The '49 Indian

by Craig Moody

  “I’m Dustin.”

  “Nice to meet ya, Dustin,” he replied, a crooked smile tugging at the right side of his mouth. His eyes sparkled as he reached behind his back, retrieving an old white rag, lifting it to his sweat-covered forehead. His soft face, a mix of Elvis Presley and a young Marlon Brando, I watched in a dreamlike haze as he ran the cloth over his skin. Never in my entire life had the presence of another human being ignited and hypnotized each of my senses, heightening their awareness. I could feel the heat from his bare flesh and smell the tinge of musk and sweat that draped over him like a sun-beaten cloak. As if seeing for the very first time, I allowed my eyes to tour every inch of his being. His faded blue jeans fit tight around his legs, the curvature of his natural muscle tone accentuated by the perfect grip of the denim. Enamored, or simply overtaken by pure lustfulness, I felt each and every one of my muscles, limbs, ligaments, and bones gravitate toward him. It was as though some unseen force was pulling me from the inside out and into his inner core.

  “So, you live around here, Dustin?” he asked, replacing the rag to its holding place in his right-rear jean pocket. Blood raced to the surface of my cheeks as my eyes followed his hand’s movement to his backside. My heart skipped and fumbled as it struggled to find its pace. I cleared my throat under the weight of my sudden nervousness and forced my overstimulated attention back to his eyes. Immediately, I tumbled headfirst into his reflective gaze, the darkness that offset the white an endless tunnel I willingly and fearlessly journeyed into.

  “Yes,” I replied weakly, my voice now chapped and stressed by the pressure of my cyclonic emotions. “I live right here.”

  I felt his attention follow my voice as I nodded over my shoulder in the direction of my parents’ picturesque Americana showcase home. With my head still turned, my lungs froze as the corner of my eye caught his gaze return to me.

  “Wow, nice,” he added, smiling. “Great neighborhood.”

  I watched as his dark eyes slowly scanned the street before returning their focus to me. The moment I felt them move across my face, as the moon glides its reflective watch over the tide, my entire body shivered and trembled. Like the thirst of the sea, I felt as though I could savor this moment for eternity.

  “Well,” he broke the silence, his voice booming through the stillness like an ancient cannonball barreling through the air. “I better get back to it. My aunt will have my ass if this lawn ain’t perfect by sunset.”

  Another pause, the Florida breeze cutting the space between us like angels cloaking their allotted children.

  “It was nice to meet ya, Dustin.”

  Gauge’s hand was warm and wet. The sensation of his sweat lingered on my palm as he pulled his grip from the handshake.

  “Feel free to pop over sometime,” he continued. “My aunt makes a mean banana pudding. She’d love it if I invited a new neighbor over for a visit.”

  I stood silent and speechless, my ability to speak seemingly lost and forgotten. After what felt like a century, I was finally able to break my voice’s frozen stillness and croak out a pathetic jumble of polite gratitude.

  Then, as quickly as he had appeared, Gauge dashed behind the hedges and back onto the half- cut landscape of the lawn.

  My heart throbbed and pounded inside my head as I tossed my leg over the bicycle seat and rode into the street. A golden haze fogged my vision as I pedaled, uncertain as to the goal or direction of my ride. My thighs began to ache as I feverishly cycled into the unknown, thoughts and images failing to sway my mind to their obsessive calling. Instead, only the smooth face of Gauge, his piercing yet warm eyes, along with the bass- heavy echo of his voice, dominated my brain.

  The buzzing flicker of the streetlights slowly pulled my attention back into the now. The oversized living room window of Gauge’s aunt’s house revealed the contents of her still unpacked home, boxes towering the visible areas like the skyscrapers of Manhattan. I glided past, no sign of Gauge or his aunt, rounded the hedges and back to the side of the house where my bike was kept.

  As I reentered the house, the familiar aroma of one of my mother’s common dinner meals wafted into my nostrils, replacing the still lingering sweetness of Gauge’s skin and sweat.

