He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

She called this Homeostasis. Patrick called it torture.
 
HOMEOPATHIC THERAPY
Part 1, Chapters 1 & 2
By Josie

 
Author's Note: If asked, I’d have to say my life is an enactment of just about every story I’ve ever read, or so it would seem to me. Sort of like life imitating fiction rather than the other way around. I know the inverted logic sounds kind of screwy, but that’s how I feel whenever I pick up a book to read. I see all too much of my own life in the plot and as I follow the protagonist’s trials and tribulations I think to myself, “Hey, that’s me.” Sound familiar? If so, then you know there is a good side to thinking as I do, as well as a bad.

It’s good because as I read along I can experience the mistakes of others before those mistakes befall me. The bad is that unless some miraculous intervention is forthcoming, there doesn’t seem to be a darn thing I can do about it. Whether true of not, my life often seems to me an endless script leading toward one inevitable tragedy or another. Well, think what you will, but at least my knowing what’s coming affords me the comfort of wallowing in my angst until, as expected, my world comes tumbling down around my ears.

It may sound like a rather glum existence, but I assure you it’s not. Because while I do despair, I know that it isn’t written that I’m destined to fall victim to my frailties, or equally tragic, having my weaknesses exploited by others. Many of the characters that fill the books I read are testament to that fact. Proof that some do find a way to dig deep and summon the courage to redeem themselves before their inevitable fall from grace. To me, that’s the gist of a well told tale. The message of hope delivered by the hero, or heroine, is one well worth remembering as we go about our busy lives. For those not having the good fortune of a good story to read, I feel it imperative to impart that message to anyone who might care to listen as I go about each and every day.

So on that note, I offer this story as a reminder. That no matter what misfortune lay in wait for you, there is always the hope that you too might find the courage to free yourself from the bondage and find your redemption. Leastwise that’s what I, josie, hope you’ll get from this story. (*_*)
 
 
Part I Frantic Morning
 
Chapter I
 
 
“. . . Times are dark. But every shadow no matter how deep is threatened by morning light.” D. Aronofsky
 
 
I’d like you to meet Barbara Stanton. The charismatic, forty-something, and still dazzling beauty dressed in nurse’s whites. Sitting behind the desk in her home office she looks like the archetype health professional - concerned, dedicated and with her good looks, quite an easy pill to swallow. But don’t let her good looks get the better of you. Should you suddenly find yourself stranded on an African savanna alone with a Cheetah looking to feed her pups, you’d stand a better chance of surviving the night than you would with this cold-blooded hunter on the prowl. So be warned and be thankful you’re not the prospective client sitting across from her. Like the unsuspecting Mrs. Whipple, the elderly, though dignified woman she is studying with the steely-eyed determination of an opportunist sizing up her mark.

More precisely her interest isn’t in Mrs. Whipple as such, but her young nephew, Patrick, the young man standing alongside her. At the moment the skittish lad looks rather put upon having to stand up straight and tall on behest of his aunt in only his cotton briefs. Not that he looks like the prized trophy a skilled hunter like our attractive, steely-eye opportunist would want to snare in her trap. Comely to be certain, but topping in at a whopping 52 kg and thin as a wafer, he isn’t much to bring home for dinner, unless she has a hankering for skin n’ bone.

Mrs. Whipple, Edith to her friends, has just brought young Patrick in to see Ms. Stanton, a Homeopathic practitioner located not far from her home. Edith is an honest woman, forthright to a fault, and is currently describing the symptoms her poor nephew suffers while Ms. Stanton encourages her to continue to confide. However, even though she is signaling her ‘trust me Edith, I can help’ message, she knew there is nothing wrong with Patrick. At least nothing sufficient time and a little patience won’t fix.

The doctor’s findings and her assessment confirm it. Patrick is completely normal and healthy. Even though a boy of his age still wetting the bed can be a sign of more serious problems this is not always the case. Other factors must be considered as the probable cause. Like the trauma resulting from the recent death of his mother or his having to start a new life with a new care provider are just some of the possible factors to consider in determining the source of this kind of problem. The doctor has stated as much in his medical report if only Edith was of a mind to listen.

So while Mrs. Whipple is a lady of good character and honest intentions, she does have a slight flaw. Her pride often gets in the way, causing her to make decisions that do not seem to be in either her, or her nephew’s best interests. In this instance, she believes he suffers from some sort of “lingering malaise,” as she calls it, and his bedwetting is a symptom of his condition. A contrary opinion to that held by the doctor, but one to which she is stubbornly holding fast. That’s why she feels prompted to seek out this time honored and noble profession of Homeopathy as an alternative solution. A decision guided more by pride than sound reason, and this weakness in her character is about to be exploited by a charlatan.

Ms. Stanton, Barbara to her friends, wouldn’t describe herself in quite those same terms of course. In her way of thinking she’s just an enterprising woman looking to capitalize on a market and position herself to take advantage of all the lucrative opportunities. It is a free and open marketplace after all. She had learned as much at the top-notch university she’d attended. Then put into practice producing a one-of-a-kind quality product and reaping her justly earned profits in the marketplace. Or more specifically, in the gambling Mecca of Las Oasis.

Yet business degrees and the like do not in themselves breed success. That takes salesmanship, and that’s what our buxom and beautiful blond bombshell with a ton of grit has in abundance. She’s suave down to her hair follicles and knows how to target and then pull the trigger on her unsuspecting clientele. Yes, she is in fact quite formidable in that regard. Hardly a match for the unsuspecting Mrs. Whipple. The proud, though lonely woman sitting across from her who still longs for things too shameful to own and too prideful to admit even if she’s of a mind to do so.

“Mrs. Whipple . . .,” she feigned her affection, leaning in to take her hand like some starry-eyed Don Juan. “Edith, if you’ll allow me to be so forward. I can see that you’re a very lovely, conscientious woman, and you’re right to have come to me. What does a doctor know other than measurements of dots on a chart when the living, breathing proof stands beneath his nose? His bedwetting, frail stature and languid state are all signs of malaise you so aptly describe.”

“Yes, you are right to have come to me because unlike providing dots on a chart, homeopathy provides a time-tested and proven strategy to remediate the causes. But I must warn you, if you’re looking for immediate results you’ve come to the wrong place. A return to good health is often a long and difficult course. It requires a commitment that carries well beyond the ordinary to establish good health habits, and it certainly can’t be done without your full, unremitting support,” she concluded, and then waited expectantly for her response.

Unfortunately, the dear woman couldn’t find the words. She was so drawn by the allure and determination of this resolute woman that all she could manage was a faint nod. She seemed to her a world onto her own, a woman in full charge with a pair of cool blue eyes that cut through the veneer and surveyed the landscape down to her very core. She found the look disarming and feeling exposed she defensively lowered her eyes as if to ward her off. While at the same time her deepening flush continued to telegraph a homing signal that invited the intruder in.
 
 
Three years later . . .
 
Inside the barbershop Patrick sat feeling a tinge of anticipation as Mr. Milford diligently clipped away. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time and it was important that his new haircut look just right. High and tight on the sides, short and flat on top was the style he wanted. Just as Sgt. Web was fond of saying; “Make it smart and clean, with a touch of Vitalis to enhance the sheen.”

It wasn’t the common fashion of the day. The 60’s was the age of long hair after all, and not a style you were likely to see worn on the street, nor on the gentlemen in his aunt’s variety magazines. It was however the fashion of choice in the ranks of the Corps, where to strike a sharp pose meant more than a starched collar and a red neck. One had to measure-up, wear the flag and a flattop in honor of apple pie and motherhood, country and corps.

Looking in the mirror he saw Mr. Milford all hands and scissors standing over him. His aunt also stood close by, holding his hand as she admonished him like she would a much younger boy. “Sit up straight;” “chin square;” “no slouching” was her way of making it clear that even in this male sanctuary she remained in full charge. He didn’t like being dismissed so easily, but that was her way. She was a very direct woman.

There was however some comfort in knowing she was equally succinct with Mr. Milford. He’d trim here, cut off there, always with a prompt “yes ma’am” in his proper way. Always respectful, he’d extend every curtsey to her and did exactly as he was told. Then to keep himself in her good graces, he was quick to suit his treatment of young Patrick to her liking.

Of course, Mr. Milford was a fair man and a good barber too. As old Sgt. Web would say, “. . . A man got his 2-bucks worth before he was through. He charges a fair price for the hack and some chat, all in 10 minutes you can’t beat that. With the talc and Vitalis tossed in for free, a damn fair deal, if you ask me.” That is, unless payment was extracted in blood.

Certainly having Mr. Milford chose to call him “Patty” in lieu of his name made it seem like an old fashion bloodletting. Indeed, with the men sitting round listening as they waited their turn, it was a barbarous affair on par with a medieval phlebotomy. One moment he’d be made to sit up tall, stiff and erect at the behest of his aunt. Then the next moment he’d soften and recede into a nub as Mr. Milford directed the angle of his chin and added “chin up Sweetie.” Intended or not, he felt 5 centimeters shorter than his already diminutive size, and five years younger than his seventeen years when he finally rose up out of that chair.

Patrick looked at himself in the mirror as his aunt whisked away debris that still clung to his tank top and shorts. From the sound of the snickering heard from those waiting their turn it was obvious the improvement he had hoped for had missed the mark. Losing his long hair and his dignity too was more than he had bargained for. It was a one-two combination of blows to his already frail adolescent confidence and the knock-out blow, the snide murmurings behind his back. All this and all he had wanted was to measure-up to the other boys at school, and in the process, hopefully, reinvent himself to help bolster his esteem. Instead he ended up having made matters worse. Now, the best he could do was hope his disappointment didn’t show.

Perhaps he should have listened to his aunt. If he had taken her advice and not cut his long hair the disastrous consequences wouldn’t be staring back at him in the mirror, nor would Mr. Milford. The good and honest man now standing behind him was trying in earnest to keep the smirk off his face. Beside him was his aunt wearing her smile like a Kabuki mask while he, dressed in a tank-top and shorts looked a pittance.

That’s not to speak badly of him and his clothes were not all that surprising given the hot Arizona climate. Perhaps the fashion was a bit juvenile given his age, but functional and decent nonetheless. Still, there was something about the composition that made it a very contrary picture. Like the white cotton tank-top that clung so snugly to his willowy frame he could see his pec’s jutting out like pebbles in the snow. Likewise, his knee socks and the jersey shorts gathered high around the midriff exaggerated his natural boyish pigeon-toe and showcased his gangly legs; garishly long and lean and epicene. Now, to add further insult to injury, his closely cropped flattop was as smooth as the end table that held his auntie’s tea.

Now, why would anyone wonder what the grinning and the whisperings were all about! Looking as he did, he didn’t make the bold statement of a fearless warrior. He looked an exhibition of a pitiable wimp to all but his dear aunt, who could only see the disappointment written on his drawn face. A thoughtful and caring woman by a factor of two, she quickly stepped in to bolster his lost esteem. Without fear of looking too patronizing she held him close, pressing his face to her bosom and told her “dear Patty” how grown-up and manly he looked.

You’d expect nothing less of her of course. After all, her only interest was for his health and welfare and, least we forget, he was a sickly boy. A boy in therapy to cure his “malaise,” she scarcely had enough of herself to give. That’s a lot to put on the plate of a woman with no experience raising children of her own. Especially at this stage in life, when most would prefer to spend their leisurely years raising prized tulips and not worrying about clean clothes for school or seeing to a child’s proper bath.

Nevertheless that didn’t deterred her from the job she had to do. Which she did fueled by her pride and, let’s not forget, the examples set by those pictured in the pages of her variety magazines. Not the finest example for childrearing, but then again, the well-groomed young men pictured in her magazines certainly could teach the uncouth mongrels sitting around the barber shop a thing or two. With their made-for-the-camera smiles and gay attire they put the gentle in gentlemanly. Each pictured as if resigned to their vulnerabilities, with intransigent mothers or wives standing close by to handle the challenges. Just the way it should be, that is, if we want fewer problems in the world.

So with her chin firmed up she stood by equally intransigent prepared to meet the challenge. Wanting nothing more than to demand Mr. Milford repair the damages that very instant. But she knew there was no way to bring back to life those beautiful long locks she so enjoyed brushing after Patrick’s bath. The best she could do was to show these ignorant men, indeed, all men that she didn’t give a hoot for their chauvinist, brutish male opinion - least of all those concerning her “beautiful” nephew, and so she did.

“Thank you, Sir,” she spoke up for all to hear, then extended the courtesy of her most tempered veneer.

“Well, there you are then, my good boy,” Mr. Milford flippantly replied, with a crooked smile that looked rather snide. With his mutton jowls creased from his ears to his chin, he looked rather daft with that foolhardy grin. Something that hadn’t gone unnoticed!

Not that it mattered one-iota to this proud woman. Neither did the mumblings going round as she reached into her purse for a tissue to hand to Mr. Milford, and along with it, his dish of comeuppance. “Mr. Milford, I would suggest you wipe that smug off your face before someone mistakes you for a clever man. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve an appointment. Come along, Patty. You know Ms. Stanton will not forgive tardiness.”

Mr. Milford stood dumbfounded, the room grew quiet and Edith relished her moment. As for Patrick, he knew she was right in addressing Mr. Milford, just as she was right about Ms. Stanton. They would have to hurry, and thankfully so. In truth, he wanted out from under the scrutiny and the embarrassment as quickly as his “corrective” heels could carry him.

