The Lottery

The Lottery – Chapter 2
By
Caliboy1991

The next day, I walked back over toward the Circle K. I didn’t have any money and we still had a couple of more cans of Dinty Moore. I rationalized going back, maybe I would see the lady who gave me the money. Maybe I could give her back her lottery ticket. In truth, since fleeing Earl, I had discovered people were careless when they were pumping gas, and sometimes they’d drop change or even a dollar bill.

When I arrived, there was news van parked out front with the letters KSLA stylistically painted across the side paneling. A tall brunette stood in front of the plate-glass window, talking at the camera. As I approached, she smiled at the camera and said, “That’s right, Greg. One lucky soul bought the winning ticket in last night’s drawing.”

She was quiet, presumably listening to a TV anchor. “Well, Mr. Khan said he’ll give part of the store’s proceeds to charity as well as sharing part of the one-million-dollar bonus with his employees. Back to you, Greg.”

I stood there, next to the icebox. They had sold the winning ticket at this store? I reached into my pocket, feeling the crumpled ticket. No doubt Mr. Khan’s Circle-K had sold hundreds, maybe even a couple of thousand tickets since the last drawing. With my fingers holding the ticket still in my pocket, I walked into the store. The winning numbers from last night scrolled across an electronic marquee over the checkout counter. I silently read them, 07, 19, 34, 41, 62, and 32.

Repeating them in my head, I turned and walked back out, ignoring the perplexed look on Mr. Kahn’s pimply teenaged relative working the counter. As casually as I could, I strolled around the side of the building and fished the ticket out of my pocket. There was a single row of numbers across the center of the ticket, I read the numbers, 07, 19, 34, 41, 62. And the Mega Ball of 32.

I had won. I pushed the ticket back into my pocket and leaned against the cinderblock wall. I murmured, “Holy shit! I freaking won!”

I didn’t know what to do, but I ran all the way back to the car. Mom was still sleeping, just like she’d been when I left earlier. I knocked on the window until she lifted her head and saw me, nearly dancing beside the car.

When she popped the lock, I climbed in, closed the door, and hit the electric lock. Then I pulled the ticket from my pocket. I felt like Charlie Bucket from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory as I said, “We won, Mom.”

Shaking the sleep from her eyes, Mom said, “What? Won what?”

I took a deep breath, collected my erratic thoughts and said, “The lottery. This is the winning ticket.”

Mom gave me a look that said, don’t bullshit me, “I hope you didn’t spend any of my tip money on a lottery ticket, Robin.”

I shook my head, “No, I swear. When I went to the convenience store, a lady was getting into her car when the ticket flew out. I tried to catch her, to give it back. But she was already gone.”

With a mollified look, Mom said, “Fine. Now stop pulling my leg, Pooh Bear.”

I grabbed her arm, “Mom, I’m not kidding. I went to the store and there was a news van and the reporter was talking about how the winning ticket had been sold there.”

I paused and waved the ticket under Mom’s nose. “And this is it! I swear.”

Still eying me skeptically, Mom said, “Please let me get some more rest. There’s a Cracker Barrel up the road. I think the bruises are faded enough that a little mascara will cover them up just fine, and I can go find out if they’re hiring.”

She lay back in her seat and closed her eyes. I couldn’t believe it. Frustrated, I reached over and turned the key in the ignition until it engaged the battery and turned on the radio. I scrolled through the dial until I hit on a news station.

Mom opened her eyes and glared at me, as a voice said, “…Right, Rhonda. Some lucky Texarkanian is holding a lottery ticket worth over three hundred million dollars.”

Another voice, this one female, chimed in, “That’s a lot of Benjamins, Carl. So, what should this lucky lady do if she finds herself holding the winning ticket?”

“If He hasn’t already done so, he should sign the back of it. The last thing you’d want to do is win the lottery and then fail to sign the ticket.”

The female voice replied, “So, once she signs the ticket, what then?”

The male voice chuckled, “Well, if it were me, I’d cash my ticket and host a gigantic party and buy everyone margaritas and Shiner Bach. But the smart thing to do is sit down with a reputable attorney and accountant and figure out how you want to receive your money. That three-hundred-fifty-million-dollar prize is actually the annuitized payout before tax, and that’s paid out over a thirty-year period. Of course, the president’s party plans on raising taxes, so you do the math.”