  The stairway felt like Jell-O as I bounded its casing to the second floor. My mother’s voice sounded like a droned warble as I burst through the doorway of my room, landing on my bed as cumbersome and heavy as a steel ship launching into the harbor for the very first time. I rolled into the corner and pulled the blankets above my head. Again and again, the meeting with Gauge replayed inside my mind like an old filmstrip stuck on a projector wheel. I watched and re-watched the same scene over and over until my consciousness surrendered to slumber.

  The sound of the mysterious boy’s voice provided the melody of my dreams while the slick shine of his perspiring skin aroused and provoked a surge of ecstasy.

  ***

  Three days had passed since I last saw Gauge. Still, the memory of our meeting dominated my thinking. Each moment of the day was somehow rooted in my awareness of him. I found myself compulsively checking out the windows of the house that could view his aunt’s yard. Each day, my heart sank as another sun rose and set without a brief glimpse of the person who had ignited my senses like no other. I felt tortured and taunted, like a sea-bound refugee discovering an abandoned canteen, only to savor one last isolated drop of fresh water while stranded atop the salt-laced tears of the ocean. My nights always ended the same, a furious series of rounds of self- pleasure with Gauge’s touch and smell the guiding focus of my unprecedented arousal. Never in my life had my ability to fantasize caused my entire physical being to tremble and convulse in response. My routine and immature self-release had morphed and evolved into a powerful ritual of solo lovemaking. The depth of my sleep after each climax rivaled that of a newborn infant.

  I no longer thought of my attack. It wasn’t

  that I no longer cared, it was a simple case of perception refocusing. The overwhelming sensual enormity I felt after meeting Gauge slipped my brain into an ongoing dance of fantasy and obsession. I wasn’t even annoyed or bothered by my mother’s relentless and useless recycling of the topic each night at the dinner table. Even my father appeared to completely tune her out. Perhaps his brain was venturing back to a time when my mother was more gentle and simplistic. Or perhaps he used these intense and uncomfortable dinner discussions to slip into an alternate dream world where the only voice he had to endure was his own…or Suzanne Somers’s.

  “Dustin!”

  My mother’s impatient voice penetrated my spiraling mindlessness like a bullet shattering glass.

  “I have asked you to take the trash out twice

  already.”

  I raised my eyes to meet hers, a mixture of annoyance and sympathy defining her expression.

  “Do not make me ask you a third time.”

  Lifting myself from the dinner table, I gathered my plate and utensils and carried them to the kitchen. Placing them gently into the pristine porcelain sink, I moved to the trash can and gathered the overstuffed contents. Escaping the kitchen through the side door that led to the garage, I rounded the corner of the house and froze.

  It took me a moment to decipher if my vision was simply still attached to my daylong fantasizing or if I was actually taking in the tangible sight of Gauge. He was squatting beside an antique-looking motorcycle, the bit of skin revealed between his T-shirt and jeans exposing the elastic rim of white Fruit of the Loom briefs. I felt my pulse and penis react to the site in a simultaneous jolt. I suddenly became awkward and nervous about what to do. Placing the trash bag into the tin garbage can that rested alongside the garage would certainly attract Gauge’s attention, something I both craved and dreaded with equal intensity.

  Before I had the chance to decide my move, Gauge rose to his full height and threw his leg over the bike. I watched in a heart-pounding silence as he kick-started the motor. I struggled to breathe as I viewed him lift a worn-o
ut black helmet from behind him and place it onto his head. His fingers moved effortlessly and smoothly as he slid the strap under his chin and through the small brass buckle. Then, he looked directly at me.

  I wasn’t quite sure if my heart stopped beating or if my lungs collapsed. The sudden connection with his eyes left me stunned and senseless. Every cell of my being was now connected to his gaze.

  He motioned for me to approach him.

  Somehow, my feet obliged. I dropped the trash bag into the tin garbage bin and started to move. I struggled to catch my breath as I unconsciously approached him. The small distance between the trash can and his bike was mere feet, but felt like the light years between Earth and a neighboring galaxy. It was as if some other unseen presence was lifting and lowering my legs. I choked back a dried wad of nervous terror as the space between us closed into a ruler’s worth of inches.