Not so his aunt. She might have been elderly, but not senile nor simple-minded as some might have mistaken her to be. After all, she had been a head librarian for 37 years, and a stickler for proper etiquette her library had been a very well-mannered place. So it fit that she would have as high a regard for herself as she did for the civility of a bygone era. Much like the common courtesy extended to a lady as she walked into a room and simply by virtue of her presence seized the moment, with never a need to hurry.

A courtesy you’re not likely to see extended nowadays, but one she expected nonetheless. Especially from the men in the shop, and particularly now, as she took her nephew in hand, encouraged him to stand tall and slowly paraded past the seated gentlemen on their way out the door. Then asking him to hold her purse so she could open the door for him to pass, they departed as they had entered. Only this time as they passed through the door, it was with an accompanying chorus of laughter.
 
 
Chapter II
 
 
 Edith had always found Sunday afternoons the best time to travel the distance down Bancroft Lane. This was especially true in the spring, when the weather afforded families an opportunity to be out and about to see and be seen after morning church. She was of course a most thorough driver. Cautious? You bet, but not like the hurried gentleman angrily tooting the horn behind her might indicate. Not that it mattered to her. She wasn’t about to make way for the gentleman when he could just as well wait for her to ready herself before she drove on.

It might have taken her longer than most to travel the short distance to Barbara’s home, but at least she and her nephew would be seen and have time to smile at the gawkers as she puttered along on her way to their appointment. Edith wanted everyone to know she was rightfully proud of her nephew. She just wished she had a better stage to make the presentation other than her rickety old Renault.

Just as the car might suggest, Edith Whipple was not a wealthy lady. An unmarried woman advanced in years she had worked a lifetime to afford her small two bedroom cottage. Other than an old Renault on its last legs, and her meager savings she had little else other than a monthly stipend the government afforded her. Still, it was enough for her to provide for the needs of her late sister’s son. She even managed to have enough to cover the services of Ms. Stanton. An extraordinary expense, but well worth the money as we shall soon see.

Barbara Stanton’s two-story, thatched roof cottage was situated nicely amidst the Ash and Oak with a beautifully landscaped yard. The gated white lattice fence, large portico and the business sign hanging over the entrance set it apart from others along the older middle class neighborhood. Around the back of the house was a very busy place. There was a greenhouse, herb garden and a playground with a sand box and other typical fare you would expect to find at a facility catering to the needs of children. Nevertheless, everything was orderly and well presented. No less so than the inside of her beautiful ornate house, and in a like manner, Barbara herself.

In many ways, Barbara Stanton had much in common with Edith. Middle-aged and unmarried, she too was very direct and succinct in her temperament and it served her well. Her no nonsense manner was a much sought after quality in her line of work and mothers paid well for her help. Probably a bit more than Edith was able to afford, but for the exceptional help, a sacrifice she was willing to make.

As a student of this wondrous alchemy of science and philosophy, Ms. Stanton used every element of the human condition to help transform the ailing to the fit. Edith hadn’t a doubt that she understood what ails children, and felt she could do no better. Of course, it helped that they got along so very well, seeing things eye to eye as it were. From the austere way she dealt with dawdling children to her perceptible “purrrr” when she put her Patty through his paces. The fact that she found such pleasure in helping him was just icing on the (patty) cake as far as she was concerned. It didn’t matter that he was every bit a healthy boy. She agreed with Barbara without demur and followed her prescribed cures to the letter.

Edith and her nephew arrived not a moment too soon for their afternoon appointment. They entered the back gate and down the stone path that led directly to Barbara’s office. Edith wore a full-length floral print dress fashionably hemmed at the ankles, with a rash of short, tightly woven curls in her newly permed gray hair.

In all manner of ways she looked quite fashionable. Exactly the way she always wanted to appear, especially when coming to see Ms. Stanton. Stylist though unassuming, while beneath mingled the flowery scent of Civet, Rosewood and Neroli. Though faint, she had been careful to place the inviting fragrance quite strategically. Adding a bouquet to the air that was decidedly more compelling than the honeysuckle that blossomed along the path that led up to Barbara’s door.

Although only as a formality, Edith rang the bell and then entered finding Ms. Stanton on the phone just concluding her conversation with a Mrs. Bottomly. Behind her was the book case brimming with leather bound journals and a work area where scattered about were all the tools of an alchemist trade. On the walls hung framed portraits of delicate young faces, presumably of previous clients. All were young with beautifully painted faces, long curly hair, pouting red lips and a small pearl earring in just one ear.

Edith waited while young Patrick perused the assortment of magazines, picking up an older issue of Muscle & Fitness, a picture of his hero, Sgt. Rock, on the cover. A few moments later Ms. Stanton turned to greet them dressed in her customary nursing whites and 5 inch pumps that showcased her voluptuous figure. A tall, full figured woman she looked quite imposing in that snugly fit uniform. Perched high upon her platform heels she looked awe-inspiring to the boy. To his aunt she looked stunningly beautiful. To the public safety inspector she looked a menace to airborne traffic, and with her extraordinarily preponderate bust, she looked a threat to shoot down anything in range with exploding buttons from her bodice.

The sight of her always weakened the knees of young Patrick Whipple, and although not for the same reasons, his aunt’s as well. He looked down, while she eagerly embraced Barbara’s penetrating smile. In an unexpected way she found a lot to like in this attractive woman who inspired such awe in her nephew and reverence from her. Nor could she help but blush just a little when she took her hand in greeting at her office door.

“Edith, so nice to see you,” she fawned. “You’re looking simply divine as usual, and isn’t that Chanel in the air? My, my, how luscious.”

Keep in mind, Barbara Stanton was a very assertive and straight forward person, and she handled herself with a style and sense of savoir faire that could convince a pauper to give up a winning lottery ticket. She certainly had no problem tickling Edith’s fancy. Indeed, anymore would have had Edith swooning at her feet. “. . . Out for a bit of mischief I see . . . you naughty girl!”

Then with an exaggerated batting of the lashes she swooped in and wrapped her arms around her as if to mug her of her jewels. “And Patty, you look particularly dashing and debonair with your new haircut I must say.”

“Oh, isn’t he though?”

“Definitely,” Barbara added, making reference to the magazine he still held in his hand. “And Sgt. Rock thought he had cornered the market on machismo.”

“Yes, so grown-up and manly.” Edith followed, still showing concern for her nephew’s sensitivity on the matter. “A soldier’s soldier, he’s sure to be a hit at the academy.”

“Yes, I think he now measures up quite well. I can scarcely imagine a boy could look more charming.”

“Charming . . !” Patrick slowly started to wilt just from the sound of it. His smart posture and the lines on his face drew down to form a more sullen symmetry as he slumped forward. This is not at all what he wanted. He just wanted to measure up, for everyone to stop calling him “String-Bean,” “Beanstalk,” “twig” and yes, “Sissy.” But he wasn’t a sissy. He was just a misfit kid and, unfortunately, his new haircut hadn’t changed that. If the other cadets at the academy were unmercifully cruel toward him before, what were they going to think of him now?

“But Ms. Stanton, Dobb’s is a Military Academy,” he sounded ever so inconsolable, slumping even lower.

“Patty, don’t slouch, you know it’s so unhealthy.” She had gone from merry-andrew to harpy in an instant. Once buoyant, she was now gnashing her teeth showing impatience with him. Even though he had been lax but a moment it was something she wasn’t going to tolerate even for a second. “Chin up, shoulders back, thrust forward; good heavens you’d think I wouldn’t have to correct you by now.”

He knew the routine having it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis slightly forward, caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

She called this Homeostasis. Patrick called it torture. However, she insisted standing flat-footed put inordinate pressure on the spine causing unneeded stress. Thus corrective measures were needed to allow the legs to absorb more of the load. Which in practical terms meant flat sole sneakers and sandals were out, while corrective heels were in. Just an added 2” in height to correct the imbalance, and nylon socks, light-weight and airy for the sake of good hygiene in the hot desert climate.

“That’s why I’m never without my heels . . . the higher the better, Sweetie!” she would oft declare. The healthy life was not an easy one, nothing really worthwhile ever is. “No pain, no gain,” was Barbara’s motto, and young Patrick couldn’t have agreed more.

Actually it took more stamina then he could mister for the longest while. Although like everything else required of him it eventually became second nature, exactly as Ms. Stanton prescribed. All reinforced by her unrelenting chant now firmly etched between his ears. “Your carriage and stride managed in just the right way, effortless and fluent with just a touch of sashay.”

That was the problem at school. The repetitions and the dogma had somehow reconfigured his internal wiring to maintain the posture whether dressed in his elevated shoes or not. All becoming so automatic it seemed almost natural. An especially difficult problem when dressed down for phys-ed. No matter how often his instructor yelled at him he’d more oft than not forget, finding himself running the obstacle course or marching around the parade field on his toes.

With rangy neck and limbs of a gazelle in mid flight, it was not a pretty picture. The ridicule was merciless, and as you might suspect, his platoon wasn’t too happy about having to run the extra laps just because he forgot. All the way around the parade field it was to the platoon leader’s quick-time cadence, “I’m no genius, but I know, Private Whipple has got’ta go. Sound off . . .”

“Got’ta go!” Well, you can see where he fell in the collegial ranks. Ms. Stanton of course thought of it in better regarded terms. She wanted to impress upon him that there was no shame in being different, no matter how complimentary or rude was the thought or expression.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve said it a hundred times,” Ms. Stanton curtly followed. “You needn’t feel ashamed because the boys notice you at school. I mean Sergeant Rock isn’t ashamed because boys notice him,” she said, making a pointed reference to the magazine he still held.

“He’s even answered your fan club mail and told you how appreciative he is for you’re having noticed him. Remember what he said? He called you the next great Super-Trooper and was pleased as punch that all his little Musclemaniac’s the world over admired his beautiful muscles.”

“What’s more, he said that it isn’t how big your muscles are that that makes one a beautiful person. It’s living healthy and remaining true to the cause regardless of the outcome that makes a person worth remembering.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“No buts,” she interrupted. “He’s proud of the way he looks. Just as he’s proud of his outlook on life and the way he lives. He wants to share it with everyone. That’s why he poses. So you can see his beauty and want to be like him. And, I dare say, find him attractive if you are so inclined. To feel so flattered by the attention is a health outlook. One that gorgeous hunk Mr. Rock proudly embraces and so such you.”

“But the boys a school, they . . .”

“. . . What? Call you Sissy, Beanstalk? Nonsense! That shouldn’t bother you any more than they should be bothered when you call them Bobble Heads or Red Neck’s or whatever. Besides, between you and me, they’re just jealous,” she said with a lofty smile that had ‘Got yah!’ written all over it. “That’s nothing to hang your head about. You should feel proud and want to show everyone what a special young man you are.”

“Now enough of this!” she sounded off quite adamantly, leaving little room to negotiate. “I think you might feel a lot better about yourself if you were to run along and change into your trunks, then go through your floor exercises for your aunt and me. I’ll put on a record and you can give us a show.”

Barbara Stanton certainly had a way about her when it came to managing children, and Edith couldn’t help but marvel at her tact. No less impressive was her ability to drum into their heads the importance of healthy habits, a healthy body and a healthy outlook. That’s why she brought Patrick every week to see her, because she believed in the gospel of good health Barbara preached. Always insisting upon perfection regardless, offering little wiggle room for her petitioning dear to haggle.

Edith sat on a chair next to the phonograph while Ms. Stanton stood alongside waiting Patrick’s return. “I’m sorry I have to be so direct with your nephew, Edith.” She offered in feigned contrition. Then feeling the moment right for a more personal exchange, she walked behind where Edith sat and began to gently massage the aged woman’s neck and shoulders.

It was an assertive gesture that caught the startled Mrs. Whipple completely off her guard. Exactly as Barbara had planned, and carefully calculated down to Edith’s responding shutter and uncomfortable wince. Obviously Barbara understood the thoughts and emotional underpinnings of Patrick’s proud and wistful aunt quite well. In fact, she found her such an easy read that there was a notable air of brashness about her as she began to execute her wily plan. Just have a listen.

“Oh my, but you’re tense. Let me help you relax. Remember, I’m an expert on what ails the body you know.”

Edith looked up not knowing how she should respond. This was certainly out of the ordinary to be given this kind of attention, especially from a woman so deferential to proper decorum. It was also an intrusion into her privacy. Something she was very protective of and kept closely guarded from the outside world. “Have confidence darling, my magic fingers know how to bring relief to a woman’s body.”

Her touch was indeed very firm and encompassing. And as her fingers kneaded here, lingered there her touch grew warm and sensual. “I know he’s a sensitive boy and offends so easily. Yet he can’t go about feeling sorry for himself simply because he made a mistake in cutting off his beautiful hair.”

“O-o-ooh, no apology is necessary. Everything was appropriately in line with his treatment program.” Edith followed, now feeling somewhat aroused by the touch, and ashamed she felt that way. Feelings that a guarded woman with secrets would want to keep hidden from prying eyes. “Like cures like, right Ms. Stanton?”