The female voice said, “Sounds like the lump sum is the way to go.”

“Perhaps. That’s right, the lump sum comes in at two hundred and fifteen million dollars, before taxes. You’d walk away with about one hundred-sixty million dollars and change after Uncle Sam takes his pound of flesh. Of course, lots of lottery winners have taken the lump sum payments and because of poor financial planning end up dead broke a few years later, so even if taxes go up, someone who takes the 30 years’ payments has a lot of time to figure out how to manage his money.”

The female voice said, “Right. Just to recap, ladies, someone in Texarkana won the Mega Millions last night. So, if you’re just joining us, take a look at your ticket. The winning numbers are seven, nineteen, thirty-four, forty-one, sixty-two. The Mega ball is thirty-two.”

I held the ticket to Mom, “See.”

Uncertain, she took the ticket. Her lips moved as she read each number. When she looked up, she murmured, “Pooh Bear, you should sign this right now. Do you have a pen?”

Underneath a couple of changes of clothes were some school supplies. Pencils, pens, protractors, and the like. I grabbed a pen as we put our heads together and read the fine print above the signature line.

Mom let out a little groan, “Oh, Robin, it says you’ve got to be eighteen.”

I don’t know how many times I had read the back of Earl’s lottery tickets. Even though this ticket was from Texas and those Earl bought had been from Louisiana, the fine print was almost identical. I was surprised Mom hadn’t considered this. I love my mom more than anyone in the entire world, but at that moment, I considered what the man on the radio had said, lots of people who win the lottery squander their winnings. Earl and Mom lived paycheck to paycheck even though, between them, they had made decent money. Certainly enough to do better than a mobile home. While a lot of that could be laid at Earl’s feet, I figured Mom wasn’t any better than Earl at managing money.

Holding the pen over the signature line, I looked at my mom in a new light. She had always been Mom. She’d held me when I had hurt myself as a little kid. The first day of each school year, she’d taken me to school so I wouldn’t have to ride the school bus. She’d always made me my favorite foods when I begged her to. But she’d had a hard life. I was born a month before she turned fifteen. Her mom had kicked her out around the same time, and she and my father dropped out of school. After that, Mom worked as a waitress in Baton Rouge until the cops had busted my dad for drugs when I was still little. He was killed in a riot at Angola, and that was how Mom ended up with Earl. When she claimed my dad’s effects, Earl had been one of the prison guards to assist her. Before she left, he asked her on a date, and for reasons I can still hardly fathom, she agreed.

I handed her the pen, even as additional worries rattled around inside my head. “Can you sign for me, Mom?”

Her hand trembled as she took the pen, “Are you sure, sweetie? After all, it’s you who found it.”

I wrapped my hand around hers and pushed the pen against the paper. “How about we sign it together?”

With me holding her hand, Mom scrawled Samantha and Robin Lambert.

“There, Pooh Bear, what do you think?”

I wasn’t sure she should have signed my name on the ticket, but I also knew we needed to talk to a lawyer. I pulled out my wallet. The only thing inside was my school ID. I carefully put the ticket inside before returning my wallet to my back pocket.

“I’m glad we’re not in Louisiana anymore,” I said, “Can you imagine Earl finding out?”

***

We walked the last couple of blocks to Grant Jones’ office. The last of the gas in the Celica was gone. We were both glad it was March instead of July or August. When we arrived, we were winded and a bit warm, but otherwise fine.

Mom stared at the unassuming office. It didn’t look like much, but I’d seen it the day we drove into Texarkana and it was the only lawyer’s office I could think of. “Do you really think this is a good idea, Robin? If this guy’s a lawyer, he doesn’t look very rich.”

Out of gas and money also meant we were out of options. Instead of saying that, I grabbed Mom’s hand and, in a voice far more confident than I felt, I said, “Sure. Not all lawyers have expensive offices.”

The door opened with a chime into a small lobby with cheap plastic folding chairs along one side and a plain wood-laminate desk on the other side. The laminate was peeling with age. Behind the desk was a hallway. A moment later, as I seriously considered leaving, a young woman with nearly black hair and vaguely Hispanic features came around the corner. Her face lit up, “I thought I heard the door. How can I help you?”