  “Get on!” he shouted over the grumbling growl of the motorcycle’s obviously aged and worn engine.

  I tilted my head in confusion, half in genuine misunderstanding and half in a pulse- racing surge of excitement.

  I pointed at my scalp.

  “What about a helmet?” I shouted, leaning in toward his ear.

  He nodded, paused, and then lifted his head back and unbuckled the straps under his chin. His dark hair fell to the side as he pulled the black object into the air. I closed my eyes as he gently placed it on top of my uncombed and careless mane. The touch of his fingers as he maneuvered the straps and buckle electrified my skin, delivering a current of adrenaline coated in disbelief and anticipation. Peering through a small slit in my eyes, my breath shook and shivered as I watched him bite the corner of his lip in focused concentration. My mind hesitated as I realized the simple placement of his nibbling teeth and pink lip was now the most erotic image I had ever seen.

  “Come on,” Gauge commanded as he ensured the fastened seal of the strap.

  Without hesitation, I climbed aboard the motorcycle. My feet were bare, my summer shorts and worn nightshirt my only clothing. I gripped my hands onto Gauge’s broad shoulders, the warmth of his skin vibrant and radiating just below the soft cloth of his T-shirt.

  “No!” I heard him shout above the throttling engine. “Here.”

  He reached behind him and lowered one of my arms to his waist. Understanding his movement, I met both hands at the center of his core. I was certain my heart would leap from its bone cage prison deep within my chest.

  “You good?” he asked, turning his head to the left so that his ear could hear my response.

  “Yeah,” I struggled to project over the now revving groan of the motorbike’s engine. “I’m on.”

  I felt him lift the bike into balance, kick in the clutch, and turn the throttle. Within seconds, we were halfway down the street and gliding past the single stop sign that divided our neighborhood from the busier city road. I didn’t think to notify my parents of my leaving or to ask Gauge where it was we were going. I simply leaned my chest against the warm plane of his back and just rode.

  ***

  We rode for what must have been half an hour, sweeping through endless side streets and residential shortcuts until we entered the Florida Everglades. Palm trees and sawgrass cut the glimmer from the fading sunset as we grumbled over a dirt road and into the coming night. Gauge switched on the bike’s single headlight as the density of the surrounding foliage thickened and threatened the remaining natural visibility. I was amazed at how serene and calm I was. My body had become accustomed to the feel of Gauge just beneath my heartbeat. I no longer struggled to stay mindful of my breathing or racing pulse. Instead, I simply allowed myself to rest easy against him, just riding in silence into the unknown.

  I lifted my head as Gauge turned the bike down an adjacent trail and toward what appeared to be a large body of water. Within seconds, the reflective surface of a lake slid into view as the motorcycle echoed from beneath the trees and onto the lake bed. The tires were nearly touching the water when Gauge finally gripped the brake and cut the engine. I lifted my face toward the sky and into the brilliant site of a full moon glowing brightly within an endless canvas of pinkish purple. The faded glow of countless stars began to flicker to life underneath the weakening smolder of the slowly-forgotten sun. Without the distraction of city lights, I was breathless at how vivid the night was. Even when Gauge clicked the headlight off, I could still clearly see every facet and feature of the earth that surrounded us. Each rock formation and palmetto plant was detailed in the darkness as though lit from within by some natural light source. The mirror-like stillness of the lake reflected the moon into the space above it, creating a near spotlight of visibility. In my twenty years of life, I was certain I had never witnessed such a truly spectacular night sky.

  “This,” Gauge broke the silence with his deep and booming voice, “is my favorite place on the planet.”

  He paused, his face a cool shade of blue, illuminated by the giant pool of water that began just inches from his feet.

  “My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid.”

  He turned to me, his dark eyes twinkling like the now brilliant stars above us.

  “This was his bike.”

  He patted the leather seat with his hand. I slid off the back and stood beside him. It was as if the carefully constructed vehicle of chrome, metal, and rubber had inhaled a breath of life and was now its own being.

  The shift in Gauge’s energy revealed a wealth of answers to questions my mind had yet to ask. Without him speaking further, I was somehow certain that his father was no longer alive.

