Baud Youngfellow (Part Two of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #534

 Image courtesy of Joom

 

Last week we met Tod and Baud. And there seemed to be electricity in the air, at least from Tod. Let’s get right to it and see what develops, shall we?

 

****

BAUD YOUNGFELLOW

I didn’t see Baud Youngfellow again for a few days, but his big Bentley was often parked at the boardinghouse as I passed on the way to school, so he was still in town. Then my heart sank when it wasn’t there one morning. He’d left. My Oklahoma Adonis was gone. Nothing but a minor blip on my personal radar.

Except he wasn’t. That same morning I overheard some girls talking in the hallway, causing my spirits to perk up.

“Have you heard?” one of them asked, giving her brown curls a flip. “That dreamboat with the big car rented a house.”

“So he’s staying?” another asked.

“I hope so,” the third girl said. “Can you imagine what it would be like to get with him? His name shouldn’t be Baud… it ought to be Bawdy.”

Titters from them, a flash of jealousy from me. I mentally beat my head against the lockers. What did you expect? If he sent your pheromones scrambling, what did you think it would do to the fairer sex? I stopped looking for competitors among my own gender and expanded it to the whole of womanhood.

That very weekend, I ran into Baud as he came out of the hardware store. My knees went weak when he addressed me by name.

“Hi, Tod. It is Tod, isn’t it?” My head bobbed independent of my will. “I thought so. Is that with one d or two?”

“One.” Nobody’d ever asked me that in my whole life.

“Okay, Tod with one d, how’d you like a job? Part time till school’s out. Then we’ll consider making it full time.”

Flustered, and frankly addle-pated at the moment, I responded in the worst way possible. “I usually work at the Town Market summers.”

“Oh. Okay, maybe you can recommend—”

“Uh, what kind of job is it?”

“I’m doing some renovations on the Hawkins place. I’ve rented it with an option.”

“Option?”

“To buy it.”

Wow! That sounded permanent. “Well, I did some carpentry work for my uncle when he built a couple of sheds.”

“So you know which end of a hammer to bang with,” he said with a grin. “That’s good, but this is a little more delicate. Delicate, meaning scroll work, which is pretty touchy. I’m wainscotting the den, which will be my office, with some pretty expensive wood after I fashion it the way I want.”

“Fashion?”

“It’s fancy scrollwork. Artwork, actually. I’m a wood carver.”

My mouth got away with me again. “Woodcarving supports a Bentley automobile?”

He grinned, and as usual, my knees acted up. “It’s a Flying Spur, not the most expensive model. But seriously, my art isn’t what bought the Bentley. You know I come from Tulsa, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, back in the day, my family was in oil. That was when oil was big. So you see, I’m a trust fund baby. And I didn’t buy the Bentley. I ran around in a Volkswagen until my grandmother got fed up with that image and gave me my dead grandfather’s car.”

“Oh.”

“So what about it? Are you interested?”

My head answered for me again, nodding enthusiastically. “You bet. I used to do some wood carving, but that was back when I was a kid.” I think I blushed. He probably still considered me a kid.

“Atta boy. It’s proper that the first man I met in La Rosa is the guy who hooks up with me.”

Knees again. And my stomach joined them. Man, he’d called me a man for the second time. And hooked up? I’d hook up with this guy any way he wanted. My smile about ripped my lips apart. At the very least, my cheeks hurt.

We made arrangements for me to report after school on Monday for a couple of hours’ work. Only two more weeks remained before the term ended, and I looked forward to that. I’d work so hard he’d be sure to make it a permanent thing for the summer. After that, I floated home.

****

It didn’t occur to me until I was pedaling up to his driveway that a bicycle would instantly paint me with the “kid” label, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. My dad let me use the family car occasionally, but not every day. Most of the guys rode bikes to get around. La Rosa was that kind of town. Not big. And not affluent enough for everyone to afford a car. Maybe the cowboy hat I’d dug out of the back of my closet would be enough to change my image.