Seeing the confused look on Mom’s face, I stepped forward, “Um, is Mr. Jones available? We’d really like to meet with him.”

The woman leaned her backside against the table, “Do you have an appointment? Mr. Jones is terribly busy.”

On the other end of the desk was a plastic potted plant. The green leaves were coated in a thick film of dust. I wondered what kind of law Grant Jones practiced, and I regretted suggesting him to Mom. Still, I felt like we were out of options. “Uh, no appointment. But it’s really important.”

The woman, who I figured was older than my mom’s twenty-six years, said, “Important? I could check his calendar and see when he can fit you in.”

At that, Mom tugged on my shoulder, “Come on, Robin. Let’s go.”

A rich, baritone voice echoed out from the back of the office, “Lucinda, was that the door?”

The woman frowned at my mom as she went over to the hallway, “Just a lady and kid. You want me to put them on your calendar?”

We were nearly at the door when a tall man in a wrinkled Oxford shirt stepped around Lucinda. He gave her a disapproving frown before saying, “Is there something I can help you with?”

Mom glared at the woman, “You seem a bit busy. We hate to bother you.”

Before she could say anything else, I stepped between her and Lucinda, “Um, we need help with, uh, a legal matter. You’re a lawyer, right?”

He rested a hand on the other woman’s shoulder, “Thanks for checking on things, I’ll take care of this, Lue.”

Once the woman disappeared back the way she came, the man said, “Sorry about that. Lue’s my girlfriend, not my receptionist. So, you need help with a legal matter? What kind of legal matter?”

While he seemed friendly enough as he sat on the edge of the desk, I wasn’t sure how far to trust him. Mom rested her hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, “How do I know we can trust you?”

The man’s lips twisted upwards as he said, “Well, there’s this thing called an attorney client privilege. If I were to represent you in a legal matter, then anything we talk about is protected by it.”

Mom and I have watched plenty of legal shows on TV. We knew about attorney client privilege. But when did it start? I said, “Well, how do we know if you should represent us?”

The small smile turned into a grin as he said, “We do something called a consultation. Just a short meeting where you tell me why you might want to hire me and we see if it makes sense to continue.”

Still not sold that we were doing the right thing talking with Mr. Jones, I said, “Is that covered by the attorney client privilege?”

Nodding, the man said, “If people aren’t honest during a consultation, then it gets really hard to represent them. Anything you tell me about why you want to hire me stays just between us. Does that seem fair to you?”

I glanced up at Mom. After almost letting her impulsiveness get the better of her, she glanced at me, “It’s up to you, Robin.”

I returned her smile before turning back to Mr. Jones. “My mom and I, we, um, we recently came into some money. And well, we’re not sure what to do about it.

Mr. Jones leaned forward on his desk, “I’m assuming a few hundred dollars wouldn’t have you guys coming in to talk. Did someone leave you an inheritance?”

I shook my head.

Mr. Jones scratched his chin, “You didn’t stumble on a stash of cash somewhere? Maybe someone else’s money?”

Shaking my head, I said, “No. I think it really belongs to us. We just don’t know what to do next.”

Mr. Jones swallowed as his eyes grew round, “You folks, do you have the winning lottery ticket?”

I nodded, “Yeah. We just realized it this morning.”

Mr. Jones stood and paced back and forth. “Wow. That’s no small thing. No wonder you need help. But why me? My practice is about half criminal defense and half divorces, wills, and probates.”

For the first time since coming into Mr. Jones’ office, I felt something right about him. The way he questioned why we’d use him was genuine confusion. I said, “Well, we just got to town a few days ago, and yours is the closest law office to where we’ve been staying.”

He chuckled, “And here I was hoping it was because you guys had seen my mad legal chops in court.”

He came over and offered his hand, “Robin, right?”

I nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“I’m uncertain if I’m the best person for you, but the two of you look like you’ve had a hard spell recently and I’m willing to represent you and your mom’s interests.”

While I felt a bit of relief, I still had questions, “Thanks. But until we’re able to cash the ticket, we don’t really have any money to pay you. You’re not going to try to collect a third of our winnings as a fee, are you?”

The lawyer laughed, “Oh, that would get me disbarred, I think. No. Nothing like that. The first thing we’re going to do is verify the ticket. Once we’re sure you’ve got the winning ticket, you and your mom will sign an agreement with me to be your attorney and represent you, at my normal rate of one-fifty an hour.