“Yes Mrs. Whipple, like cures like. As I’ve explained, to cure his condition we endeavor to stimulate the body’s natural responses by administering a measured dose of what is causing the affliction. We also want to free up the body from wasted expenditure of resources and energy needed to restore him to good health. Just imagine the resources wasted worrying about what others may think, or how he sees himself. If we can harness all that energy, recovery will follow.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Edith quickly replied. “He should know it’s unhealthy to waste his energy sulking about his new haircut. After all, it’s such a silly thing. Still . . .” she hedged, “perhaps I should have tried harder to convince him not to cut his hair. Truthful, I do so miss it.”

“I know you do, Edith,” she answered while continuing to rub slowly along the length of her shoulders and as far down as her long red nails dare reach. “I miss it too. It’s so sad you won’t have it to care for any longer. And poor me, I just bought a lovely brush set as a gift for his birthday. It would have been an ideal gift, don’t you agree? No matter, it can be exchanged. A pearl earring would probably have been a better choice anyway.”

Startled by the remark Edith tugged with a flinch causing the top buttons of her blouse to come undone, exposing an immodest portion of her brassiere. She looked up at Barbara, her brows crossed, but unable to utter the words “pearl earring” that refused to let go of her tongue.

“Oh dear,” Ms. Stanton sought to ameliorate Edith’s concerns. “I’m sorry. Allow me to button that for you.”

Now Edith Whipple was a pragmatic woman. She certainly understood it was far easier from Barbara’s vantage point to redo what she had undone. Still, as open-minded as she felt herself to be, it was hard to believe this was an entirely appropriate thing to do. It was also an unwarranted intrusion on her privacy. Not that she had a choice in the matter. Barbara had already draped her head alongside hers, and wrapped both her arms across her heaving bosom.

Her fingers knew exactly where to touch Edith’s deeply heaving flesh. A well placed pressing of the palm here, a swirling of the finger tip there, all decidedly accidental of course, and in line with her work. Then leaning in still further, she pressed her nose in the deep V’ed canvass of her brassiere and released a pent-up sigh, “ummm, it is Chanel, how lovely.”

Edith, fully aware of the circumstance knew well how she should respond. However, at the moment all discretion and diplomacy seemed lost to her. Her defensive wall had been breached and now exposed like a raw nerve she could scarcely move nor breathe.

Remember, our good Mrs. Whipple as dear as she could be, was not a person without her flaws. Her stubborn pride often got in the way, sometimes between her good common sense and doing the right thing, as in now! Since her privacy was so important to her, she should have told the lady to back off and give her space. But she didn’t, because behind that great walled fortress, the wall of pride that was Mrs. Whipple, there was another who fell in a swoon as Barbara’s lips lingered so dangerously close. It was the part of her who suffered those feelings too shameful to own and too prideful to admit that she carefully kept hidden from the light of day. Hidden, but felt nonetheless in that wicked, guilty flutter deep in her gut.

In a sense we could say she was a woman of two minds. Much like us all I suppose. One mind suffered those shameful longings, the other a fortress that kept others from seeing what she was too ashamed to own. Mrs. Pride and Mrs. Longing, the two minds of one woman, and at the moment, a woman in turmoil.

So you see, nothing is quite as simple and straightforward as it may seem. It’s a complex world out there, and in here too. Not so black and white, and in Mrs. Whipple’s case the grays were driving her to the brink of collapse as Barbara toyed with her prey as a cat might a mouse.

A game she played expertly, knowing full well what she was doing. A baiting game that was driving the conflicted Mrs. Whipple to distraction, neither hearing Patrick quietly tip-toe back into the room. It was only a last second creak of a floorboard that drew Barbara’s attention, causing her jump with a start. “. . . There now, the sales tag is no longer visible,” she hurriedly responded, scrambling to regain her composure.

Of course at the moment Patrick looked as if he were having a bit of a battle of his own and wasn’t paying attention to anything else. Dressed or undressed as he was, he carried in the neatly folded stack of his clothes with his heeled loafers on top and set them on Barbara’s desk. Then with a faint display of courage, he readied himself and took up a classic Front Double Bicep Pose, on his toes!

Barbara hurriedly started the phonograph then took up a chair close beside Mrs. Whipple. Situating herself comfortably with the hem of her short dress rising disreputably high up her thigh, she clutched the lady’s hand and positioned it upon her lap, between her parted thighs!

Poor Mrs. Whipple, her Mrs. Longing was a flutter over those wondrous feeling that percolated like boiling water through her veins. While on the inside, her Mrs. Pride was affright. Of course it happens on occasion that one woman would hold the hand of another on her lap. That was not unusual, but between her parted thighs?

The disgrace of it! She was appalled and thought to remove her hand that very instant, and would’ve done so had her hand not been held so tightly. To pull away would certainly have caused a scene - or worse, pulled her out of her chair. There was nothing for her to do but hold her breath and give in. Which she did, and all the while Barbara beamed a smile that stretched the length of a Buick, while she fidgeted and squirmed like a pre-teen sitting in the front row of a pop concert. Then as Patrick began to run through his paces, she pressed down firmly on Edith’s hand.

I was quite a “cata-gasmic” moment for poor Mrs. Whipple. She was so consumed by the radiant warmth felt against the back of her hand she could focus on little else, including Patrick. Dressed in his posing trunks he made quite a heated impression, but nothing compared to the blaze that radiated up her arm, and oddly, down to her loins! Yip, below the billowy froth and right to the bottom of the deep blue sea. Leaving her breathless and transfixed, with only the hope that the agitate sea didn’t seep out and soil her new dress.

Wholly consumed by his own kind of tumultuous sea, Patrick chose not to look the way of his approving audience. Instead his thoughts were on the satin sheen of his tight red trunks that left so little to the imagination. Not that he had much to hide. That part of him neither time nor circumstance had ever caused much to grow. Much like his scrawny, muscle-less body there wasn’t a rip, ripple or bulge anywhere to be seen other than pelvic, rib and clavicle bone. Despite his efforts or his want to look like the other boys at school, or his hero Sgt. Rock, his muscles never swelled nor did his cup ever runneth over.

Still he tried his best to emulate his hero just like the special boy Ms. Stanton said he was. As he ran through his routines to the rhythm of the song and Barbara’s ooooh and aaaah’s, he stressed and strained through each repetition to get some muscle, any muscle to cause a ripple. The only thing he got for his efforts was the nuance of a bulge beneath his puffy nipples while executing a splendid rendition of a Front Lad Spread. All very disheartening to be sure, but still he held his head up, and when he was done he took a bow worthy any pigeon-toed, Muscle & Fitness cover boy with a flattop worth his salt.

“Bravo - bravo,” Barbara stood up to clap giving Edith a moment to breathe coming not a moment to soon. As she started off to give the dear boy a hug, she caught a glimpse of Edith out of the corner of her eye pretending to wipe her nose with the back of her scented hand. She crooked a smile then wanting to sweeten her plate of cheek and grit she sought to add a pinch of wickedness and turned to the boy. “Well, you were right Patty. The long hair was a bit suspect, whereas this manly flattop makes a commanding statement.” Then leaning in, she firmly pinched his rump then quickly saved and filed his startled look to memory. “At school, all those little Bobble Heads are going to be bobbing and throbbing with envy.”

She gave Patrick the stiff salute as was the fashion at the academy and he returned her smile. Apparently he had missed some of what she had said and all of what had been implied had bounced off that table top head of his. She also felt fortunate that Edith had been temporary distracted as well. She had been facing away and was too busy removing the evidence of her distress off her dress to hear. With her passions momentarily quelled she now felt a tinge of guilt, realizing she had probably been a little too brash. Her only hope was that she would be more circumspect in the future as she still had a long day to go.

After having had time to compose herself, Edith came over to congratulate her nephew for his fine performance before offering a warm smile to Mrs. Stanton. “Well then, enough dally.” Barbara commanded with a decidedly change in tenor in her voice. “Let’s get started.”

As was expected of her, Edith promptly went to retrieve the Program log she had brought with her and handed it to the suddenly terse Ms. Stanton. “First off, I’m afraid I had to reschedule Nicholas Bottomly because he was unable to attend his usual Saturday appointment. So as I expect him at three, I suppose we might be a bit pressed for time. Let’s you and I have a look at Patty’s Program Log and Patty, you can wait in the Treatment Room while your aunt and I discuss the findings.”

Patrick picked up his pile of clothes, his shoes with the magazine on top and left Ms. Stanton’s office. The Treatment Room located across the hall had become like a second home to him. Originally the Family Room, it was a spacious and accommodating, but the ambient rose-pink tone suggested a tranquility not often found in this place where Ms. Stanton applied her mysterious homeopathic craft.

Medicine is what she called it, even though it was a business degree and not a medical certification that hung on her wall. Nor did she use the usually medicines and tools of the medical trade. Excluding the nurse’s uniform, all the curative tools she needed to contrive her sorcerer’s brew could be found in the treatment room gadgetry and apparatus, the greenhouse and herb garden around back. Add in a touch of her persuasive persona and a wad of bubble gum and she had all the ingredients she needed to build the Taj Mahal. Certainly more than was needed to reconstitute an ailing boy in any fashion she wished. Of course no one understood that better than poor Patrick Whipple as he walked in yet again.

He stopped next to a table just outside the door to look over the assortment of magazines Ms. Stanton provided for her young client’s enjoyment. The magazines were the one thing he liked about coming to see her. Pulp fiction and muscle magazines with pictorials, photo exposés and action stories disguised as patriotic fanfare, they were written to appear to men with a decidedly different bent. Sometimes savage, sometimes heroic, but always spotlighting a ton of scantily clad beefcake. Not the usual fare one would find in a homeopathic clinic, but Patrick found them fascinating and couldn’t wait to get his hands on the newest issues.

Looking over the copies of “Muscle & Fitness,” “Musclemania,” “Kombat,” “Kommando,” and his favorite “Modern Gladiator,” Patrick spotted the newest cover with Sgt. Rock posed in a jungle river setting. A red bandana was tied around his forehead and his face scrubbed with lines of black camouflage. Standing in a shallow pool of muddy river water, he was still soaked from the swim. He had a Glock hunting knife clenched in his teeth, a 6 barrel revolving Mini-Cannon in his hands and a bullet bandoleer across his shoulder. Other than a skimpy pair of red French-cut trunks and his menacing snarl he wore nothing else. And the only thing bigger than that beefy cannon of his was his 60” chest and 22” round biceps that were roughly proportionate a tree trunk in the near foreground.

Patrick quickly thumbed through the pages, all 8x10 glosses along with a loose story line of sorts beneath. Stopping momentarily on the one that showed Sgt. Rock wrapped around a crocodile like a boa in a fight to the finish with its prey, he knew he’d not be leaving today without this must-have issue. Setting down the copy of Muscle & Fitness he had picked up in the foyer, he exchanged it for the new edition of Modern Gladiator. Tucking it under his arm he entered the treatment room and set it alongside his pile of clothes.

He felt a bit restless when he entered the room. Mostly from the memories that stained him as rose-pink as the walls. Just seeing it all again rest heavily upon him and feeling a tightening in his stomach he sought a place to sit. Sitting down on an infants stool he slumped over to rest his weary head in the palm of his hands to think. In the background he could hear Ms. Stanton and his aunt across the hall talking . . .
----

“I see you’ve been quite precise with the schedule . . . no significant temperature variations . . . and Patty has been responding well to the new mitigation schedule . . . though you’ve experienced a bit of a problem with frequent torosity I see.”

“Torosity?” echoed Edith, seemingly confused by the term.

Barbara was sitting behind her desk quickly scanning the Program Log Edith maintained as a matter of practice. “Yes Edith,” Barbara bluntly followed without bothering to look up, “‘torose’ is a medical term referring to the alternate swelling and contracting of a knobbed protuberance. Much like a . . . Well, like the problem Patrick has been experiencing I would suspect.”

Across from her sat Edith, still carrying her musky scent on the back of her hand. She sat with her hands folded modestly on her lap looking on impassively though relieved that a sense of orderliness had finally returned to the proceedings. “Oh, well, yes! I suppose I did make a notation to that effect. He did seem a bit more . . . um, animated than usual,” Edith replied, her cheeks flush by a factor of two. “But it wasn’t really a problem as such. Just something I had to contend with. As you recall, you did ask that I record everything, correct Ms. Stanton?”

“Yes, thank you,” Barbara replied, wondering if the woman could be anymore daft. “And you’ve using the new appliance for the mitigation procedure as I recommended?”

“Oh yes, I assure you, twice daily just as you’ve prescribed. Before his morning bath and again before I give him his bedtime bath promptly at eight.”

Barbara peered in and listened intently, appearing as if she were taking the whole matter quite seriously. She wasn’t, of course. The process she had set in motion was already too well established and the outcome already known. Still, the “purge and herbal replenishment” therapy was supposedly a vital part of the boy’s recovery program, and for Edith’s benefit it was important to show the unsuspecting woman she was giving it her fullest attention. Part of the game she played to placate the old woman. To reassure her that the scheme was working exactly as intended, and like always, her cool, calculated manner had put Edith at ease and in a very pleasant state of mind.

Not that Edith had as yet forgiven Barbara for her shocking display of libido that had just played out during her nephew’s performance. In fact, the incident was still very much on her mind. Having one’s hand clasp between the thighs of another was not the sort of thing a lady of her persuasion was likely to forget too quickly. Least not with Barbara’s pungent scent still tattooed on the back of her hand.

