towards the house.

  Martha looked up as the screen door slammed. She only saw a blue blur as Charlotte raced through the kitchen. She heard Charlotte bound up the massive main staircase and into her Daddy’s library.

  “Daddy, Daddy.”

  “What is it Charlotte? You’re not getting all fussed up before church now, are you?”

  “Daddy, you have to come quick. Some man’s hurting our Otis. Out back in the woods.”

  “What now? Otis in trouble?”

  “Please Daddy, come.”

  Graydon rose from his desk, followed Charlotte out of the library, down the staircase and back through the kitchen. His eye caught Charlotte’s new jump rope on the sideboard. He grabbed it up as he passed, thinking it might prove useful for giving a whipping if need be.

  “Be there trouble, Mista Jackson?” Martha gleaned, with a sharp pang of dread, from the look on Graydon’s face.

  “Otis.” He barked as he charged through the swing door and catapulted off the back stoop. Martha sprang after, wiping her hands on her apron and grabbing a knife from the kitchen table.

  Garydon, Charlotte, and Martha slashed through the dark and damp of the forest - bracken and briars snagging at their legs.

  “Where?” Graydon called out to Charlotte.

  “The clearing. The light.” She breathed heavily.

  Two figures could now be seen up ahead. Graydon slowed his pace. He gripped the jump rope.

  Martha called out, “Otis, baby!”

  The two figures turned. Otis looked towards his mama as he pulled up his pants. The man turned away, pulling up his trousers, and starting to lope away to the other side of the clearing.

  “That you, Bo? What the…?”

  Bo turned towards Graydon, his face flushed. Scrambling with his belt, Bo backed up slowly towards the edge of the clearing. Bo was Graydon’s overseer at the mill. Graydon advanced towards him, slapping the jump rope against his leg.

  “Twern’t my fault, Mr. Jackson. That…that…boy, he seduced me. He be a witch boy for certain. I was just passing through. He come on to me. Not my fault. You can see that, can’t you? Look at them eyes. That mouth. Trouble. Anyways trouble.”

  Graydon stopped and turned towards Otis.

  Otis ran towards his mom. “Mama.” He fell in her arms and she held him tight, dropping the knife that fell with a rustle to the forest floor.

  Grayden turned to Bo, then to Otis, then back to Bo.

  “I’m not the first. Just ask round. This boy bad trouble. He need be taught a good lesson.” Pointing to the rope in Graydon’s hand, “That rope there. That a lesson witch boy like him understand. Lesson to all temptation. Give it me.”

  Bo raced over to Graydon with surprising speed, snatched the rope from his hand, pushing Graydon to the ground, and quickly whipping together a noose. He ran to Otis, snatched him from Martha and dragged him to a tree with a low hanging but sturdy branch. He quickly swung the rope over the branch, fitted the noose over Otis’ head, as Otis struggled with a look of terror in his eyes.

  Charlotte cried out, “Daddy!” as she rushed to Graydon, who was rising to stand again. She grabbed his hand and looked up at him, searching for his eyes. He refused to look at her. She started forward towards Bo and Otis. Graydon reached out and grabbed her by her church dress.

  Martha fell to the ground, searching for the dropped knife. Bo gave a terrific yank on the rope lifting Otis up in a sudden whoosh. Otis squirmed, legs flailing, his hands grasping at the rope around his neck, his eyes bulging, his face purple. Bo tied his end of the rope around the trunk of another tree and gave it another sharp tug.

  Martha stood, and screaming, rushed at Bo, coming up quickly and driving the knife deeply into the soft fleshy mound of Bo’s neck, spurting a sudden gush of scarlet. He collapsed spitting and gurgling. Otis hung still as washing on a cloudless morning - ticking gently back and forth like the pendulum in the grandfather clock on the stairway landing.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  The sun fell through the window onto Charlotte’s hands. She fingered the sparkling glass beads on her, now, well-worn bracelet. She looked up at Lina who smiled sweetly at her, unaware of Charlotte’s tumultuous memories. She raised her hand and brushed back the hair falling forward on Lina’s face. She looked deeply into Lina’s eyes, rimmed ever so lightly with liner. Charlotte slipped off the glass bead bracelet, clutching it in her hand. She reached out and took Lina’s hand, pulling it towards her. She placed the bracelet in Lina’s open hand and closed it around the beads.

  “This is yours, my dear, in memory of a boy just like you. His name was Otis.”

  Just a Gigolo, Everywhere I Go

  Not long ago the young and hungry
-looking Lank, in a continuing effort to improve himself, studied his New Word for the Day – two consonants surrounding a vowel in the first syllable, and two vowels surrounding a consonant in the second. He loved the symmetry of the word – GIGOLO. The word swirled with the fragrance of romance. It whispered of naughtiness, and swarmed in his mind with connotations of adventure, and the promise of immeasurable pleasure.