I’ve never heard of anyone working for such little money. “What? A buck fifty? What’s the catch?”

Mr. Jones’ melodic laughter filled the small office, “No, not a dollar-fifty. One hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

This was a first for me. I craned my neck to look at my mom. She just shrugged, “It’s up to you.”

Even though my estimation of Mr. Jones was growing, Mom and I had a golden opportunity. I didn’t want to squander it. I thought back to some TV show I once watched and a clever question within the dialogue. Turning my attention back to the lawyer, I said, “I guess the fee is okay. But before Mom and I sign, is there any question that we should be asking but aren’t.”

The lawyer gave me a critical eye, like he was appraising me. “You know, Mr. Lambert, I’ve worked with lots of folks and that’s one of the best questions I’ve been asked. It shows me you understand that you don’t understand everything but you want to learn. That’s an excellent trait. Now an honest answer is that I don’t know everything, even about the law. Any attorney who’ll tell you otherwise is lying. But what I’ll do is faithfully represent you and your mom’s interests. Where I’m weak, I know other attorneys who I trust, where I can tap their expertise. Just be mindful those attorneys may charge more for their expertise than me. And if we need their help, you’ll be sending them checks for their hourly rate when this is done.”

After listening to Mr. Jones, I realized he hadn’t exactly answered my question, but he told me what I needed to hear. I said, “Mom, I think he’s the guy we should hire.”

With a conspiratorial wink, Mr. Jones lowered his voice, “Let me get rid of Lou, then let’s you and me make a photocopy of that ticket of yours.”

After letting the lawyer make a copy of both the front and back of the ticket, I hung out with Mom in Mr. Jones’ drab. Badly dated lobby. Nobody came or went. Save for the attorney’s voice coming from an office toward the back of the building, it was quiet. It was just pushing two in the afternoon when Mr. Jones returned to the lobby. “I talked with a friend in Austin, who knows one of the board members of the Texas Lottery Commission. I sent him a screenshot of the front of your ticket and although there’s a very thorough review process, it looks legit. You’ve hired yourself a lawyer.”

Mom grabbed me in a hug as I nearly shouted, “Yeah!”

When we settled down, I asked, “Where’s the contract. We’re ready to sign.”

Mr. Jones ruefully laughed, “You recall this is a Saturday afternoon. My assistant, who handles printing and prepping it, will be in the office on Monday. Until then, how about this,” he stuck out his hand to me, and added “My dad used to say with an honest man, a handshake is as good as gold. With a dishonest man, a written contract isn’t worth the ink and paper.”

I took his hand and felt a firm grip. I did my best to match it. Then he shook Mom’s hand.

“We’ll complete this Monday morning. Now, I don’t know about you folks, but I’m famished.”

As if the word was enough, my stomach gave a loud growl. Mr. Jones opened the front door and waved us toward it, “There’s a taco truck a couple of blocks away that makes some of the best salsa and chips this side of the Rio Grande. Why don’t we head over there and see about doing something about that monster in your stomach, Mr. Lambert?”

By the time we finished eating at an outdoor picnic table across the street from the taco truck, Mr. Jones had pulled nearly all the truth from me and Mom. I left out the details of what Earl had caught me and Jeremy doing. Partly because he didn’t need to know it, and mostly because Mom only had the vaguest of ideas.

I cleared the table and was coming back from a trash barrel when Mr. Jones said, “Look, I can’t stand the idea of the two of you staying in your car until Monday. Let me get you a hotel until then. It’s the least I can do.”

I didn’t mind the idea of paying him for his work as our attorney. But I didn’t like the idea of taking his charity. Well, not any more than we already had by letting him buy us lunch. Mom was shaking her head, too. She beat me to the punch, “We can’t do that. We can manage on our own until then.”

Mr. Jones looked over at me and Mom, almost like he was checking us both out, except he didn’t give off a creeper vibe. “Look, Ms. Lambert, I’m not being altruistic. It’s not safe in this neighborhood at night. I don’t want anything happening to either of you.”

I could see Mom was about to say no again when the lawyer added, “If it helps, I’ll be billing the stay to your account. Consider it a bit of a loan until we can settle your bill.”

