Callahan's Place 07 - Callahan's Legacy (v5.0)

by Spider Robinson

  An’ den one day I seen dis magazine on a stand called sometin like ‘Man’s Adventures for Manly Men,’ an’ I t’ought it was gonna bust right t’ru de zipper. Dey had pictures o’ goils dat wasn’t all dressed. I mean, youse couldn’t really see nothin’, but almost, ya know? Like, dey’d be in a two-piece bathin’ suit, an’ dey’d be holdin’ de top of it in one hand, wit dere udder arm coverin’ their tits. Or dey’d be naked, but wit a table an’ a lamp blockin’ de view. But dere was one picture of almost a whole bare ass, an’ youse could tell around de front was bare, too. An’ dere was one near de back o’ de magazine, of a goil completely nood, lookin’ right at de camera, an’ dere was black bars right over where a badin’ suit would go—but youse could tell dat until dey put dose bars over it, it was a picture of a nood goil. Dere was goils dat’d let you take dere picture naked. It was like a vision from God.

  I knew dey wouldn’t sell dat magazine to a toiteen-year-old kid. I waited til de guy behind de counter looked de udder way, an’ slipped it under my shirt. Dat ‘Transit’ ting you was talkin’ about, Mary? I done dat. I Transited back ta my house, right inta my room. An’ I studied dose pictures, an’ wondered what was behind dem black bars, an’ what I’d have to do to get a goil to let me see her naked.

  After a while I just hadda take my pants off so I wouldn’t rip ’em. Then I found out it’d felt better when it was trapped in my pants, rubbin’ on ’em, so I pushed it down between my legs an’ trapped it dere. I looked at de pictures til I had ’em memorized—I can see ’em now—an’ every so often my dick’d come poppin’ out from between my legs, an’ dat felt real good, so I kept puttin’ it back. Den I read some o’ de stories, an’ dey was even better dan de pictures. Dey was all about wicked Nazis dat captured goils and made ’em take dere clothes off and did sometin’ to ’em. Whatever it was made de goils so embarrassed dey wannid ta die. Den de hero came and killed de Nazis, and did de same ting ta da goils, an’ now dey loved it. And I’m tinkin’ about dat, an’ my joint comes flyin’ out from between my legs one more time, an’ da whole world blows up.

  (Fast Eddie broke off and stared down into his shotglass. He sniffed at it, decided not to drink from it just yet, and continued:)

  Dat’s what it felt like, anyhow. Like de El train come in da winda and hit me in de joint. De feelin’ was so powerful, I had no idea it was pleasure. It happens again, an’ again, an’ again—eight beats, two measures—an’ dis stuff comes pourin’ out dat looks like snot, only all de construction woikers on a subway dig can’t blow dat much snot out dere nose, so it’s gotta be pus. So I figure, terrific: I broke my dick.

  No, I’ll tell youse what I t’ought. My fadda, sadistic 4-F rat bastid dat he was, tol’ me once how it felt to pass a kidney stone. I had nightmares for a mont’ about tryin’a piss broken glass. Dat’s what I t’ought dis felt like. It was just so intense, ya know?

  So I go apeshit, an’ I wipe up as much o’ de pus as I can an’ run screamin’ to Uncle Dave. He’s readin’ de paper inna livin’ room. Help, I broke my dick, I was tinkin’ about nood goils an’ I gave myself a kidney stone, only it won’t come out.

  Ya know what he did? No, I’ll tell youse what he didn’t do. He didn’t go nuts. He didn’t get mad. He didn’t even laugh at me—which, tinkin’ back, musta been a bitch. What he did, he just nodded, real calm, an’ de foist ting he said was, “Don’t worry, it’s okay. Really, I promise.” An’ den he says, “In fact, it’s great. Youse’re becomin’ a man, Eddie. Youse just had your foist come.”

  I just stare at him. “Ya mean everybody does it?” I ask.

  “Just de men,” he says. “But alla dem. Women do it different.”

  “Well, I ain’t doin’ it ever again!” I say.

  Dis time he smiled. “Eddie,” he says, “you tink about it fer an hour or so. An’ den youse go look at yer magazine some more. While ya do, make a circle wit’cher t’umb an’ foist finger, an’ rub it up an’ down on yaself.” He did a little mime ting ta show me how. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I swear ta God dere ain’t no way you can hoit yaself. Put a little vaseline on yer fingers if ya start to chafe. Have a good time.” An’ he goes back to readin’ his paper.

  I came t’ree more times dat night. Da nood goil wit de black bars ended up as wrinkled as she prob’ly is now. Next mornin’ as I’m leavin’ for school, Uncle Dave says, “How’d it go last night?” an’ I say, “Great,” and he nods an’ dats de end of it.