Of course she wanted to believe the incident had been accidental. If not, then perhaps it could be blamed on a form of battle fatigue that had suddenly overtaken Barbara Stanton, the consummate commander-in-chief. That was something she could understand, having felt similar uncontrollable impulses herself every now and again, more often than not when feeling a bit of frustration. Once the itch was scratched sort of speak, she quickly returned to her usual self.

She supposed it was something in a woman’s nature to need to relieve the tension and the stress. That is, without having to resort to pulling out your hair. Now that she gave it a second thought, perhaps she had been too quick in passing her initial judgment. She had to admit now that her tensions had also been spent, she found it a lot easier to forgive the misdemeanor — somehow!

So Mrs. Whipple beamed a satisfied smile and quickly gave up the worry about the little dalliance. She was no less from the wear. Besides, there wasn’t but a couple of decades difference in their age and . . . well, she did have her pride and rather liked to fancy herself not altogether undesirable.

Edith was also pleased to see Ms. Stanton back in good form. She found her to be a strikingly beautiful woman with a firm, commanding hand. Like a thoroughbred in full stride, she was a pleasure to behold when on top of her game. She reminded her of her dearly departed mother, a strict, iron-fisted woman who ran the household, her and her father like a Parris Island drill instructor.

Her mother had been a force like none other in her life until she had met Barbara Stanton. Perhaps we can speculate as to whether that was the reason she found her so appealing. The possibility certain gives one food for thought. Although for a lady of advanced years, set in her ways and who has managed well on her own terms, there really isn’t much of a need to examine why she is this way or that. We need only consider that she was mindful of just one thing other than her own self-interest, and that was Ms. Stanton.

Surely this divine creature was worthy of her reverence, and like her mother, the stern look in her eyes always stirred the smoldering embers deep in her loins when she spoke.

“. . . But I see the week wasn’t entirely without problems. You’ve mention here in your log that Patrick has some complaints about the mitigation procedure. Perhaps you’d care to be more specific, Mrs. Whipple!”

“Ah, well, um . . .”

“Please try to be more direct, Mrs. Whipple. We need not waste more time than is necessary. I assume you explained why this kind of behavior is unsuitable and dealt with appropriately?”

“Aaah, yes, well of course. You know I tolerate nothing of the sort. Still . . . ,” she paused looking as if to resolve a tinge of guilt. “He does fiddle terribly when I use the new . . . um . . . appliance. I know you explained to him he should have no difficulties in making the accommodation, and he is so willing to please, and all. It’s just that, well, sometimes the poor dear tries too hard. He tenses up so, and complaints when more . . . aaah, pressure must be applied. It does seem the smaller appliance caused him much less distress.”

“I see, and you think we should moderate this essential and vital part of his treatment?” The question posed rhetorically. “Simply give in and allow him to slide back into his poor health habits that caused all this to be necessary. See him again habituating the old patterns which have caused his vitals to degenerate. You would have me do this just so I may show sympathy? I can’t! Nor should you, but I would gladly pass on his records if you wish to seek the help of another clinician.”

“Oh my, heavens no, Ms. Stanton,” she shudder over the veiled threat. “I have every confidence you’ll restore my nephew to good health.”

“I believe you do, but certainly no less than I do. It’s imperative we realign, re-nourish and re-educate your nephew back to good health. To see him grow up healthy and live happy ever after in the arms of the right . . . well, person. We do want to be socially correct with the times do we not Mrs. Whipple?”

“Why certainly, I am thoroughly modern in most all regards . . . I suppose,” Edith followed, hoping the keen eyed Ms. Stanton couldn’t detect her flush. “His happiness is paramount.”

Of course, Barbara didn’t have to be all that keen eyes. A crayfish with one leg already in the boil couldn’t have been more on edge. All quite predictable, if not counted upon whenever she ratcheted up her resolve and consumed all the oxygen Edith needed to breathe. Being firm and unyielding with her was always like adding fuel to a famished fire, especially when hinted at things forbidden, like those dare-not-be-spoken thoughts about her nephew.

“I agree,” Barbara followed. “We must be open-minded to all the possibilities. One can never tell what boys will take a fancy to these days. It’s all rather natural. Not all boys have the same appetite for this and that, but it’s important to keep abreast of it. That’s why I feel it’s important we go over this in fine detail. I want to be certain all facets of the program are achieving their intended goal. It all works for the betterment of the program. There’s no harm in that. Just like there’s no harm in his fascination with those wondrous musclemen.”

“Well, its far better I suppose than other pleasures boys tend to enjoy. Comic books, sports collectables, cowboys and Indians, bah, they all perpetuate slothfulness and hooliganism which has no place in my home.” Mrs. Whipple spoke firmly. “That’s why I insist his attending Dobb’s Military Academy. They hold to basics and traditions with far more substance and don’t permit such things.”

“Yes, well, it is unfortunate for our little ‘Modern Gladiator’ enthusiast. He has nobody to share his muscle man collectables with.”

“I suppose,” Edith mumbled then glanced away as if undecided whether to go on. “He does love those he-men so, especially that Sgt. Rock.”

“It is a wonder,” Barbara mocked her verbal point, “a mega-muscle Adonis posing as a combat commando in those skimpy trunks and combat boots. Not to mention that huge gun he carries around, as if that could possibly provide some legitimacy. Imagine his cadre of little Musclemaniac’s the world wide believing him a real combat hero.”

“Yes well, I suppose it’s the gun that draws his interest. It is a rather big one!

“Yes I’ve noticed.” Ms. Stanton followed in a quirky, amused tone.

“Well,” Edith shrugged, “I guess you do what you must to hold a boy’s interest.”

“Why not, he has a lot to offer. That beefy weapon he flaunts certain has my eyes riveted to the page.” Barbara Stanton suddenly burst out laughing, and though his aunt tried to refrain, she soon followed suit.

-----

The laughter was reality tapping Patrick on the shoulder. It swept in like a cruel, gut wrenching arctic chill that made him shiver. Bad enough that he was the subject of distain at school, but to hear the same in Ms. Stanton’s voice only help to solidify how he felt about himself. He didn’t want to stand out, be different from the others. He only wanted to measure-up and, like a good soldier, come by a little pride in himself. Instead he ended up having made matters worse.

It was his decision to cut his hair of course, against the wishes of his aunt and one of the few not made by someone else. In truth he had no real voice to call his own. From a small boy living with his mother in Maine to life with his aunt in Arizona, all the decisions had been made for him. Sadly, seemingly everyone had a hand in shaping his life but him.

But how else could it be? His aunt ran her household and raised him as she saw fit. As his only living relative he had little choice but do as she asked, and after Ms. Stanton came into the picture, his treatment of his supposed ailment robbed him of the choice on how he was to live. The whole of it prescribed for him by his treatment program. From the corrective heels and support corsetry, to the time he spent outside exposed to the hot afternoon sun.

Of course he couldn’t blame his aunt anymore than he could his dearly departed mother for his wafer-thin draft. She was just doing what she thought right. It wasn’t her fault he still wet the bed. The facts were what they were. He was a sickly “string-bean” of a kid, just as weak and frail now as when he began his treatment. His aunt’s laughter bore that out. No, he knew his failings where his own, and he didn’t like himself very much for it.

Carrying around those kinds of feelings can be a crushing weight to bear for a young boy, but no different from you or I when suffering the pangs of our inadequacies. It’s something that tugs at us all and affect us in some known, and some unknown ways. There are some who might choose to spend time commiserating with a bottle of bourbon, and those like Patrick who don’t like themselves all that much and shed a tear or two. Something he was doing a lot more often these days, his emotions waxing wildly sometimes without reason.

He didn’t know why it was becoming harder to control his emotions. Not anymore than he understood the recently acquired habit of rapping an extended index finger against his temple as one might tap a windowpane. Call it a nervous tick if you like, something he did when overcome with emotion. Much like the sound of a metronome marking time, so too did the gentle rhythmic thumping of his finger help to give him a sense of bearing above the chaos of emotions. Just as he did as he sat listening to the laughter with his head cradled in his palms and a glint of moisture on his lashes, his finger nervously rapping . . .

----

. . . thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump, Barbara Stanton gently rolled her fingers against the desk top waiting for Mrs. Whipple to pour herself a cup of tea. Barbara always kept the kettle hot knowing how much Edith liked to linger over a warm cup while they conversed. She claimed to particularity favor the special blend of herbs and spices. However, Barbara thought it more likely that she used the time to mull over her thoughts before deciding how best to proceed.

She returned to her seat at the desk, sipped her tea, and then looked up at the portrait hanging on the wall behind Ms. Stanton. She was enthralled by what she believed to be an extraordinary young lady, with her long curly hair, pouting red painted lips and peculiarly, only one pearl earring. Barbara watched as she crooked her head in study of the portrait, looking as if caught up by the mystery behind Jordan’s radiant blue eyes and angelic smile. “So have you made any decisions about what you’re going to do once he graduates from the academy next month?”

“No,” Edith sullenly replied. “I suppose if he gets his wish he’ll enlist in the army. But as you’ve said, without a clean bill of health he’s not likely to pass the physical. In which case, I simply do not know. Perhaps attend a college to learn a trade . . .”

“You still haven’t discussed it with him?”

“No, I know how disappointed he’s going to be. You know how he romanticizes about the army, not to mention that Sgt. Rock.”

“Nothing wrong with that, Edith,” Barbara said emphatically. “It just goes to show what a special boy he is. There’s nothing wrong with a boy idolizing his heroes. Besides, to want to imitate is the purest expression of love. We can’t place blame on him for that. Mr. Rock is quite a gorgeous thing, don’t you agree?”

“Well . . . yes, of course, but I’ve never quite thought of it like that. I mean, I never imagined . . .”

“Mrs. Whipple, you have a lovely young willow in your back yard. You’ve told me countless times about the pleasure the tree gives to you. Now tell me, does it matter how your willow chooses to look? Whether spread out like a full skirt or droopy as trousers on a clothesline, whatever fashion Mr. Willow chooses doesn’t matter as long as it gives you pleasure, right Edith?”

Poor Mrs. Whipple, her hard-edged common sense seemed to desert her whenever she was in need. She still hadn’t been able to see though her concerns about her nephew’s future, and now Barbara expected her to see through the inference about her androgynous tree? The perplexities were staggering, but that was the enigma Barbara Stanton posed. She spoke as though privileged to insights she alone understood. With presumed authority in a firm, confident way that left Edith struggling with the mystery, yet taken by her intoxicating presence.

“Your ‘Mr. Willow’ is very special,” Barbara continued to play on the misdirection, a tact solely intended to punch a hole in that great wall of pride she aimed to obliterate. Step one in the battle plan she had concocted to bring that meddlesome, steadfast wall down. “. . . and it would seem to me he requires not only your nurturing but acceptance as well, no matter his bent. Don’t you agree, Edith?”

“Oh my, I, I suppose. . .” Edith stammered, now realizing this was not about uprooting her tree simply because she might not like the way it looked. Edith wasn’t the brightest firefly in the jar, but she didn’t have to be. The suggestion that there might be something more to Patty’s fascination with that majestic Sgt. Rock had been made quite clear.

Of course, she had never thought of it in those terms before, and in truth, would have preferred not to. These were not the kind of things decent women discussed in public, least not without causing some bloodletting. Yes, to her it was a shameful thought, but she also loved her nephew unconditionally.”

Nevertheless, as far as she could see it had nothing to do with his therapy and she wondered why Barbara would bother to bring it up. Those things were the product of poor upbringing and parenting, broken homes and delinquency. Not the product of a good home like her own. Besides, her Patty was a good boy, not a delinquent choosing a deviant homosexual lifestyle. Or so she was of the opinion.

“I knew you would agree,” Barbara followed, no longer trying to disguise her intent. “You’re a very conscientious woman. I also know you’re not averse to providing whatever is needed. Especially when it comes to establishing the kind of intimacy you need to share his interests and explore his needs. Right, Edith?”

“Yes, I agree,” she replied as she selected a pleasant smile, carefully attached it to her face then continued to sip her tea. Her thoughts however were elsewhere. She was wondering if Barbara felt the need to bring the matter up. Surely she must know by now that her nephew’s happiness was all that mattered, and even if she were to recommend she garter his long stockings she would follow her advice as if the letter of law.

Still she had put the question out there, and rightfully so. After all, much about herself she kept closely guarded, hidden away and not worn on her sleeve. Just as you might expect of a woman, old and alone, who had only herself to defend her dignity. That’s all she had left after all is said and done. And should it be found out she secretly harbored passions for things more stirring than a garden of prize tulips, the shame would be the death of her. Or worse, she’d be left to suffer a torment far greater than the one that already ravaged her soul whenever Barbara’s lips lingered so close.

“All well and good,” Barbara concluded, pleased to see from Edith’s distant look that the first salvo she aimed at that wall of pride had hit the target square. “Rest assured I’m not likely to let you forget. Now, we should be getting on with the examination.”

As she gave Edith a moment to finish her tea she reached down under her desk to retrieve a package. “Before we go however, I’ve something here that I want to give to Patty. It was sent to me from a colleague in France who is also a bodybuilding enthusiast.”