He made perfect sense, and I was glad to see Mom’s head bobbing in agreement.

End of Part 2

Copyright 2021 – Caliboy1991
All rights reserved

The Lottery – Chapter 1
By
Caliboy1991

I held the door open as the slightly overweight lady came out of the Circle-K. My stomach took that moment to growl. Sometimes, when it growls, I’m the only one who can hear it. But it was loud enough to make the lady glance my way.

“Gracious me, Sugar. You look a bit peaked,” she drawled.

While she seemed like a nice sort, the pity in her eyes bothered me. Sure, I hadn’t bathed in more than a week, and the angular face reflecting off the glass showed smudges of dirt under sunken eyes. My stomach gurgled again, protesting the lack of food. I just wanted to curl up and die right then.  I thought about letting go of the door and bolting. But I didn’t. A little voice in the back of my head said a real man wouldn’t do that. Even shamed, he’d do the right thing and hold a door open for a lady.

I mumbled, “I’m fine, ma’am.”

I’ve read online some women don’t like being called ma’am, but down here in the South, it’d be an insult not to. There weren’t too many lessons I’d learned from my mom, but that one stuck.

The lady shook her head and reached into her purse and pulled out a bill, “I ‘spect so. But you’ve got good manners. Somebody’s raising you well. Why don’t you take this and have a treat?”

I was loathed to accept the money. But I couldn’t stop my hand from reaching out and taking it. I’m sure the red on my cheeks came through the grime. Even though she was back in the car, I could almost feel my mom nudging me to do the right thing. I swallowed the lump in my throat, “Thank you, ma’am. It’s not necessary but I’m much obliged.”

She laughed softly as she stepped off the curb, “You’re sweet. Now why don’t you go get yourself something.”

Once inside the store, I opened my palm and saw the picture of Andrew Jackson on the greenback. Mom and I had spent the last of her tip money a couple of days ago, and the image of the dead president was a welcome sign.

Going over to the canned food section, I picked up a few cans of Dinty Moore before heading over to the wall of drinks at the back of the store. Mom loves her Red Bull, and I picked up a can for both of us before heading over to the cash register.

The pimply faced brown-skinned kid behind the register eyed me. Of course, if I saw me, I’d probably be dubious. Ten days in the same worn and ratty clothes, ten days without a bath, I didn’t exactly look reputable. Still, when he saw the Jackson, he scanned the items and took my money.

Outside, I spied the lady who had given me the money at one of the gas pumps. As she climbed into her car, a nice late model Buick, the wind caught a scrap of paper from one of her pockets and blew it across the island of pumps. The door closed and light exhaust wafted from her tail pipe in the coolness of the March morning as she pulled toward the exit.

“Hey lady!” I called out as I hurried over to see what she’d dropped. The wind trapped the scrap of paper against another gas pump. I reached down to pick it up and noticed an orange ribbon of ink along one side and a logo at the top. I recognized it as a ticket for the Mega Millions lottery. Instead of the familiar purple L and the block letters from the Louisiana Lottery Commission, this ticket carried the logo of the Texas Lotto.

Of course it would. Mom and I had been in Texarkana for the past week. Not on the shitty Arkansas side, but the equally shitty Texas side.

Holding the slip of paper, I looked up, trying to see the lady’s Buick, but she was long gone. Ignoring the logo and the computer-generated numbers, I noticed the draw for the same day. Then I saw the jackpot. It was up to three-hundred-fifty million dollars. It must have been a while since anyone had won.

I shoved the ticket into my jeans pocket and headed toward the car. I’d seen plenty of lottery tickets. Earl played the Mega Million twice a week. Most of the time, the tickets ended up under the ashtray next to his old La-Z-Boy recliner. But the older tickets could be found just about anywhere. I swear, we could have wall papered the living room of drafty single-wide in those things.

The car was just where I’d left it, parked behind an old, boarded up store, next to a couple of empty dumpsters. I looked down into the car, Mom was asleep, reclining all the way back in the driver’s seat. Despite the yellowed bruises under her eyes, even I could tell that she was pretty. Her hair, which was messy and tangled, was a golden blond, the shade of a wheat field. Only slightly darker than my own messy hair.