Baud stepped outside and watched me lean my bike against the garage wall. My shame evaporated with his first words.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about using a bike to get around town. Costs a fortune to simply fire up the Bentley.” He patted his flat belly. “Besides pedaling helps keep the weight off.”

Man o’ man! Working around this guy was gonna be something else. Any time he touched any part of himself, I wanted to go touch it too.

“Come on, let me show you what I’m up to.”

Gee, if he were only up to the same thing I was. Actually, I was impressed. The wainscotting he’d already installed was a rich walnut with fancy work along the top and the bottom of rectangle of wood… a panel he called it. Every second panel had sort of a gargoyle-head right in the middle. A relief panel, he explained.

I would have said this was professionally done until I spotted the partially completed panel at the worktable he’d set up right in the middle of the room. Come to think of it, it was professional quality. This guy was good. How in the hell was I going to help him?

He showed me. Before long, I was plying a special carving tool, a gouge, I think he called it, to some inexpensive throw-away wood to learn its application. He kept me at that for the entire three hours I worked. He stayed at my side in the beginning, but after I got the general hang of the thing, he went about his business, checking on me occasionally to correct something or show me some mistake I’d made. It wasn’t that hard to learn, once I got over being in a hurry. My biggest problem was keeping my eyes on the work instead of watching his trim butt or the muscles play in his back or roll in his arms. Did he work without a shirt in the summer, or did he stick with the thin T-shirt he wore now? Oh, wow. This was going to be exquisite torture.

 ****

So our local high schooler is in love. What about the worldly Oklahoman who set him afire? So far, no clues… except that Tod thought Baud’s gaze lingered overly long below the belt the first time they met. Oh, yes. And Baud sought him out to hire him for a part-time job. Wonder what happens next. By the way, how do you like the picture of Tod in his tan hat?

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Baud Youngfellow (Part One of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #533                                                          

 Image courtesy of Joom

 

Thanks for indulging me while I wallowed in nostalgia last week. This week, I’ll get on with regular business. Hope you enjoy.

 

 

****

BAUD YOUNGFELLOW

 

Baud Youngfellow hit our little New Mexico town like an Oklahoma tornado. I said Oklahoma because word got around that’s where he came from. And I said tornado because that’s the effect he had on me. He simply drove in one day in the fanciest car anyone had ever seen. A big affair with a stately grille, a rich maroon color—that wasn’t quite like any other maroon I’d ever seen—with the word “Bentley” stamped on it.

When he got out of the driver’s seat, he took off what must have been the biggest hat in the state—and certainly in La Rosa—and ran a hand through a shock of thick, blond hair with dark highlights and a bit of a curl. Boots that were snakeskin or lizard skin or something. A diamond ring on his left hand flashed in the sun about blinding me. And when he smiled at all the gawkers—including me—his teeth were so white they about finished the job.

But what got to me was how handsome he was. Not picture handsome—you know like those photos of movie stars you know they photoshopped—but interesting handsome. Well, sexy handsome, I guess. Guess, hell, I know. Just tall enough, a little over average height. Carrying just the right amount of weight—around one-seventy, I’d guess. And broad, broad shoulders that narrowed down to a small waist, and hips that flared just a little.

The wide stance he adopted as he scanned the area let you know that here stood a man. When he spoke—to me yet—his deep baritone just shy of a bass, confirmed that impression.

“Wonder if you can direct me to a good place to stay for the night?”

I went weak in the knees as his green eyes scanned me. The whole me. They seemed to linger just a tad below my belt, but that might have been my imagination… or my hope. When I say green eyes, I mean green. Green like tiger’s eye marbles with a pupil in the center of each.

I gulped and told him the boardinghouse on Broad Street was his best bet.

“Thanks, young fella,” he said. Young fella? He couldn’t be more’n four or five years older than my eighteen. “Can I ask the name of the first man I’ve met in La Rosa?”

I gulped again and tried to speak through a dry throat. “Tod. Tod Halton.”

He held out a broad, strong-looking hand. “Baud Youngfellow. Glad to make your acquaintance, Tod.”