“Another magazine to satisfy his interests, I hope. He really does love all those lovely pictures.”

“Yes, of course. Another of those titillating glamour magazines he enjoys,” she telegraphed a grin.

“It’s a souvenir of sorts she picked up at a show in Paris and I’d like to pass it on to you so you can share it with Patty at your leisure. Something to juice up the bone,” she stated quickly frankly, but careful to keep the smirk off her face.

“Juice up the bone?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Edith. It’s just an expression of my mother’s when preparing dinner for her starving kids. Whenever I asked what she was making she would say, ‘Lions and Tigers and something special to juice up the bone.’ That always meant something special was coming that was sure to be pure ecstasy.”

“Oh, I see. Well, thank you, I’m sure Patty will be grateful.”

“Well, I had planned on giving it as a gift myself for his coming birthday, but decided it might be better if the two of you were to cozy up and explore this little treasure together.”

“That is very kind of you, but are you sure? You know how he is looking forward to his birthday and a present from you.”

“I’ll get him another.” Barbara replied. Yet her thoughts were elsewhere. She was thinking about Patrick’s coming birthday. Something she had been looking forward to for a very long time — young Mr. Whipple turning eighteen at last!

“I’ll get him something more fitting a boy soon to be looking to find his rightful place in the world.” She added, thinking about how much she had left to do in so little time. She would have to step things up as it was now or never.

“And I want to give him the perfect gift that will help him find it.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Edith replied. “I can’t wait to see the surprise on his face.”

“Neither can I,” Barbara followed with a wayward glance. The last thing she wanted was to unwittingly tip her hand and allow her good work to come undone. “Now, I’ll just leave this package beside your purse so you won’t forget when you leave this afternoon.”

“That done, I think it time we go see Patty. Come along, Edith,” she concluded, then rose up to leave with Edith shadowing those skyscraper heels, homing in on the rhythm of the stilettos like a dog on the hunt . . .

----

The prey they stalked heard the sound of the advancing stilettos as well. Though, unlike a rabbit fleeing the evening stew, he had nowhere to run, or hide or worry about other than whether they would enjoy the meal.

Of course, it wouldn’t surprise him if she were to complain about that too — his being nothing but skin and bone, and all. Just like her comment about wanting to help him “find his rightful place in the world.” Coming from her, it didn’t surprise him in the least. It apparently didn’t surprise his aunt either. So why should anyone wonder why she would even have a say in the matter. She did what she wanted and said as she pleased without reflection. She pulled all the strings, and there was nothing he could say that would change that.

Like his Geppetto, it was a bit hard to escape the tie, and like a boy on a string, he was never far from her reach. Just as it had been since she began managing his care, his life and everything about him. She had him tied so close he could scarcely breathe on his own, molding and shaping his world with determination. All accomplished with the blessings of his dear aunt under the banner of a treatment program.

From the beginning it had been the gospel of Stanton. Her first infallible truth was the importance of good health habits. “Your poor health is a symptom of a body out of harmony, struggling to overthrow the disease.” She would say. “To cure what ails you we must re-establish your natural poise and balance through a gradual process of re-vitalization and re-education designed to eradicate harmful habits and affect change. As the mind and the body are one, we must work with the totality of the person to change this vital force. And that begins with self-awareness.”

The upshot of all this was that the ailment would have to be dealt with in its “totality,” requiring a complete change in lifestyle. Realign, re-nourish and re-educate. Realign the posture to free up wasted resources caused by undue stress. Re-nourishing the “vital force” through “purge and herbal replenishment,” and re-educate to unlearn harmful habits, affecting change in how he thought about himself. In accordance with her “like cures like” principle, he’d learn about the healthy male physique with the use of the muscle magazines that exemplified the fitness. For her it was a convenient way to integrate his fascination with bodybuilding with his recovery program. For Patrick, it was a bit of genius that suited him just fine.

Although she never offered to explain exactly how the substance of all this would miraculously affect the change she sought, she insisted it was all essential to his recovery plan. Then when he was healthy enough the actual muscle training would follow. It all sounded convincing enough. Thinking of this as just a prelude of what was to come he engaged it all enthusiastically.

Why not, a boy needs hope and heroes too. Much like those he found in his muscle magazines. There’s nothing wrong in that. It was something he enjoyed, not unlike others might enjoy modeling or sports collectibles. In many ways they were like his aunt’s variety magazines, only for boys. Instead of “titillation” and “glamour,” as Ms. Stanton would have us believe, they providing the action and adventure and the masculine models for him to aspire and fashion his character; Sort of a “Boy’s Life” for the underachiever if you will. In much the same way his aunt admired those gentleman in the variety magazines for a certain fashion sense, he readily admitted to a certain admiration of those men in the muscle magazines for their physical prowess.

The reasons seemed obvious enough. They were everything he was not but wished to be - vital and heroic. As he lived a cloistered life with no friends at home or school, with only the opinion of his aunt and Ms. Stanton to consider, those magazines were very important to him. The hero’s were bigger than life, and yes, he rather fancied them in ways he didn’t altogether understand.

So late at night it was not uncommon to see young Patrick Whipple beneath the covers of his bed with his authentic Musclemania flashlight and his magazine in hand. There he’d read and reread every caption, scan and re-scan every photographic detail, fascinated by what he saw. His imagination filled with the same wonder of a boy holding a complete set of the 1927 Yankee Bazooka trading cards. Afterward with the light off, his eyes closed, he’d mill over the images that filled him with wonder.

Then outing himself from beneath the covers he’d rise up firmly, and once again taking himself in hand he’d dream of the images that play back in to his mind. Like scenes in an old movie that pass in a jerking, flickering sequence and then repeat like a film looping round. Slowly at first, but as his pulse quickens and the intensity grows the scenes flick past faster and faster, round and around until the jerking, sputtering loop plays itself out to completion and he could again sleep.

----

Patrick sat waiting for Ms. Stanton and his Aunt in the treatment room, his head held up by his cradling palms. Slumped over it was obvious he felt a little melancholy. Not how we’d like to find the young man, leastwise not without good reason. Was it something about his present state of affairs, or was there something about this room that concerned him when Ms. Stanton entered the room?

“Patty! My word, what’s become of you? Straighten up properly this instant!” Barbara’s screech was like that of a predator swooping down on its prey. With all but her claws out there was nothing to be done except assume the perfect posture, then contritely allow himself to be taken in hand and hauled off to the hygiene corner that had been occupying his thoughts.

“And I thought you were a big enough boy to no longer require the aid of an alignment corset.” She pulled up a chair alongside the gurney, sat and positioned him between her knees to conduct her examination. “Quickly now we have no time to dawdle.”

Edith, a woman with ample experience in these matters looked on from the entrance so as not be in the way. The vantage point provided a good view as this beautiful, skilled practitioner taking charge of her nephew. In many ways it was quite reminiscent of those nightly experiences she had of her own, though when viewed from the outside, so much more emotive. With her eyes fixed to the scene with the same wonder of a child witnessing a birth of a hatching, she held her breathe and watched quietly from the distance.

His trunks, tight fit and torose came down. Then feeling for tension in the abs Ms. Stanton found good reason to lecture him. “My, but you’re . . . taut, tight and stiff as a board! No wonder I find you slouching. What have I to do? Movement without thought is misuse, you know that. It’s essential that you sustain the muscle tone and the posture needed to stimulate the body’s natural resources to combat your affliction. As well, it aligns the cramped byways to support proper respiration and digestion, not to mention helping to keep you alert and clear minded.”

“But this can’t happen if you can’t free up the resources you’re wasting on needless expenditures like this. Now, the treatment regiment can only do so much. The rest is up to you. So tell me Mister stiff-as-a-board, how do you expect to grow up big and strong with your body all tied up in knots like this, hum?”

“I-I dunno Ms. Stanton,” Patrick shook his head as if to negate the proof right in front of her eyes.

“Don’t know? Is that all you can say to explain yourself . . . or explain this? What in the world are you thinking?” She posed the question rhetorically. “Just have a look at yourself, slouched and taut and unapologetic. All this when you should be feeling ashamed of this display of yours, especially in front of your aunt and me who had been hoping you’d be displaying something a bit more substantial in the way of progress by now.”

Edith knew she was right, of course. It was a rather rude display, but nothing she hadn’t seen before. In truth, his lack of forethought was something she dealt with quite often, almost expectedly if you will. Young boys are prone to these things after all. Especially during intimate moments like this, when given their impetuous nature boys are more apt to respond instinctively, unable to exercise self-control.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel flushed as Barbara methodically went about the examination. As thorough as a fastidious schoolmistress, there wasn’t much in the way of detail that escaped her reach. Coupled with the strident voice, her passionate resolve and her firm, confident hand, and you have all the ingredients needed to move mountains. From Edith’s place at the door, enough to stir the kettle of simmering broth deep in her loins.

But don’t let your imaginings get the better of you. Everything Barbara did was quite clinical, although she wasn’t averse to adding a touch of choreography here and there while she went about her diagnostic prodding and probing and artful machinations. Perhaps for Edith’s benefit or perhaps the boy’s just to keep his toes curled or his mind from wandering. Of course, there was something in the game for her too. She was a businesswoman after all, and this was a business proposition.

Nevertheless, work is just work if some enjoyment isn’t had in the execution. The tedium can in itself become problematic. Although, thankfully, this wasn’t something Barbara had to contend with. There was something in the wickedness of the process she savored as she indulged her palate on his heightened discomfort. Still she was mindful of her role, and always careful, she made sure everything she did was completely in line with the work.

“Mrs. Whipple, I wonder if you won’t mind retrieving an alignment corset from the closet. I’ve simply reached my limit with this ungainly slouching.” That’s the sound of Barbara doing what she does best. Just like any highly motivated entrepreneur who owned the tactical skills of an Indi-car champion. She always kept a keen eye on the competition and her foot on the accelerator as she raced to success in the business world, and before that, to the top of her class in “Strategic Personnel Management 401.”

Now with Edith strategically out of the way she sought to direct her personnel management skills toward other, more personal matters. Not liberties per se, she didn’t have to take unfair advantage of Patrick. In truth she often frequented those special places when time was convenient. Not wanting to draw unneeded questions she often found it prudent to wait until his aunt first stepped out to powder her nose.

“Turn your head and cough, Pattie . . . another. That’s a good boy.” Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Checking for anything usual was quite expected, especially for a late bloomer like Patrick. Although invasive, it’s all quite clinical, even when his aunt was away. Though sometimes not. Oft neglected cavernous tissues had to also be deal with. If not already enliven, as now, it was within her prerogative to see that everything was still in the proper working order.

All part of the game she played to further heighten his discomfort out of view of his aunt. Not that Edith could stake claim to the moral high ground. She had her duties at home and didn’t hesitate to exercise her own prerogative while managing his nightly ablutions. Hardly the lofty platform one would use to launch a complaint, especially considering the passion she had for performing her “duties.” Barbara could see that in the attention to detail Edith gave to his shave and the sweet smell of hand lotion in the most unlikely places. Something Barbara understood and comfortably counted upon as her fingers prodded and her hands kneaded without fear of recrimination.

Besides, a conflicted woman harboring a passion for bathing a seventeen year old nightly while administering a colonic purge wasn’t likely to speak up, much less own up to whatever was on her mind. That might also go to explain why Edith didn’t say anything about other, equally pertinent matters. Like the recent changes in his physique, all quite unexpected in a boy. It would have been impossible for her not to have noticed, but if she had, nothing was said.

Of course it was a gradual process that accompanied other changes as he grew taller and more robust with age. The need to shave more often, especially those required areas like underarms, legs and other like places certainly was within the realm of what was to be expected. What about his chin, shouldn’t there have been evidence of some need by now? Even for a boy as tenuous, to see no evidence of hair growth on either his chin or his chest should have been the cause of some concern. Then again, if it had, no questions were asked.

Just as neither Patrick nor his aunt said anything about other, equally noticeable aberrations. Allowing her fingertips to gentle brush over the raised swellings on his chest, it was hard to imagine how the abnormally large, vaulted dark brown areoles had not caused some suspicion. If not, then what of his smooth, unblemished skin or the distinctive plump curvature of his bottom, all so undeniably feminine it couldn’t have been mistaken for anything other than it actually was.

Oh, to a degree he complained about her herbal remedies and exercises not doing their job. Especially those intended to build muscle and not the fat that seemed to be accumulating in certain localized places. He also complained of a bothersome itch around one such area on his chest. More so recently, so she thought it would be a nice gesture to gently soothe the area with a special balm, quietly and unannounced while his aunt was away.

There wasn’t all that much to it quite honestly. Just a light concentrate of certain oils, roots, herbs and the like she also used for his internal ablutions. Nothing meant to harm or cause permanent mischief. Only a subtle medicinal splicing to hybridize the yin with the yang while advancing the process from bud to blossom. A process she knew a lot about. The careful milling and tempering of her special brew; she knew how to exact all the right processes, incantations and phases of the moon.

Now with the buds ready to rise up in full blossom with the morning sun, Barbara was pleased to see it was doing its job well. The time-tested remedy had proven itself as a profitable tool over the years for both her special clients and herself. So she had no qualms about gently rubbing in the balm. Certainly Patrick didn’t mind. He wore a contented smile and sighed with some relief as his aunt returned to the room.