She looked young. Too young to be the mother of a tween. My friend Jeremy was always telling me how hot my mom was. Of course, as a preteen boy, I’d just tell him he was gross. But standing there, looking down on her, alone with my thoughts, I couldn’t help but agree with him. Despite the dark circles under her closed eyes and the unhealthy pallor of her skin, her youthful beauty was easy to see.

As I went around to the passenger side door, I understood better why Earl had taken my mom in after my father was murdered.

I knocked on the door until she popped the lock, “Hey I got some food,” I said as I opened the paper back and pulled out a tin of Dinty Moore.

Mom reached over and squeezed my shoulder, “Thanks, Pooh Bear. I didn’t realize we still had money left.”

I didn’t want to worry her, so I shrugged, “This was the last of it.”

When I handed her a Red Bull, she smiled, and for a moment I found myself agreeing with Jeremy. Mom’s smile was positively radiant. She looked a lot younger than her twenty-seven years when she smiled like that.

“Oh, Thank God,” she said as she popped the top and took a long drink.

We split a can of stew, using plastic spoons from an earlier trip to Sonic. The hunger was still there when we’d finished, but I was used to that.

After licking the last of the congealed juice from the inside of the can, I said, “We can’t stay here, Mom. Why don’t we go over to the Salvation Army? They’ve got a place for us to stay.”

She shook her head, “Hell no. Not after what happened in Natchez.”

I sighed, grabbed a paperback from my backpack on the floorboard, and leaned back to read. I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t. Not after everything we’d gone through since leaving Earl. The first night, we had stopped in Natchez, on the Mississippi River. While there wasn’t a shelter for women, they did have a wing for men and another for women and children. The matron who ran the women’s wing came into the little sectioned off space where Mom and I were sleeping in cots. She must have thought I was sleeping, because she slipped inside the blue divider and woke Mom up at some ungodly hour. Even though she whispered, I heard every word, lying there as I was with my eyes closed.

“Ms. Lambert. Samantha, are you awake, dear?”

Mom was groggy but awake, “Huh?”

“I’ve got a place for you and your boy, if you want it.”

Mom woke up more, “A place?”

“Yeah. I seen you’ve been beat up something awful. You need someone who won’t hurt you. Show you some kindness.”

Even tired, Mom’s voice was guarded, “You know someone like that?”

The woman’s voice was barely above a whisper, “Yeah. You could come stay with me. I’d take good care of you, and you could raise your boy here in Natchez. You’d learn to like it here.”

Mom said, “Why? Why’d you do something like that for me?”

“You’re a peach, Samantha, young thing like yourself. I think you’ve been treated as badly by men as I have. And they can’t give you what I can.”

I opened my eyes at those words, only to watch the lady lean forward as if for a kiss. Mom pushed her away and stood up. “Robin, get your shoes on. We’re leaving. Now.”

I had to grab my shoes as I followed Mom into the parking lot. After that, she didn’t want any part of going to any shelter.

But now, with our money gone and barely any gas in the tank, we were running low on options.

“Mom, we can’t stay here much longer. We’re lucky no cops have come back here since we arrived. If you don’t want to try the Salvation Army shelter, maybe we can try another one. There’s got to be more than one.”

Mom shuddered, no doubt remembering Natchez. “I… I can’t Pooh Bear. Once the bruises are gone, I’ll get a job waitressing. Won’t have to wait until payday. Between the tips and food we can get from the job, we’ll be fine until I can afford an apartment.”

I didn’t blame her for not wanting to go job hunting until the bruising healed. How could I? After all, her bruises were my fault.

I closed the book. I just couldn’t focus on the words. I closed my eyes, hating that I couldn’t let go of the memory.

Jeremy and I were in my little room at one end of Earl’s single-wide. Like Earl, Jeremy’s dad worked at the prison. Unlike Earl, his dad worked in the accounting office, offsite. Jeremy and I had known each other for several years and were best friends. And now that we were both on the cusp of our teenage years, we’d started noticing the girls in our class at school.

That night, I’d stolen one of Earl’s Penthouse magazines, which he had stolen from some inmate, and we looked at pictures of naked women. Jeremy said, “Shit, Rob, we should have spent the night at my place. I found some better pictures online.”

That didn’t stop him from adjusting his pants where there was a pronounced bulge. After a bit, he said, “God, I need some relief.”