I mumbled something—hopefully appropriate—as I imagined that warm hand grasping something else. That’s when I realized it was love at first sight. At least on my part.

When he released my hand, I tucked it in my left armpit to try to hold onto the warmth of his touch. Realizing he was about to move on, I grasped for something to keep him here.

“Bob?” I asked. “Did you say your name was Bob?” Stupid, I know, but I was pretty stupid at that moment.

“No, it’s Baud. B-A-U-D. That was my grandfather’s name on my mother’s side. William Baud. Unusual, but it serves the purpose,” he said with a laugh.

“You just passing through?”

“Well, not sure about that. Looking for a place to land, and La Rosa seems promising. I’m sick of cities. Lived in Tulsa all my life and ready for a change.”

My hopes rose. “This is a nice town. You’ll like it.”

“How big is it?” he asked.

“About five thousand,” I said. In my temporary role of town promoter, I babbled on. “Bout a third Hispanic, fifty percent Anglo, the rest made up of Indians and a few blacks, and some Vietnamese who came after that war.”

Those fascinating eyes roved me again. “And which are you?”

I probably blushed. “My grandma used to say I’d make a good flag. Some brown, some white, and a dash of red.”

His eyes examined my face. “Makes an interesting mix. You’re a good-looking fella.”

“T-thanks. You are too.” I know I blushed then, no doubt about it. “Except you’re really… uh, handsome.” I’d almost said sexy.

He winked. “Helps with the ladies, doesn’t it?” He clamped his hat on his head, touched the brim in a sort of salute, and walked into the drug store.

I almost followed him inside, instead, I floated all the way home. Must have been floating because I couldn’t feel my feet hit the ground. I made it home in my non-alcoholic drunken state all right, said hello to mom and went straight to my room, tossing my books on my desk before flopping on the bed where images of the dreamboat I’d met floated endlessly before my eyes. My skin puckered when I belatedly realized he’d said I was the first man he’d spoken to in La Rosa. Imagine that, a man.

That brought me around to another subject. Or, at least, forced me to face the present one. Who was I? What was I? Eighteen years old, a senior in high school, and I still didn’t know. I wasn’t sissy-acting. Played sports and all that, but I seemed to hang onto my childhood buddies tighter than they did me. They all had steady girlfriends—even if they changed them up a lot—while I just dated now and then. Chances were that given the option of a date with a pretty girl or a clandestine beer with a buddy, I’d opt for the brew.

My carnal experience was limited with either gender. I’d gone all the way with a girl before her family moved out of town. Twice, and I liked it. But I couldn’t ever, ever forget jerking off with my best friend Josh. Half a dozen times before he started going steady with his girlfriend. When I was honest with myself, I got steamed up more with remembering my time with Josh than with Wren.

But I had never reacted to anyone like I had to Baud… funny first name or not. I decided at that moment, I had to figure a way to get with Baud Youngfellow. And by get with, I meant “Get With.”

I bounced off the bed and rooted around in my closet until I found what I was looking for. It was a little battered and tan rather than white… but it was a hat. And it looked good on me, even if my hair and eyes were brown instead of blond and green.

 

****

So our narrator is smitten to the point he’s dug out a cowboy hat just like—well, almost like—his newly found idol’s. Wonder what happens next.

 

Until next week.

 

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 

My personal links:

 

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 

See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

It’s That Time of Year Again – My Blue Period

dontravis.com blog post #532                                                          

Once again, I ask your indulgence while I spend some time and effort at personal healing. Yes, it’s my blue period again, but as you’ll see below, there’s more to it this year. I’ve kept it shot so as not to intrude upon your time too much. Thanks.

The first photo is of my wife, Betty, taken years ago. Although it doesn't look like it in the picture, she had coppery red hair at the time.

This one is of my older son, Clai. Like his father, you need to look closely to determine his hair color. 

The unusual spelling of his Christian name, Clai, is derived from his mother's maiden name: Claiborne.