Edith was pleased as well. Having to find a suitable medical garment that would fit him had not been as simple a task as it would seem. Though the no-frills, white spandex garment was decidedly on the feminine side, it certainly was modest compared to most of the delicate finery she found there. A simple garment that extended from just under the arm to the lower reaches of the abdomen, it used medal clasps and elasticized Velcro instead of lacing which made it a simple matter to tighten and remove.

In all, the garment served its purpose well. It was not a shaping garment per se, the likes of which a woman might wear to help perfect her contour. Rather, with it’s sewn in steel battens it was primarily a support garment that forced the shoulders, back and hips into perfect alignment. Unfortunately, it also compressed those localized accumulations of fatty tissues into two conspicuous swellings. Fledgling to be sure, but even so little marked a salient distinction that was impossible to go unnoticed.

Breathless and pale, Patrick looked as if rigor mortis had already set in while Edith’s heart raced like a Maserati and gasped as if venting the exhaust. She didn’t say anything. As she stood there eye to eye and most assuredly, breast to breast, she acted as though there was nothing out of the ordinary at all. Even in view of his ambi-gender allure and comely form it was as if she thought of him simply as her sickly nephew in need of her sympathy, not her outrage.

Or so she would have it appear. As we all know, the face we put forward does not always tell the whole story. To know how she really felt you’d have to pierce through that defensive wall of pride. Something Barbara, with her uncanny capacity to see right through the conflicted Mrs. Whipple had no trouble doing. To her, Edith was an easier read then a dime store novelette, which might explain the wily smirk she now owned.

As for reading Patrick, well, the poor boy looked a beanstalk with three buds branching out from his skin and bone stalk — two buds up and one bud down. “Ah, well, there’s nothing like healthy bindings to eradicate unhealthy habits. With battens hard and erect, wouldn’t you agree Mrs. Whipple?”

“Ahmmm . . . of course,” Edith panted. Her Mrs. Pride was utterly aghast, but so overwhelmed by the pulsing, guilty-ridden flutter coursing through Mrs. Longing’s veins that doing the right thing was nowhere to be seen.

“All well and good. Now, young Mr. Rock, kneel up on the table, bottom up. Let’s have a look-see at what ails you.”

Energized by the sight of the compliant boy and his duty-bound aunt she helped him up on the gurney before suspending a 2 quart bag of her special herbal solution over his head. Then standing alongside a case that displayed in linear order the exclusively designed blue - as in boy - nozzles, she waved her fingers as if brandishing a wand over the top of the case. When she could tell from his tense, wide-eyed expression she had his full attention she slowly swept her fingers from the smallest down to one somewhat larger. Pausing over a replica of the model he currently used at home, she lingered a long moment and then shook her head as if to deplore, “It’s still a long road to recovery Patty. . .”

Then with a wry, amused grin, she continued on down the long row in her grandstanding manner until she reached the monstrosity at the end. Edith was on tenterhooks and he, mouth agape looked in awe as she picked it up and cradled it in her hands. “. . . But a fulfilling experience when you finally reach the end. Hopefully you’ll be feeling that fulfillment a little sooner than later . . . but unfortunately, not today.”

After taking hold of one similar to the one he now used at home, she secured it to the hosing then snapped-on a pair of latex gloves and lubricated the fingers. Edith stood by silently as Barbara readied her gloved fingers to plow a furrow good and deep. With Patrick kneeling bottom up and head resting on the table, she had already planted her trowel to the knuckles when, “. . . You-whooo!”

“. . . Anybody home?” That would be the bright and cheerful Mrs. Bottomly and her stepson walking in the door.

“Oh, good day to you Nicky and you, Mrs. Bottomly, is it 3 p.m. already?” Ms. Stanton feigned her surprise, peering over her shoulder, her fingers ensnared in a most inconvenient way. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’m afraid Patty has run a bit over his time.”

“That’s quite alright, Ms. Stanton.” Mrs. Bottomly replied. “Nicky and I have plenty of time. Please don’t hurry. I can see he is in need of your helping hand.”

“. . . and longer fingers than I have at my disposal I’m afraid.” She laughed along with the good Mrs. Bottomly as she withdrew her latex fingers. After removing her glove she walked over and took her hand in greeting.

Mrs. Bottomly was a heavy set woman in her fifties. She had a round face, a pleasing crescent smile and a pronounced nose loftily perched upon the mantle. Even with her hair tied up in a bun she was shorter than Edith, but with her pearls and expensive cashmere she looked decidedly more affluent. “Mrs. Bottomly, this is Mrs. Edith Whipple and her nephew Patty . . . that’s his bottom over there,” everyone chuckled. “And Mrs. Whipple, this is Jane and her delightful stepchild Nicky.”

Of course young Patrick was not given the pleasure of a formal introduction. As they stood behind him out of his range of view he couldn’t see them. “While I’m finishing up why don’t you two have some tea and Nicky can give me a hand to speed things up a bit. You’ll find a warm kettle brewing in my study.”

“What a splendid idea, don’t you agree Mrs. Whipple?” chirped the buoyant Jane Bottomly. “I’ve got these absolutely gorgeous Red Emperor Tulips I simply must tell you about.”

The pair departed arm in arm and laughing about this and that, already acting as if fast friends. Ms. Stanton took Nicky’s hand and he returned a knowing smile as together they stepped up where Patrick could see. “Patty, this is Nicky. Once sickly and frail like you, he’s now one of my great success stories.”

Young Patrick looked up and stared in awe at the vision quickly shedding his clothes. He came dressed in high-top sneakers, white with blue trim basketball shorts and a matching jersey adorned with the number 69. He stood as tall as Ms. Stanton standing in her platform heels and with his athletic, muscular physique he looked as if he could play the point for Duke. Given the cut of his masculine jaw, beautiful blue eyes and the chisel of his dimpled square chin, he would have made an exceedingly handsome point guard at that.

Nicky was everything but what he had expected. In quick order he had stripped down to his brazil-cut jockeys, both pink and very brrr-eef. From the size of the loll in the triangular pink pocket, he didn’t appear to be some hapless, ailing boy in need of Ms. Stanton’s care. He looked as healthy, as he looked handsome, as he looked everything Patrick was not but always dreamed to be.

Although paradoxically nothing else about him did. For all that was extraordinary about this 20 year old man-boy, nothing spoke more to the enigma he posed than the long cascading fall of tight amber curls that framed his strong, masculine face. With his eyes crowned with high, thinly arched brows penciled-in to match his bluish-gray eye shadow, he seemed as might an androgynous teen still in the midst of his transition. With his high cheek bones highlighted with a coral-rose blusher to match his lustrous red lipstick and long red nails he looked both aspiring he-man and beautiful debutante rolled into one statuesque figure.

“Isn’t he simply the most beautiful boy you have ever seen Patty?” Barbara swooned, “So delicate and pretty yet hard and salty as a mouthful of caviar. And you know what else? He’s a Musclemaniac just like you.”

Now, Nicholas Bottomly was a clever boy and had a lot more on the ball than the dimwitted grin on his face might indicate. Indeed, he even picked up Ms. Stanton’s verbal cue right off, and without having to be told he instantly leapt into a classic Front Double Bicep pose to flex his handsomely defined musculature. Nor was the clever boy shy about strutting his wares. A veteran of many a shower-room war he knew how to strike a pose. Pumping up to present his best features and, best of all, how to sweeten the mix was what he did best. Nothing too flamboyant, mind you, especially when something modestly titillating usually “turned the trick.” Like looking back over his shoulder from a Back Lat Spread then seductively batting his extended lashed and licking his painted red lips before blowing his admired a kiss.

Of course his greatest admirer other than himself was now trying to move things along. She still had much to do and needed to cut his performance short. Doing so was another matter however. The self-absorbed boy was far too enamored with his own splendid physique to pick-up on her ‘lets-get-a-move-on’ cue. So she gave up on the subtleties for a blunter tact, pinching his ear to pull him over to the gurney in front of Patrick. “Now Nicky, if you will kindly help it would greatly speed things along.”

Nicky was only to glad to lend a hand, or whatever. So he leaned in and spread the cheeks of young Patrick’s bottom. Then as if to lend comfort, he lowered his lips to his ear and whispered, “Love your hair, Peach’esth!”

With Nicky’s words echoing in his ear, his heart raced and the mechanism to run and hide were in high gear. Pinned down like a butterfly to a mat, the best he could do was turn his head away from the sight of Nicky’s distended pink loll looming just inches away. To Patrick, the whole experience was gut-wrenching and unsettling. To Barbara his unease was a delectable dish served head down, bottom up. Something she wanted to savor slowly, using just a feathery touch of a finger to toy with the quivering target he offered up. First, by marking the spot with an “X,” something she liked to do to heighten his discomfort when preparing to do her worse.

Careworn and crushed by the invasive hand, he gulped for air like a topminnow. Then when tired of the game and she began her work in earnest, his lips would attempt half-formed syllables and then go slack in a gasping, airy wordlessness. In all, the heavy-handed onslaught and Nick’s presence overwhelmed his senses. One part of him was stunned by the shock and awe, another part of him strangely aroused. Looking up at Nicky he’d find himself peculiarly captivated by the wonder of him, and then he’d feel the staving, seemingly to his tonsils, and feel nothing but the trauma of the moment. Together, the push and pull of his feelings left the poor boy in a quandary, not knowing what to make of any of this. Certainly this was not how he had envisioned the virtuous path to recovery and good health would be.

Perhaps he’d “get use to it” as Ms. Stanton was fond of saying. Perhaps this was just one step forward in a process, that one day she could help him become a man — like Nicky. Not the Nicky with the painted face, but the tall, handsome, muscular man-boy with a jock-loll to do a thoroughbred proud. That’s the man he wanted to be, but this process and his having to “get use to it” implied so much more that he wasn’t prepared to accept. In truth, it took all the grit he could muster to not run off and hide when Nicky again leaned in and purred in his ear, “I hope we can be friends.”

----

Over in the Study and seemingly a world away, Jane and Edith sat sipping another cup of herbal tea while chatting away as if old friends. Jane spoke at length about her stepson, and the informal nature of their chat had immediately put them on more intimate footing. In no time at all she was quite forthcoming about Nicky and their shared life after her late husband left her with a mortgage to pay and a floundering stepson for her to rear.

She compared him to Patrick, how sickly and frail he was when she first brought him to Ms. Stanton, and how proud she was of him now. She couldn’t say enough about her stepson, praising him for what a good boy he was. How with Ms. Stanton’s help and her nodding approval he had acquired a passion for the colorful and more fanciful things not commonly shared by other boys, and hadn’t the words to describe the joy that brought her.

Of course, if not for the good graces and guidance of Ms. Stanton she was sure none of this would have been. He probably would have fallen the way of his father, a brick mason who in his rough and tumble way killed himself when driving in a drunken stupor. With Ms. Stanton’s knowledge about what ailed the young boy he came out quite handsomely, and even had come upon a lucrative living as a dancer at the Puss n’ Poodle Lounge in nearby Las Oasis. She was not modest at all in saying that he was apparently so good at his job he had many admirers, and paid handsomely enough to afford the kind of lifestyle both she and her stepson could only dream about before.

On the other side of the table Edith smiled and listened intently, absorbed in her story. She found Jane sincere and genuine, and by the look of the expensive jewelry and posh cashmere, her story absolutely true. After all, tradesmen don’t usually earn that kind of money, at least not enough to explain the aura of affluence. She also found herself wishing she could be as open and honest. Those commodities are not always so easy to come by, especially if you’re as guard as the good Mrs. Whipple.

Still it gave her confidence and, to the degree she would allow spoke at some length about her nephew, opening up more as their little chat progressed. Always careful, she spoke little about herself other than what she unwittingly revealed now and then. Still, you don’t need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. The same holds for the inflection and the nuance. Something a woman with secret passions can’t altogether hide, especially from a like minded woman.

Jane also found Edith an easy enough to like, and like Barbara, she knew how to win the heart of this proud and wistful woman. Holding her hand and extending her warmth and understanding she had Edith in a most pleasant state of mind. When she heard that Patrick’s eighteenth birthday was just two weeks away, she was only too quick to ask if she and Nicky could bring a present to help celebrate the momentous event.

Edith was delighted of course, and together they planned a delightful little party for Patrick. It would certainly be a happy event for her nephew. It would also be a marvelous opportunity for the two boys to get to better know one another. Something Mrs. Bottomly seemed anxious to do.

They were still making their plans for the big event when they again walked into the Treatment Room. Arm in arm and brimming with excitement, they found a quiet corner and continued to fraternize like two school girls anxious to share a bit of gossip. Patrick was just finishing his floor exercises on the balance beam with Nicky’s help. As the two seemed to be managing well enough on their own, Barbara decided to join the ladies before finishing up.

“Thank you’s” for the tea were bantered about and she was pleased to see they had gotten along so well. When she heard of their tentative plans for a birthday party she pounced on it like a cat and was eager to add to the mix. Or so she would have it appear. In truth, she and Mrs. Bottomly had scripted this whole scenario. Privately, because it was something they planned to keep between themselves. They had a big fish to catch after all, and it wouldn’t do to drop their oar in the water before they set the hook.