  So for a coupla mont’s, everyting was great. I went t’ru a lotta vaseline, but Uncle Dave didn’t say nothin’ about it. I even managed to find a store dat’d sell magazines like dat to a toiteen-year-old, for only twice what it said on de cover. I can remember every picture in every one o’ dem today. Da sixt’ one, I seen a whole nipple. Magic. Betty Page, her name was. I fantasized about her a lot in class.

  Only I still got no idea what I’m fantasizin’ about.

  I still don’t know what goils got inna pants. Does it maybe look like a t’umb and forefinger, somehow, an’ move up an’ down? An’ now I know goils got bigger, rounder, softer-lookin’ chests dan men, wit bigger nipples—but whaddya sposta do wit ’em? I know my dick ain’t long enough ta touch dem an’ whatever’s in de pants at de same time, an’ I ain’t seen any inna locker room dat long, eeder. Den again, I know my own gets longer when it stands up: maybe grown men get two feet long? Should I be pullin’ on it more? I wanna ask Uncle Dave, but I ain’t got de hairs.

  So one day I was buyin’ my magazine, an’ dis guy followed me outa da store. He had real long hair. Maybe two whole inches. I never seen a guy wit’ hair dat long. He smelled funny. Not like perfume, but funny. He asked me if I wanna come home wit’ him an’ play a real nice game.

  I wannid to t’row de magazine at him an’ run like a bastid. Instead I said, “Tell me about dis game.” So he told me, specifically, what he wannid ta do. Den I t’rew de magazine at him an’ ran like a bastid.

  An’ dat night I joiked off t’ree times, half glad I ran away, an’ half wishin’ I went home wit’ him, tryin’a guess what it woulda been like if I did. He was pretty creepy, but what he said he wannid ta do sure sounded pretty int’restin’…an’ I figured maybe if I let him do it, he’d let me ask him about goils after.

  So next day I went back ta da store an’ hung around for an hour. He didn’t show up. I went back t’ree days in a row. Finally I asked da guy behind de counter if he seen dat guy wit’ de long hair lately. He got real mad, and t’rew me out, so now I can’t buy no more magazines.

  Dis was a Wensdy. I t’ought about it all dat night, pumpin’ away. Toysdy night I tried tastin’ it, an’ it wasn’t no woise’n cafeteria food at school. Friday night like always Uncle Dave went out ta play poker wit’ his buddies, got home smellin’ like beer an’ went right ta bed. I waited till he’d been snorin’ for about an hour.

  Den I snuck in his bedroom an’ climbed inta bed wit’ him an’ started doin’ what de guy wit’ de long hair wannid ta do wit’ me.

  (Again, Fast Eddie glanced down at his drink and seemed to consider drinking it. Again he delayed the decision.)

  De poor bastid never had a chance. By de time he woke up, it was all over. Jeeze, I made a pun. So he starts to cry. So I start to cry. “How did youse know?” he keeps sayin’. “Jesus, how did youse know?”

  “I don’t know shit,” I tell him. “Dat’s why I done it. I wanna know about dis stuff, an’ I’m old enough, an’ somebody said he wannid to do dat ta me but I didn’t like him, an’ I like you fine, an’ God dammit youse gotta tell me now!”

  So he tells me. Every’ting. An’ I mean every’ting. Details. How babies happen. What women are like, an’ what ya do wit’ ’em, an’ how ta make dem enjoy it too, an’ what can happen if youse ain’t careful. What ya can do wit’ men, an’ what can happen if youse ain’t careful. How dere’s t’ree kinds o’ men: men dat like it just wit’ women, men dat like it just wit’ men, an’ men dat like it wit’ anybody nice—an
’ de same fa women.

  “De toid kind is called ‘bisexual,’” he says. “Most people tink dat’s even woise dan bein’ queer. Dat’s what I am. I ain’t had sex wit’ a man in twenny years, an’ I didn’t tink I ever would again, an’ I swear ta God I never t’ought o’ youse dat way, but dat’s what I am.”

  “Me too,” I tell him. He’s been talkin’ fer an hour now, an’ I been like a bar of iron de whole time.

  “Eddie, youse don’t know dat,” he says.

  “Oh, I’m sure I’m gonna like goils,” I say. “An’ I know I had fun doin’ what I done.” Den I look down at me, an’ I look up at him.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he says, an’ reaches out.

  Five minutes later I know I’m a bisexual too.