  “It’s a ’49 Indian,” Gauge continued, his voice lifting from his obvious emotional distraction. “I rebuilt the engine myself.”

  I watched as he squatted to the side of the cooling motor.

  “It isn’t 100 percent yet, but she gets me where I need to be.”

  I remained still and quiet as I watched him glide his gaze across the dimly lit side of the bike. In an unspoken confirmation between us, it was as though the soul of his father had somehow embodied the classic motorcycle. Gauge didn’t speak as he ran his hand slowly down the faded maroon of the bike’s front fender. I only knew him a combination of mere minutes, yet I clearly understood that he was now somehow connecting with his dad, a man who I was certain, but had no confirmation of, was no longer sharing the air of this planet.

  “Pop has been gone a year,” Gauge confirmed softly, as if reading the energy of my thoughts. “Cancer. Took him out in less than a year. Fucking cigars.”

  The rawness of his vulnerability was as startling as it was comforting. In a silent yet understood way, I instantly felt I had known this man for as many years as my heart had been beating. Something told me that Gauge felt the same. For the first time that I could recall, I was truly alive in the present moment.

  “We used to come camping here.”

  He stood up, turning his body back toward the water.

  “It was always my favorite thing to do with him.”

  I held my breath as I heard his voice quiver slightly.

  “Pop was good, Dustin. He was a good man.”

  A star fell from its place among the gathering of its fellow ancestors. The reflection of its descent on the water made the poetic sight all the more visible and suspended in time. I felt as if I were alive in some lucid dream. I lifted my fingers to my arm, tugging the light hairs to be sure I could still feel them.

  “Come on,” Gauge declared excitedly, lifting his shirt above his head.

  I couldn’t blink as I watched him strip down to his briefs, the bleached cleanliness of the material absorbing the moonlight like an evening primrose. My brain struggled to process what it was seeing. Flashed images of my pre-sleep fantasies of the last few nights flickered across the screen of my mind like a filmstrip breaking free of a projector reel. A flash of white shot across my field of vision before my pupils widened and hyper-focused onto the unbelievable sight before me. I stood lifeless as I observed the pa
le posterior of Gauge’s backside appear from the darkness. Like the moon above us, the rounded curvature of his rear beamed and glowed against the blackness that surrounded it. I watched in a pulsating trance as he splashed the water and faded into the distance of the reflective pool beyond.

  “Come on, man!” he shouted back toward me, his face lit clearly by the reflection of the moonlit water.

  Slowly, I began to move, lifting my pajama shirt above my head, its worn softness still carrying the aroma of my mother’s homemade pepper-roasted chili. Tossing it over the back of the motorcycle’s giant leather seat, I jumped as my bare skin began to touch the unexpected coolness of the water.

  “No!” Gauge yelled, laughing. “You can’t get your clothes wet, man. You gotta get down to the skin!”

  I imagined that my now red-hot face had to be glowing like a cattle prod recently pulled from a flame. An overwhelming feeling of sheer disbelief draped over my bare shoulders as thick and heavy as the swampy humidity that engulfed the Florida night. It was as if the gods above had heard my silent prayer, whispered deep within the frenzied fervor of my recent fantasies, and delivered my unspoken plea into existence.

  Slowly, in a collective movement, I lowered my worn summer shorts and faded blue briefs from their comfortable grip around my waist. The sensation of the naked summer air atop my skin was dense and cumbersome, as if falling into a fresh mud patch after a long summer rain.

  Immediately, I plunged into the water, dropping my body below the surface as quickly as was humanly possible. The fact that Gauge was witness to my nudity was embarrassing yet endlessly exciting. Without thought, I swam toward him, joining his slow kicking beyond the grassy shallows of the lake.

  “Well done, my friend,” Gauge teased as I neared him. “Butt-ass naked is the only way to swim as far as I’m concerned.”

  He smiled, the crooked grin chiseled across his youthful face as warm and inviting as a freshly baked apple pie. My heart skipped in its rhythm as I found myself lost in his carefree expression.