So with feigned surprise she enacted her role in the charade, telling them she planned on attending and of course, to bring a lovely gift. As ladies will do, they decided to coordinate their gift selection so as not to duplicate. The ladies were tickled pink as they shared ideas about decorations, cakes and candles and the like, planning as if to win the heart of a 5 year old. Then when Ms. Stanton suggested they might consider expanding the effort to include a sleep over, the room seemed too small to contain the merriment. “A pajama party for the boys, how marvelous,” an overly enthusiastic and joyous Jane Bottomly shrieked.

It had all been carefully choreographed and, but for one small detail, the script had played out just as the two conspirators had planned. It seemed Edith had one slight problem with the whole affair. As she had only a small two bedroom cottage she had some concerns about the arrangements. She supposed she could lay down bedding in the family room for the boys, and Mrs. Bottomly could sleep in Patty’s room. Then where would Barbara sleep?

However, Jane Bottomly didn’t allow her to linger in doubt for very long. “Nonsense, that’s not a problem whatsoever. Why my little Nicky has sleepovers all the time and doesn’t mind sharing the covers. He’s quite fond of it actually. Besides, you know with all the wigging and giggling and bouncy beds, boys do require their privacy. As for Barbara and me . . . Well, you’d be surprised how amenable two house puss’s can be.”

Patrick had concluded the session and went to put on his clothes while Nicky, wearing only his flimsy Brazilian cut briefs, sauntered over to make an entrance like the androgynous queen he was. With his sultry sway and the flow of each barefooted stride poised heel to toe he made quite an exotic eyeful. It was the distended loll of that tiny pink packet that truly sucked all the available oxygen out of the room.

Even if it were possible to look elsewhere, the bobbing bowsprit of Her Majesty’s Ship Titanic cut a very conspicuous wake through the sea of skirts before taking up beside the bug-eyed Edith. Of course she didn’t want to appear crass so she took up some small talk, as a way to make his acquaintance and thankfully to divert her attention to his eyes. “Your mother tells me you’ve a job at the Puss n’ Poodle Lounge, is that right? I’ve not heard of it. Is it across the river over in Las Oasis?”

“Yes Miss’esth Whipple,” Nicky, the man-boy, the social sophisticate replied with his pronounced, breathy lisp - his wayward tongue distorting his post-consonantal “es’s.” Facing toward his left to show his best profile, he dangled his limp wrist under his chin and exaggerated a bat of his lashes. “Just for three days a week, but Miss’esth Stanton says I can work more soon.”

Seeing the look on Mrs. Whipple’s face, Jane quickly chimed in, chiefly to clarify the matter of Ms. Stanton’s involvement that had been left hanging. “Of course Barbara has only a small interest in the lounge, mind you! Della owns the club, but Nicky has proven himself on his own. He’s compensated quite handsomely.”

“Plus tips!” Nicky proudly interjected.

“Yes, and you work so hard for it darling,” Barbara replied tongue in cheek, “. . . and my little star is worth every penny of it.”

Patrick returned again fully dressed and ready as ever to escape this whole uncomfortable circumstance. In reaching to take his aunt’s offered hand he had to maneuver carefully, glacially around the HMS Titanic’s bowsprit to avoid colliding into it. Along with the amused expressions that followed him, became the subject of Nicky’s attention once again. “Is Patty going to be a Poodle, or one of the pretty Puss’esth?”

Barbara wasn’t about to tip her hand. Neither Patrick nor Jane was quite ready for that. “But soon,” she mulled over the thought as she reached up to pinch the dear boy’s cheek, then took one last jab at Patrick’s flagging esteem before he and his aunt departed. “Nicky darling, be a dear and give Patty a nice big hug while I help Mrs. Whipple retrieve her belongings.”

Accompanying Edith to her office she took a moment to speak to her before helping her with her shawl. “You know, Nicky has been a big help to me today. I’m thinking about changing his weekly appointments to Sunday so he can help with Patty’s program. I’m sure having an older, more experienced boy around can’t help but speed up the process which has been lagging of late. Who knows, maybe something or another might rub-off on your nephew. To any extent I want you to know I plan on stepping up the pace of his program and I don’t want the progress interrupted by childish complaints. I have confidence you know how to deal with these matters in a firm and no nonsense manner. Correct, Mrs. Whipple?”

“Oh yes, I most certainly do. You know I’m not shy about a firm application of the law,” she firmly replied as she stooped to pick up her purse and the gift wrapped package.

“I do!” Barbara followed, knowing well what she meant. “As you know he is a fast friend of my hand as well.” Then she stared intently into her eyes and promptly added, “. . . and if need be, Nicky’s too.”

“Ms. Stanton! Why I . . .”

“No problem, Edith,” Barbara abruptly cut her off. “I know that the three most difficult words to swallow are ‘take your medicine.’ Whose responsibility do you think it is to make sure it goes down the pipe?” Barbara quickly followed then quickly subdued the woman with an unwavering, hardnosed glare. “Why, it’s the good shepherd, of course. And a loving shepherd can’t allow one to wander too far from her flock. It has to be either leave with my blessing or stay and learn to listen. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but that’s the order of things in a household. ‘A firm hand in expression of love,’ my mother often said, and compliance the gift of acceptance. Isn’t that right, Edith?”

Barbara had made the terms quite clear. While Mrs. Pride was floored, left gasping for breath by the prospects, Mrs. Longing shed a crimson red flush that swept over her like a hot desert wind. The two minds of Mrs. Whipple fighting it out, and lost in the tussle, her good sense. Something Barbara understood quite well, and played upon to her good advantage. As she watched the dear woman turn away to avoid her gaze she knew it was just a matter of time. Soon she would have the conflicted woman as finely tuned as her concert piano. The piano upon which she planned to play “The Procession March” at Patrick’s soon to be Coronation Ball.
 
 
To Be Continued...
 
 
 © 2007 by Josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

She called this Homeostasis. Patrick called it torture.

HOMEOPATHIC THERAPY
Part 2, Chapters 3, 4, & 5
By Josie

 

---

Part 2 Searing Afternoon Heat
 
Chapter 3
 
 
“. . . Times are dark. But every shadow no matter how deep is threatened by morning light.” D. Aronofsky
 
 
The return trip home had been unusually quiet one for the Patrick and his aunt. The course of events that day had been quite unexpected and thoroughly exhausting. Filled with twists and turns to consider and negotiate, not at all unlike the zigzagging course of the river road they followed home. Much like her nephew, Edith had much to think about as she puttered along in her old rickety Renault. Around one bend in the road she could see all the bright lights and the colorful life of Las Oasis far off on the Nevada side of the river out her windshield. Then around yet another bend there was still another view. One of scattered Oak and Saguaro Cactus and the quiet reserve of the country life that distinguished the vast Arizona landscape on this side of the river. The road wound back and forth much like her thoughts as they followed the course of the river, the only difference was at least she knew where the road was leading.

Patrick’s thoughts were of a like nature, just as you would expect after his harrowing day. From the visit to the barber to his meeting Nicky, it all had so many unexpected twists and turns. He sat quietly, his thoughts swaying too and fro with the yaw of the car as they rounded each bend in the road. Around one bend he’d see the scattering of scraggly Ajo Oak struggling to grow in the parched desert and think of his own struggle to grow up big and strong. The promise had such a strong allure he wanted to persevere, but like the scraggly Oak he wondered if he could endure the forces that would have him give up. Then around another bend he’d see the lights of Las Oasis off in the distance across the boarder and think of Nicky. Once a scraggly boy like himself, he had endured the forces and though blemished by the painted face, showed that there was hope even for him.

They returned home a little later than expected, but still early enough to see her next door neighbor, Mrs. Crawford, still tending her garden. As she parked the car in the drive she stopped to wave to the kindly old woman, a woman still rather spry for her advanced years. She was untypical of the aged who lived in the retirement enclave. Most preferred to remain inside, out of the scorching heat, cloistered away much like Patrick and herself. Then again, that’s why she chose to live here.

Tucked-away in a secluded little cul-de-sac it was quiet, small and the elderly, retired residents kept to themselves. No radios blaring, hot rods screeching or kids screaming. It was a reclusive desert paradise. That is except for the satellite dishes cluttering the landscape. Something Edith had never scribed to, nor tempted to bring into her house. Simply put, being part of the “aerial” nation was not what Edith Whipple was all about, and the solitude and the isolated suited her just find.

Exhausted from the long day they prepared a light meal before retiring to the family room to unwind as Patrick had become accustom. Set in her ways, Edith regimented the evening events with precision, seldom varied and precise as the tic-tock heartbeat of the great grandfather clock that stood beside the fireplace. They sat down to read or engage a craft promptly at six, a hot pot of tea served exactly at seven and preparation for bed always began at eight.

Those hours were a quiet time meant to help gather the inner resources after a hard days work. Where together they could share company, engage a craft or simply enjoy the solitude of the desert-scape framed in the picture window. Or if he chose, play the piano. A talent of his inherited from his mother and something he was very good at.

This night was expected to be no different with one slight exception. Knowing what a particularly difficult day it had been for her nephew she wanted to share a leisurely moment with him as he unwrapped the souvenir sent from Paris. Surely Barbara was right. It could only do a world of good for her to share these moments with him. So with a demonstrable showing of her shared excitement, she handed him the package and hugged him about the shoulders. With her head next to his and a smile to match, he quick as a wink unwrapped and then set the French magazine on his lap.

“Les Diex de la Soleil” was not entirely what either had expected, although from the look upon their faces it would have been hard to tell. Edith looked on with a smile frozen in place not wanting to be impolite. While Patrick smiled not wanting to show his disappointment as he continued to turn the pages. That is, until he got to the three page fold-out of Sgt. Rock posing in a majestic Front Double Bicep. And like all those posing in the “The Gods of the Sun” magazine, he was completely in the nude. As in barring anything other than a bullet bandoleer and a huge weapon — or two! There he paused as the big-as-life pages unfolded in his lap. Flushed red as a peony, his jaw went lax and the tremor of his hands would allow him to go no further.

As Edith saw it, it had to be that huge gun he carried in his hands. Not the Glock knife strapped to his thigh, not the snarled face shaded with black camouflage. Not even the burning village sitting in the background held more prominence than that awe-inspiring weapon now seen lax, at rest, dangling as if spent toward the ground.

“And thank goodness,” Edith thought to herself, quick to see the humor in it all. If that mighty cannon of his had been raised threateningly upright, taut and erect like the head of a viper prepared to strike, she seriously doubted there’d be enough room on the page. Just the sight of that huge weapon caused a flush, and as she fanned herself with one hand, she squeezed him about the shoulders with the other, and offered in affirmation. “My, he certainly has a big gun, doesn’t he?”

Undeniably, that 7.62mm 6 barrel revolving Mini-gun he carried was a very fierce weapon, more than a handful, or three! Then again, no more lethal than Edith’s quick tongue! Both deadly in the wrong hands, and if not careful, will quickly make a mess of things if shot off without forethought. Especially if you’re not quick enough to duck out of the way, something Patrick should have done, but failed to do. So now you’re probably wondering why he didn’t defensively duck-and-weave or just toss down the magazine and head out the door?

As to understanding the whys and the wherefores, well, that’s the subject of this story. Relationships are complex by their nature and as for young Patrick Whipple, let’s not be so quick to pass judgment, at least not yet. Or else you might draw the same unwarranted conclusions his aunt apparently had. And we wouldn’t want that. Young Patrick, our young man in the mirror who doesn’t like himself all that much and who blames himself for his failings, already has enough on his plate to deal with.

Keep in mind that much like ourselves, Patrick is not a finished product. He’s just a few days short of eighteen after all, and like this story, Patrick may yet find a way to “measure up.” Who knows, perhaps he’s destined to become the next Muhammad Ali. A man who certainly knew how to duck-and-weave then toss it all out and head out the door — Then again, maybe not.

----

So the week passed with all the routine familiarity to which Patrick had become accustom. During the morning and after school hours he remained tied to his aunt’s apron, and when not working beside her, he filled the house with the pure joy of his piano playing. By night however, things had changed - especially their after supper quiet time. In large part due to the new French magazine, but also due to his aunt’s new affability, readily cozying up to him as never before.

Once again, it was an innocent gesture, least in her way of thinking. Like everything else with Edith Whipple, you got what you saw. She was an amazingly simple woman, decent and homey. A Mother Hubbard, if you will. But there was also a painstaking sense of diligence about the woman that stood in contrast to that classical storybook simplicity. In the one hand she was wistfully doting; in the other, strictly thorough. Thorough in an excessively vigilance way, this Mother Hubbard made sure her beloved pet was never without a bone.

Whether he was in the need of a warm hug now and again, or a new blouse, her pantry was stocked full in abundance. That also applied to his therapy. If it called for ‘juicing up the bone,’ or whatever, it was her pleasure to offer that too. Of course the juiced up bone she felt obliged to feed him was not altogether like buying him new clothes. As Ms. Stanton had suggested, that required a bit more intimacy as she embraced his interest, explored his needs. Something very much on her mind when she again sat with him to share his new French magazine. “See how his clean shaven body shows the value he placed on good hygiene . . . and,” she inhaled deeply, “handsomely enhances his features.”