  So afterwards he says we’re never ever gonna do it again. An’ stay away from dem guys dat smell funny. He says grownups dat like to mess wit’ kids—boys or goils—only like it because dey know more dan de kid does, so dey can take advantage of ’em. An’ he says I better not try it wit’ any o’ de guys I know or all hell is gonna break loose, which I already figured out. De ting ta do, he says, is study goils, an’ figger out what dey like, what makes ’em happy, an’ do dat, and one day one of ’em’ll wanna do stuff wit’ me, an’ if I’m careful it’ll be great.

  De last ting he told me was how much shit was gonna hit de fan if anybody ever found out what we done dat night. He said what we done wasn’t bad, but almost everybody tinks it is, an’ I could go ta reform school if it got out, and he could no shit go ta jail. I promised him I’d never tell my best friend on Oit.

  We did it once more, about a mont’ later. He walked in on me while I was spankin’ de monkey, an’ he stood dere in de doorway fa da longest time, an’ den he came in. It was great. Afterwards he told me to lock de door from now on.

  So I spent a coupla mont’s studyin’ goils, an’ finally one named Janey O’Brien seemed to like me pretty good. She invited me over for a lemonade one day, an’ bot’ her parents was out. So she took me in her room an’ we started playin’ doctor.

  It was goin’ great…an’ den I started doin’ sometin none o’ de udder doctors ever tried before.

  “Dat’s disgusting, quit it,” she says.

  “No, no, you don’t understand,” I say, “women like dat more dan anyting, almost. Youse can do it ta me too, if ya want. Dat way we won’t make youse pregnant.”

  “Where d’youse get dat stuff?” she says.

  So I told her.

  I knew it was stoopid. I knew it was dangerous. I just told her, ’cause I wannid her ta know how nice it was gonna feel, how sure I was. “My stepfather told me all about it,” I said. “We even done it a little. I’ll show youse.”

  “Okay,” she said, an’ we had a great time. Onna way home I done t’ree tumble-salts, right onna sidewalk, I was so happy.

  Da next day de principal came inta my class an’ picked me up outa my seat by my ear. Janey got freaked out by how much she liked it, an’ told her Ma.

  He had two cops an’ a social woiker an’ a priest in his office, an’ dey worked me over in shifts. I musta held out five whole minutes before I spilled my guts. I told ’em where Uncle Dave was woikin’ dat day, fa some rich guy in Park Slope, an’ dey called him dere an’ told him ta come to school right away, dere’s an emoigency. As soon as he come in de door, de two cops started beatin’ de shit out of ’im. De goddam priest gave him a kick inna balls. De principal was too busy holdin’ on ta me. I kept screamin’, “I’m sorry, Uncle Dave,” an’ he kept screamin’, “It’s okay, Eddie, it’s not your fault,” an’ finally de priest drags me out by de collar, an’ a nun like a halfback helps him haul me into a car.

  I never saw Uncle Dave again.

  (Fast Eddie tossed back the shot, and flinched as it hit him. His arm flashed, and the glass exploded against the back wall of the fireplace.)

  Make a long story short, Uncle Dave went to the Tombs, where he got raped to death for bein’ a short-eyes, an’ I went ta reform school, where I got butt-fucked by dat priest until I was too old ta int’rest him. A couple o’ Brudders give it to me fer anudda couple o’ years afta dat, right up until I was eighteen an’ dey let me out.

  ***

  The silence stretched on for a long time.

  “What happened when you got out?” Merry Moore asked finally.

  “I got lucky,” Fast Eddie said. “I figger I musta already used up all de bad luck dere was. Dey tossed me a hunnert bucks, ‘ta get me started in de woild,’ dey said. I walked outa dere, an’ I got in a cab, an’ when de guy says ‘Where to, Mac?’ I told him, ‘Mister, I got a yard, an’ I need pussy more’n I need air.’ An’ he just nodded an’ took me ta Lady Sally’s House.”

  “Jesus, you did get lucky,” Doc Webster said.

  “Fuckin’ A. She let me crash dere for a week. I had de honor o’ becomin’ Her Ladyship’s personal client, for t’ree days. Den she toined me out to de udder artists, an’ gimme a pass. I started gettin’ better. I started ta heal.

  “A few days later, she hoid me playin’ some boogie-woogie on de Steinway in de Parlor, an’ mentioned my name to her old man. Dat night Callahan asked me if I’d like a steady job out on de Island, playin’ in a bar. I told him I’d give it a try, an’ I been doin’ it ever since. De puns are a small price ta pay.”

  “What happened to the priest who molested you?” Tom Hauptman asked.

  Fast Eddie looked pained. “Mike?”