As I mentioned, Jeremy and I have known each other for a long time. This wasn’t the first time we’d looked at porn. So, when he pulled his pants and underwear down, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen his dick. You’d think a boy just under five foot would be small down below. Not hardly. He waved his five thick inches toward me, “Come on, Rob. Your turn.”

Maybe if this had been our first time, I’d have been really embarrassed, because physically Jeremy and I were polar opposites. I was tall for my age. Already several inches over five feet, even though I was still months away from turning thirteen. But apart from my height, Jeremy was ahead of me in every other way. When I stripped myself from the waist down, my dick pointed toward the ceiling, lacking both the girth and length of my best friend. Also, and I knew this because I checked it almost daily, I didn’t have hair number one, not even on my balls, which were barely the size of small marbles.

Of course, that night in my room hadn’t been our first time. Not by a long shot. I thought nothing of it when Jeremy grabbed my dick and started jerking me off, and I willingly returned the favor. We hadn’t been beating each other’s meat for long when he pushed me down on my bed and said, “Let’s suck each other.”

Right after discovering mutual masturbation, we discovered blowjobs. So, Jeremy tugging his shirt off and laying down opposite of me wasn’t anything new. I tugged my shirt off and lay with my face pushed against his curly dark brown pubes. As we sucked on each other I felt the tingling building up inside me.

And that was when Earl opened the door. He stood there for a long moment before screaming, “What the fuck are you two faggots doing?

It startled both me and Jeremy as we pulled back from each other. Then Earl was on us. He yanked my friend by the arm and pushed him toward the door, “Get out of here, you queer faggot. Just wait until I tell your daddy what the fuck you were doing.”

Then he turned to me. Before I knew what he was doing, my ears rang as his fist slammed into the side of my head. Before Earl could hit me again, Mom raced into the room and jumped onto his back, clawing at his face, screaming.

Earl was a bully. I’d always known that. When I’d been younger, it had started with snide remarks. By the time I was in junior high, it was slaps against the back or side of the head, just to remind me who was boss. But I had not seen him hit Mom before that night. He threw her off his back before turning on her. After a few hits left Mom crumpled on the floor of my room, Earl, sweat pouring down his red face, stood in the doorway, “Sam, if you ever touch me again, I’ll fucking kill you. And Robin, if you ever have that little faggot boy here again, I’ll beat the ever-living shit out of you. I won’t have queer shit going on under my roof.”

With that, he stormed out of the house. Once the roar of his pickup receded into the night, Mom climbed to her feet. By this time, I’d pulled on my pants and I came over to her. Blood ran down her nose and her eyes were swelling. We clung to each other, crying. When Mom’s tears stopped, she said, “Pooh Bear, I don’t know what you and Jeremy were doing in here, I guess it don’t matter much. But pack your shit into your backpack. I can’t live like this anymore.”

As we drove away in mom’s old Celica, she admitted it wasn’t the first time Earl hit her. Even though I’d never known, Earl’s abuse had started a while back.

I blinked away a tear as I pushed the memory away. Yeah. I’m the dill-hole who caused Mom to get the shit beat out of her, and leaning back in my seat, I still felt guilty as hell. I had never thought of myself as gay when Jeremy and I had fooled around. It was just something sexy and fun. And given the way he loved looking at big tits on the women online, I was pretty sure he wasn’t either. But Earl’s hateful words were hard to shake off. After all, Jeremy and I had done lots of stuff over the past year, almost every weekend. We’d even put our dicks in each other’s ass once. Maybe, despite liking to look at girls, I was gay; I wasn’t sure what to think. Part of me wanted to ask Mom about the sex stuff, but even though we’d always been close, she’d never talked to me about my body, puberty, or anything about sex. I guess she’d hoped Earl might behave in a fatherly way about that, but that wasn’t who he was. I wanted to ask her about it, but seeing the bruises on her face and feeling the shame of knowing it was my fault they were there, I just couldn’t bring myself to bring it up.

The rest of the day passed like several others before. After locking the car, we hiked over to a city park, where we threw a frisbee back and forth and enjoyed the feel of the warm sun against our faces and the cool March breeze.

Dinner was no different from lunch, and we didn’t stay up late. Within an hour of sunset, the car was dark, and we both tried to sleep. But it’s hard to do that when your stomach protests. Still, somehow or another, we managed.

End of Part 1

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