 I haven’t heard from anyone speculating on Widget Jackson’s story. Would like to have your take on it.                                                     

****

DARKLING CLOUDS, RESTLESS SHADOWS

Those who have read my blog for any length of time know I take time out once a year to do some personal remembrances and grieving. I once called February through April my “blue period.” Alas, now it stretches for nearly half a year. Let me explain.

My wife Betty died at Kindred Hospital in Albuquerque, New Mexico on February 12, 2009 of respiratory failure, renal failure, and sepsis.

I met my future wife when the US Army transferred the 47th Infantry Regiment of the 9^th Division from Ulm, West Germany (as it was designated at the time) to Fort Carson, Colorado. Four of us enlisted men bummed around together and had a marvelous time in Germany. I was the Second Battalion clerk, Carl was Headquarters Company Clerk, and I don’t recall the MOS of Ernie and Kurtz.

Once we landed in Colorado Springs, we discovered Carl had a sister in Denver with another single woman as a roommate. Lo and behold, there were two single women living right across the hall in the same apartment house. Long story short… Carl, Ernie, and I ended up marrying one of the gals, and Kurtz got away. I married Carl’s sister.

After leaving the army, I found employment in Denver. Our first child Clai was born there. Eventually, I was transferred to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I fell in love with the place immediately, but Betty, a natural redhead, had allergies… one of which was to dust. It took awhile for her. Our second child Grant was born here.

So why did I call February to April my blue quarter? Betty was born March 13, Died in February, and our wedding anniversary was April 8… all dates that called her to mind.

When did my Blue Quarter become a half-year ordeal? My older son, Clai, died in St. Michael’s Hospital in Texarkana, Texas of sepsis on January 22, 2021; his birthday is May 14. Ergo, my sensitive dates now stretch over 5 of the 12 months of the year.

Clai was a sickly child, as well as a prickly child. He grew out of the sickly stage for a while and turned into a very good auto mechanic. He was bright but not always practical. He suffered from what he called ADD (which I called Multiple Personality Disorder) and did not make friends easily since you had to figure out who he was at any given time. Clai was more of a loner than his old man. Clai never married. He became further disabled because of a severe back problem and moved to Texarkana to be near my mother—his grandmother –whom he loved dearly. When she died, he remained in Texarkana. An alcoholic, he received his 23-year sobriety pin before developing a series of worsening ailments, including heart trouble. A failing heart was the reason behind the sepia that eventually took him.

I miss them both.

 PS: My younger son suffered a heart attack last November. Fortunately, he was in the waiting room at Presbyterian Hospital with his wife when it struck, so the wheeled him into emergency where he received an angioplasty and a stint. A little rocky there at first, but he seems to be recovering.

****

Thanks again for putting up with this for another year. Otherwise, I survived the holiday season and the end of last year in reasonable shape. Hope the same is true for all of you.

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

Widget Jackson, Part 2 of a Short Story in 2 Parts

 dontravis.com blog post #531                                                          

I trust everyone survived the New Year’s celebrations. As usual, a quiet night for me. Well, except for the exploding fireworks and occasional gunshot fired into the air. Albuquerque’s notorious for that.

At any rate, let’s get back to poor Widget Jackson. He’s literally panting after a handsome, popular jock named Roger. In the first part of the story, we saw Widge manage to get on Rog’s radar when he fixed his hero’s stalled car. Wonder what happens next?

****

WIDGET JACKSON

I saw Roger around town a couple of times after that Sunday, and he always waved and tossed me a greeting… usually using my name. He worked in his dad’s hardware store over the summer, and I gave 40 hours to a local service station, so our paths didn’t cross too often. But then came the magic Sunday afternoon following my “saving him,” as he put it. I was parked at the city park, backed into a semi-screen of foliage, as was my wont, when a car pulled up beside me. To my astonishment, it was Roger’s Impala.

He got out and walked over to my driver’s side open window. “Hi, Widge, what ’cha doing?”

I held up the book I’d been reading. At that moment, I wasn’t capable of intelligent speech. Roger the Awesome had sought me out and was talking to me. “Reading,” I managed to say.

Hey, guy, I…. Well, I was thinking about you rescuing me last week. Remember when I offered to pay you?”