  Fifteen-year-old Lank’s real name was Cameron Normal MacPherson, but everyone called him Lank because of his tall, skinny frame. But even though he was boyishly slender, with coarse sandy hair and freckles, he could still pull his weight like a grown man on his father’s shrimp boat, the Briar and Thistle.

  His father, proud of his Scottish roots, affected a Scottish brogue, even though he had been bred, born, and raised in Bayou La Batre, along the Alabama coast. But he also considered himself a corn grits Bama boy, and a dedicated shrimper through and through.

  The fishing industry had been hard hit recently by the Gulf oil spill, and Lank’s father now spent his days in dry dock cleaning, scraping and painting his boat, awaiting the all clear from the Feds to resume fishing. Mixed in with the hard labor was a generous salting of boat talk, beers, and fantastical sexual bragging along the wharf amongst the idle and disgruntled shrimpers. Lank had to be coaxed with a combination of threats and bribes to go out to the boat to assist his papa with the work - not because Lank was adverse to hard work, but because his interests really lay elsewhere. Always a bit of a dreamer, Lank yearned to escape from the confines of his Alabama home and explore the world that he knew existed Out There - filled with romance, adventure and jazz. And that world for Lank was represented by the exciting city of New Orleans, the only place outside of Bayou La Batre where he had ever traveled.

  Lank had been to New Orleans but twice. The first time was when he was six-years-old. But all he could remember about that trip was spilling jambalaya all over his lap. His second visit was when he was eleven, and he’d been enthralled with the jazz music coming out of the bars on Bourbon Street, as he walked the French Quarter with his family. But as his parents said he was too young to go inside these establishments, their mystery and enchantment only grew in his fertile young mind in the following years.

  Now he dreamed every day of escaping his dreary, unromantic life in Alabama, by running away to the magical New Orleans where he could begin his new chosen life as a gigolo. Then, right after he discovered his New Word, he had, with amazing serendipity, read about the glories of this enticing profession in a magazine he’d picked up at the barber shop. He’d secretly torn out the article, and kept it hidden under his mattress. But, of course, the distance between his dream and the possibility of it actually becoming a reality was enormous. First he had to figure out how to get to New Orleans on his own. Then he would need a place to live. And finally he needed to learn how to market his scrumptious talents. These were all concerns - unanswered by the article, by the way - that he wrestled with every single day as he toiled the summer days away at his father’s boat – scrapping, patching and painting the barnacle encrusted hull.

  Unfortunately, he had been unable to persuade his papa to pay him a single penny for his hard and sweaty labor this summer. This was the family’s boat, his father bellowed - the family business - and everyone was expected to chip in to help support the family. And especially now - as there was no shrimping - there would be no family income, except for his mama’s meager wages and tips from the diner – and, thus, there was not to be even a minimal allowance for the kids till the boats could go out again.

  Poor Lank was in despair and unable to figure out how he was going to reach his fevered goals, but then he suddenly snapped with a brilliant idea. He would search the internet for gigolo schools. He rushed home after work to his computer and fervently initiated a search. Imagine his disappointment when the only reference he could find was for a gigolo school in Taiwan that had been raided for charging inflated tuition to 200 students who had each paid $5,800 in anticipation of a rewarding new career.

  And an even greater blow was to learn that gigolos were no longer called gigolos any more – now they were referred to as Male Escorts. How pedestrian. It almost put him off the whole idea entirely.

  But wait, here was something. He had come across another interesting reference that might be just what he was looking for - The New Orleans School of Charm and Deportment for Young Southern Gentlemen. This must be the American equivalent of the Taiwanese school. And it was located just where he had planned to go anyway. Of course, he had no idea where he could scrounge up the money for the school, but he quickly printed out the school’s information and application, and rushed to confer with his sister, Gwen. Maybe she could come up with some brilliant financing schemes.

  “Here, take a look at this, Sis,” Lank exploded, pushing the charm school printouts at her, as he collapsed opposite her on the bed.

  “What now, kid?”

  Gwen was older, wiser, and much more sophisticated at eighteen, and professed with great confidence, that she knew all about the real world. After all, she had been to Tuscaloosa all on her own one weekend to check out the U of A, where she was going to be a freshman in the fall - and she had stayed overnight at her friend, Tiffany’s, grandparent’s house. Lank always went to Gwen when he sought really sound advice about adult matters.

  “Whatch ya got here?” Gwen asked, taking a quick look at the pages before letting out a hoot of laughter. “You gotta be kidding me, huh?”