  Callahan cleared his throat. “My wife broke both his elbows and both his knees with her hands,” he said evenly.

  There was a murmur of approval. “The Brothers, too?” Long-Drink asked.

  Callahan’s face was expressionless. “I did them. I felt she was starting to enjoy herself too much.”

  “Jesus, Pop,” Mary said, “you never told me about any of that.”

  “You had no need-to-know,” he said.

  “Boy, your luck sure turned, Eddie,” Long-Drink said, handing him a new drink from Tom Hauptman.

  “I’d give it all up,” he said, “Mike an’ de Lady an’ all o’ youse an’ these hands, if I c’ud have Uncle Dave back again. If I could make it didn’t happen.” He sipped at his new drink. “You know what pisses me off de woist?”

  “No, what?” the Drink said.

  “Nobody ast me. Nobody ever ast me once: did I consent? Was it his idea or my idea? I t’ought dey was gonna have me testify in court, an’ I was gonna tell de judge, even it got me jugged for contempt. But I never seen no judge. I never was in no court. Nobody ast me.”

  Zoey cleared her throat and spoke in her most diplomatic tones. “Eddie, I think—”

  “I know what youse’re gonna say,” he interrupted. “I hoid it before, de last couple o’ times I told dis story. A toiteen-year-old can’t consent, right?”

  “Well…yeah.”

  “Zoey, at nine years old I was old enough ta deal wit death. How old did I have to get ta own my own dick?”

  “Look, Eddie, all kids are different—”

  “Remember when you was toiteen? I bet yer parents told youse not to masturbate, right? Did youse accept adult aut’ority on dat?”

  “Well…no, but—”

  “Ever fool around under de covers wit’ a goilfriend? Any of youse guys ever have a circle jerk wit’ yer pals? Am I de only one here dat every played doctor? Was everybody here a voigin on dere eighteent’ boitday?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “So how come it’s only okay if whoever youse’re doin’ it wit is just as ignorant an’ incompetent as you are?”

  “But adults are smarter than kids: they can take advantage of them and confuse them so they—”

  Eddie grimaced. “When was de last time youse tried ta con a toiteen-year-old kid? I knew dat guy with de long hair was wrong. Hey, Professor!”

  Willard Hooker, our resident con-man (honorably retired since his marriage to Maureen), spoke up. “Yes, Eddie?”

  “Youse know
’em all. You ever hear of a player dat stung kids? Rich kids, maybe?”

  “Only Charles Atlas,” he said. “And he had a great store. No, seriously, even in these weird times, when the kids have more spending money than the grownups, I’ve never heard of any professional that worked kids. College kids, yes, but toiteen…excuse me, thirteen-year-olds are about as bright and as paranoid as they’re ever going to be. But Eddie, kids do get suckered, every day, just like anybody else.”

  “Okay, sure. Absolutely. Now tell me dis: if youse keep de kids as ignorant as possible…is dat more likely to happen, or less?”

  Willard took refuge in his drink.

  “If dere’s no set o’ circumstances under which dey’re allowed ta have sex…do dey make dere foist mistakes wit anudder kid, who’ll write it onna sidewalk for everybody dey know ta laugh about it—or wit a grownup who don’t know anybody dey know?”

  “Well,” Willard said, and stopped there.

  “Tink o’ de woist sting you ever hoid of dat de cops found out about. Did dey give de player de chair? And did dey bust de mark, too?”

  Zoey said softly, “Eddie, the cases aren’t parallel—”

  He flung his still-full glass into the fire, and the flames leaped. “Didn’t youse lissen’a me?” he said angrily. “Uncle Dave got raped dead. Dey screwed him till he bled out, you get it? De law don’t do dat ta guys dat kill babies or blow up airplanes! I got handed over ta da nearest pedophile an’ his friends fa five years. If I told ’em what I did, and de judge decided dat’s what I desoived, maybe I coulda understood. But nobody ever ast me. All dese people dat was sposta care about me, an’ nobody ever ast me!”

  “Eddie,” Zoey said, “are you saying kids should be allowed to have sex with adults?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not. Never in dis woild. What happened ta me proves it. Once everybody decides sometin is horrible, dey’re right. Fa some reason, foist-time sex has just gotta be as confusin’ an’ scary an’ clumsy as possible. Youse give somebody an awgasm, dat means youse exploited ’em. Sex is a war, an’ everybody’s gotta fight fair, or we’ll kill ’em. Even if de kid was smarter dan me, an’ kept his mout’ shut—or her mout’ shut—just havin’ a secret from everybody else inna universe’d be a bad ting. It just shouldn’t happen, okay? Like I said: never in dis woild.”