My head bobbed of its own volition. “Uh-huh.”

“There was something about the way you said, ‘I don’t want your money, Roger.’”

“W-what do you mean?”

“I dunno,” he said, a slight smile adorning his fantastic lips. “Just something unsaid. Like, I don’t want your money, but there’s something else you can give me.”

I swallowed hard. I’m sure people across the field on the baseball diamond could hear it. “Uh,” was my skillful riposte.

He leaned his arms on my lowered window frame and peered at me, so close I thought sure I’d swoon. “Look, Widge. I’m not trying to be insulting or demeaning or anything. But I’ve heard things… just rumors, you understand. You don’t have to say a word, but I’m going to stand up straight, maybe lean against the car. And if you see something you want… well, it’s yours, guy.”

Certain my ears were hearing what they wanted to hear, not what was being said, I just gaped at him. And then, he did it. Leaned against the car, his denim-covered groin an inch from my nose.

Well, he was right, I didn’t say a word, but my hands acted independently of the rest of me, feeling everything they could reach. After a minute of feeling him through his clothing, I woke up to the fact that his trousers had an elastic waistband. Immediately, I yanked them down, afraid at any minute, he’d jerk back and tell me the joke was on me.

But he didn’t. Instead, he rose to the occasion. I feasted my eyes… and a feast it was. Like everything else about Roger, his equipment was made with exquisite care. My hands had a ball… two of them, in fact. Oh wow! He was firm where he ought to be firm, soft where he needed to be soft, throbbing where he needed to throb, and his bush was soft and silky. Afraid any minute he’d change his mind, I felt and tasted and manipulated in a frenzy. And then, as I feared, he withdrew, covering himself as he did so. I’d been suckered.

He leaned back in the window. “Felt good, Widge. But this is not the place. Your place available?”

Halfway hopeful again, I shook my head. “Uh-uh, my folks are home.”

“Same here. Look, you know the old, abandoned cabin on the back road to Willtown?”

“The one just across the river?”

“Yeah. Just across the river from that peculiar bend before the bridge.”

“Where the old bridge washed away a few years back, and they build the new one?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I’ll meet you there, okay?”

“Meet me? We can go together. Your car or mine?”

“I’m going on to Willtown to visit my grandmother when we’re finished, so I’ll take the old road.” His smile was almost a leer. “But I’m not in any hurry. We’ll each go in our own car.”

“You ready now?” I asked. I’m sure I was panting.

He flashed a grin that melted every bone I had… except for one. And he noticed that one. His grin got bigger. “You follow me.”

I nodded and started the Rambler before he even got back in the Impala. I contained myself until he backed out and headed down the road. Then I followed.

I didn’t keep right on his tail, but I was pretty close as he flew down the highway, testing the speed limit. But when he turned onto the old road, it was so bumpy we had to slow. I fretted and grumbled fiercely, sure that I was going to lose it even before we reached our rendezvous. Wow! I liked the sound of that… Rog and Widge’s rendezvous. I got so excited, images of his groin pressed in my face back at the park, his essence revealed to me, began to play before my eyes. Luscious. That was the only word for it.

I got to imagining that view so much, I hit a rough spot in the road so hard the old Rambler let out a squall. Better pay more attention. But it was useless, that vision was so fascinating, so promising, so enthralling, I had to keep shaking my head to clear it away.

I didn’t even know I’d missed the bridge at that kink in the road until the Rambler began falling. I hit the water and rode the waves for a minute before the old car headed downstream with the current and quickly sank.

****

Oh, crap! You guys will have to write your own ending to the story. Did Widge drown in his Rambler an unfulfilled man… when he was sooo close? Or did Roger the Hero, strip off his shirt (baring that manly chest) and dive into the river to save Widge? If so, can you picture them in that abandoned canyon, shivering and naked, drying one another off… leading to something wonderful? Or did Widget get out of the car on his own but is too panicked to continue with his much-anticipated assignation? As I say, you write the ending and let me know what it is.

Until next week.

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.