  Lank certainly expected a more thoughtful and considered response.

  “What’s this all about?” she asked.

  “It’s about my future, so don’t be so mean.”

  “You? And exactly how does this relate to your future? Whatcha gonna be, a maître-d?”

  “No, a gigolo.”

  Once again Gwen roared with a peel of laughter, even more raucous than before. “Yeah, sure. And, young man, what exactly have you got to offer the ladies, might I ask?”

  To be quite honest, Lank hadn’t thought much about that question before. He just figured that his youth, his country-boy good looks, and his charm would be all that would be required to entice any hungry lady into a frenzy of desire.

  “Okay, let’s get real here. First, have you ever even been with a woman?”

  Lank blushed. “Well, it depends on what you mean by with,” he hedged.

  “Oh honey, you haven’t, have you?”

  “Well, I did get to second base with Patricia Weber….”

  “And this qualifies you to be a professional sex worker, how?”

  He hadn’t thought of his chosen profession in quite this clinical sounding nomenclature before. It certainly didn’t sound all that romantic the way she described it.

  She continued her assault, “And what do you know about contraception, and safe sex, and the threat of AIDS? Oh, and by the way, you can be sure the largest market for your type of services is going to be horny old men. Have you thought about that?”

  This was not going at all how he wanted this conversation to go. He needed to get it back on a more appropriate track. “It’s not just about sex, you know. It’s also about romance, passion and caring.”

  “Oh really? And just where did you come up with these silly notions, might I ask?”

  Lank dashed to his room, retrieved the barbershop article from under his bed, and returned back to Gwen in triumph, waving the article in her face, to dispel her overly cynical ideas about his desired career.

  “Here, take a look at this. See.” He handed her the article.

  She chuckled as she read. “Where did you pick up this rubbish?”

  “It was in a highly respected national publication.”

  “Oh yeah, and which one would that be?”

  “Modern Romance.”

  “Really? Definitely a top authority on the real world,” she brayed, no longer able to constrain her erupting guffaws.

  Lank burned with contempt, and shook, as he stared at
her, unable to speak. He suddenly snatched the article from her, and fled back to his room, mortified, embarrassed and pissed. He ripped the article up into a dozen pieces and collapsed on his bed in utter confusion.

  But he was determined to show her. She was such a smarty pants. If he was too young and inexperienced to be a dashing gigolo just now, well then, perhaps later - when he’d matured, and was more experienced in the ways of the world. Then the ladies would flock to him for his services. He was not about to give up on his most cherished dreams just yet.

  Yeah, but what was he going to do till then?

  He rolled over on his side and spied a stack of magazines at the foot of his desk. He reached over and picked up the first one off the top of the pile. Modern Drummer. Nah, his parents would never let him have a drum set, and anyway, he had dubious musical talent. Next was Model Builder Digest. Nope – not relevant. Then Contemporary Home Fashions. How did that get in there? Way too gay. Next was Soldier for Hire. Here we go - definitely promising. Lank picked up the magazine and flipped onto his back. There on the cover were two tough looking guys - crew cut, ammunition belts slung over their shoulders, holding Kalashnikov AK-47’s in front of a kick-ass looking helicopter. Now this was more like it.

  Lank turned to the first article - Welcome to Hell and Beyond - a look at the terrorist conflict in Somalia. Maybe not quite what he was looking for. The next article was entitled Cleaning Your Own Wound. Hmmm. And then there was Dopes and Drugs – Drug Dealers Are Dumber Than You Think – Unless They Aren’t. Maybe this was not quite the line of work he was searching for after all. What would be left of him after ten hard years in that type of business? He would need all his body parts to satisfy the ladies, he was certain of that. Maybe he should consider something a little less harrowing - if he wanted to remain in one piece.

  He reached for another magazine. Outdoor Huntsmen. Now, there might be something here. He opened it and browsed. Bag your Own Thanksgiving Turkey - not that exciting. Where Chairmen of the Board Bag Savage Grizzly - better. And finally there was Great White Hunter of the Savannah – Man or Myth? Wow, now this sounded like just the thing. Lank immersed himself in the article. Oh yes, yes, yes. This was it. He would be a hunter in deepest, darkest Africa. He would lead safaris. He would sling ammunition belts over each shoulder. He would casually rest a high powered elephant gun over his arm as he escorted the ladies in their jodhpurs across the plains in search of elephant and lion. He saw himself posing for snapshots - holding on to two giant elephant tusks, as adoring ladies gazed up in rapt admiration. He quickly tore out the article and rushed back towards his sister’s room. Certainly, now, she could find no objection to his new found goals.