Well, conjure up whatever images you may. Much like the Mona Lisa’s smile, I know that not all of you will see this most unlikely picture I’ve painted in the same way. Some might see Edith’s crooked smile as a sign of hedonism, while others might see a compassionate Mrs. Hubbard. But as the picture I’ve painted of her is not yet complete, there is no way for you or I to tell for sure.

Not so with Edith however. She knew exactly what was behind her smile as she cozily snuggled up, clutched him firmly and indulged his interest in those beautiful boys. She did so with earnest in her very thorough way. Like old Mrs. Hubbard of fairy tale fame she was decent and homey. Slightly more vigilant, but in her own way you could say she added just as nicely to the reading of that classic storybook rhyme. “As she reached for his bone, she heard the dog moan, so needing relief from the tension he was prone.”

Okay, okay! I hear the squawking! There are limits and matters of civility that even I, Josie, must adhere to — and I apologize. I just thought it was important that we, together, explore the relevancy of his becoming the next Muhammad Ali. Remember? The possible future scenario for Patrick I outlined previously for you to consider? And if you should find that ducking and weaving is not his forte, then I thought I’d introduce another possibility for you to consider. One possibly more apt, but for that I’ll let you decide. Like this one you might find headlining the morning papers:

“Dateline: June 15, 2007, River Bend, Arizona - Sixty-six year old Edith Whipple was a victim of assault today in her home. Mrs. Whipple shown here with her Boater-hat and a broomstick stuck up her ass is a long time resident of River Bend and member of the Ladies Auxiliary and Lady Pioneers. The assailant now in custody has been identified as seventeen year old Patrick Whipple, a nephew and impending graduate of Dobb’s military academy. According to sources Mr. Whipple turned violent when the poor, defensive, frail old woman tried to help him overcome his addiction to a male nudist magazine. Mrs. Whipple was reported to have told authorities, “Good, you got him! Now lock the little turd up and throw away the key!”
 
 
Chapter 4
 
 
So went the week until it was again Sunday and time for his appointment with Barbara Stanton. They started out early enough to give rickety old Mr. Renault ample time to get there and time enough to indulge a favorite pastime of Edith’s. To see and be seen out and about amongst the Sunday morning window shoppers on Bancroft Lane was a must for her. With her handsome nephew in hand, she proudly strolled along the walkway as if on display, then joined the stream of early morning shoppers entering the M.J. Grant department store.

“You’re right, the light peach looks just lovely,” the elderly saleswoman who inhabited the junior wear department that day offered in opinion. “Interlocking cotton knit, pretty detailed trim . . . perfect,” the good lady beamed while holding up the short sleeve T-top to Patrick’s shoulders to assess the fit. Of course, mindful of the sale’s commission she was careful to disregard both the little lace bow on the neckline and Edith’s unusual taste in boy’s wear.

“It comes complete with matching shorts or Capri pants if you like . . .” She smiled and Edith nodded, though only listening with half an ear as yet another style outfit in size 10-12 petite had her eye at the moment.

She saw the garment on an adjoining rack, among the others found on this nebulous expanse between the boy’s and girl’s wear. That place where the mix of garments mattered only to those who cared to filter through the mish-mash of displays to make the distinction - something that wasn’t on her mind at the moment. After all, he was a difficult boy to properly fit.

Given his unusual combination of girth and length she found the boy’s sizes too short, the men’s too wide and the selection slim to none. Whereas his cadet Blue trousers and shirts were custom tailored to fit, that was far too expensive a proposition for everyday wear. Especially when so many reasonable ready-made alternatives were available if you’re willing to broaden your prospects. As a practical woman, that was something Edith had acquiesced to long ago. As for Patrick, well, the tops, shorts and stockings did fit comfortably there could be no denying that. Likewise, the smooth, light and airy fabrics conformed in all the right ways to all the right places. Not at all like the scratchy, stiff cadet Blues that irritated his sensitive skin and were so stifling in the heat. A joy he could live without, at least until he grew into the proper boy’s sizes.

All the same, even had she bothered to look it was doubtful she’d have found anything as suitable on the “Tuff-boy” display. Leastwise, nothing as suitable as the French Terry-knit outfit in canary-yellow she had her eye on. With the matching pair of knee-high stockings, she thought the delightful “Angelina” top and matching flare-leg, drawstring shorts would coordinate nicely with her floral print dress and hand knit shawl - And so it did.

The outfit was one of her favorites. Not too loud with the right touch of style, or so she believed as they made their way through the congested isles of disbelieving onlookers. Then again outside, where the glare of the onlookers was as intense as the blazing Arizona sun. No less so than when she asked her dashing young nephew to make use of his sunshade so the sun wouldn’t damage his blanched skin or burn the top of his flattop head.

Edith thought it was a great way to spend the morning. Then when later that day they walked in to Ms. Stanton’s clinic and saw Nicky, she was sure it was going to be a great way to spend the afternoon. Finding Nicky there wasn’t altogether unexpected. Still, she feigned surprise to see that androgynous man-boy again, especially in view of Patrick. Still, what pleased the aunt did not seem to please the nephew.

Not two feet in the door he was already slouched over in melancholy and Ms. Stanton’s screeching voice could be heard reverberating off the walls directing Nicky to fetch a corset. “. . . Oh, and Nicky, please find a pretty one this time.”

Of course if Edith had in mind a delightful afternoon chat with Jane over a hot cup of tea sadly it was not to be. Jane had immediately cornered her to discuss a birthday gift she had in mind and wanted Edith to accompany her to the boutique to better coordinate their selection of gifts. Then without ado she wrapped her arm in hers and quickly ushered her outside to her waiting Karman-Ghia. “Don’t worry Barbara,” she called out over her shoulder before the door closed in their wake. “I’ll have her back promptly at four.”

Ms. Stanton rubbed her hands together, beamed a grin and quick as a blink undressed Patrick to conduct her cursory examination. Nicky returned in short order holding in his hands a white silk corset swathe with pink lace appliqué. Then holding up the silken finery for Patrick to see, he fluttered his long lashes, pursed his painted red lips and blow him a kiss, “Peach’esth, it’s perfect for you.”

It took all four arms and their combine strength to get him down from his 23” waist to a trim 20”; A Herculean feat given his 52kg (114 lb), 174cm (5’-7) wafer-thin frames. Not a lot there to pare down, but enough of a struggle to leave him gasping and nearly faint. He looked to be strangled in the white silk garment, and given the unlikely contrast with his flattop he looked every bit the curious creature. Squelched by the tightness and stiff as a board, he was a pigeon-toed, sissified mannequin from top to bottom, with two salient, pink plums offering up a proud academy salute, firm and erect.

“Nicky, quickly get a damp towel. The dear looks near faint.”

-----

Poor Mrs. Whipple, all she got for her struggle to squeeze her portly rear in the small seat of the Karman-Ghia was a run in her nylon hosiery and a bruise on the knee. It was a heroic effort, but it still took a helping hand from Jane to free a heel caught up in the stick-shift. The poor lady was in tatters and wishing she had not volunteered to come along. Jane, accustom to the inconveniences thought nothing of it as she helped to push a foot here, pull a leg there until the doors finally closed she was able to start out. She was very proud of “her” new car and all too willing to overlook the anguish written on Mrs. Whipple’s face.

Well . . . the car wasn’t exactly Jane’s. Ms. Stanton had given it to Nicky to help him get to and from his job at the Puss n’ Poodle club. A convertible, it was brand new and quite an eye-catching vehicle indeed. Custom painted cotton candy pink with white leather interior trimmed with a fluffy, synthetic pink fur, it was a chick-mobile in the truest sense of the word. An original valley-girl’s dream machine, garish and prim, with its g-string hanging on the mirror and a one-of-a-kind perfume aerator attached to the A/C. Not the most sedate way to negotiate the quiet, tree lined streets of their small suburban community, but the perfect “gift” for the glitz and glitter across the river.

Well . . . that wasn’t exactly true either. It wasn’t a gift. Barbara said he could pay her back helping out at the club after hours. There was always an odd job or two, where a pretty boy could lend a hand, or whatever. Something Jane couldn’t have been more than happy about, or so she said as she continued on talking. It was a one-sided discussion that began when they met up earlier at Barbara’s house and continued on nonstop as they puttered down the lane. “After all, she needs all the help she can get. She’s involved with so much I can hardly see how she makes it through the day.”

Well . . . that was true. Although that wasn’t something Edith Whipple knew a lot about, but with her politeness light on auto pilot she just smiled as Jane continued to rattle on. “With so much on her plate, you know, with her practice here and the club in Las Oasis. She’s a very busy woman.”

“I can imagine.” Well . . . actually she couldn’t! Fact is, it wasn’t until quite recently Edith learned of Barbara’s other enterprise. The woman she knew was a professional practitioner of homeopathy with a little practice squirreled away in her quiet suburban community, and she was beginning to realize what she really knew about her she could fit in her sewing thimble.

“Besides, Nicky so enjoys the job and the money! Good lord, do you know that besides this beautiful car he earns two hundred dollars a night . . . plus tips!” she intentional stressed the “plus tips” with an exaggerated tone, though she didn’t have to. That kind of money was likely to capture anyone’s attention. A staggering amount when you consider a house like Edith’s cost less than twenty-thousand and earning fifty dollars a day was big money. It certainly was enough to have her ear. “My word, that’s the most generous wage I’ve ever heard.”

“Isn’t it though? And the benefits . . . Why I’m so excited about it all. You know, not that long ago I could hardly sleep at night worrying about what was to become of him. Being left to raise a boy not too different from your Patrick, only worse, he was an aimless lout destine for who knows what. And just look now. What Barbara has done for him, and how she ‘helped him find his rightful place in the world’ is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

“Find his rightful place in the world!” Jane was pushing all the right buttons, and her well chosen words sounded off like the winning payout on a slot machine. “Cha-ching!”

Edith had heard the sentiment expressed before. In Barbara’s office; and though she hadn’t given much thought to it then, it suddenly began to mean so much more. Of course, she had no reason to suspect the thought might have been intentionally planted. All she could see was the visions of her Patty driving down the street in his new pink Karman-Ghia his face glowing with pride in himself and his newly acquired affluence.

They pulled up to the M’Lady Boutique, parking in front and close enough to the window display to see the latest in exquisite lingerie. It was a place that catered to the affluent and hardly affordable on Edith’s meager budget. So imagine her surprise when Jane began pointing out a pair of gartered stockings of the finest Chantille lace as her idea of a gift - for her Patty! Beside the mannequin another wearing a shear, white silk baby-doll nightie and panty set lavishly trimmed with Flemish lace appliqué.

“That one,” she pointed to as an ideal coordinate — the ideal gift for her to buy her nephew. Edith was breathless. The mental photo she had taken of her Patty driving down the lane in his shiny new car with a big smile was suddenly shattered when she realized they wanted him to wear a painted face for the picture! Something that not only came as a shock, it also piqued her pride. She wondered what Edith could possibly be thinking of her, or her nephew.

“Jane, I think you’ve got this all wrong,” she ventured with a flush. “I’m proud to say my Patty is a young cadet and wants to join the army to serve his country with honor and dignity.”

“Yes and my Nicky is a dancer. I hope you don’t think any less of him, because I don’t.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

“I’m sure you didn’t. It’s just costuming after all, nothing more. No different than combat boots and helmet with camouflage netting. Certainly no different than what you wish to make of it. Barbara has taught me that we’re all different, but equally perfect. Though I must admit the idea also seemed contrary to me at first, but where would my Nicky be if I hadn’t listened to Barbara’s advice? She knows what ails children and as it has proven out, no one could have been the wiser.”

It was the mention of Barbara that caused Edith’s retreat. Jane could see it written on her drawn face as she looked away to avert her gaze. With her fingers nervously fidgeting with a tissue in her hand, she looked as if a woman at war with herself. Inside, the battle raged between the two minds of the conflicted woman. Outside, she looked as if some dark hidden secret had just been exposed to the light of the bright Arizona sun. There was a lingering, silent pause, each waiting to see who would take the next critical step. It was an important moment and one Jane knew was going to have to work or - she had fun with the thought — they’d have to resort to Barbara’s dastardly Plan B!

Leaning in close she took hold of Edith’s hand, and without further delay went straight for the juggler. “. . . Besides, they’ll look lovely with the pumps Barbara has bought for his birthday. You wouldn’t want to disappoint now, would you?”

Jane kissed her softly on the cheek. Then after lingering a long moment she pulled away and smiled. “Come now, just for fun . . . It’s an exciting new world out there and you’ll not want to miss a minute of it.”

Poor Edith, she felt as might an accomplice who kept the car running as her partner in crime fled with the money in hand from the bank. It was a blood-pumping, exhilarated guilty flutter that left Mrs. Longing reveling in the heat and Mrs. Pride nearly faint. And calling out above the maelstrom, Jane’s resonate voice, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

So not “wanting to disappoint,” she lay down her armor, and her arms at the feet of Mrs. Longing. Then leaving her good sense to wilt in the hot desert sun, she reached for her purse and opened the door . . .

----

. . . Stepping out and closing the door behind, Nicky hurriedly left to retrieve a damp towel from the kitchen. Patrick was rendered rigid and immobile, fixed in place on wobbly knees by the corset. Barbara stood close by holding his hand to steady him awaiting Nicky’s quick return. For a moment she was sure he was about to faint, but by the time Nicky had returned with a damp towel to press upon his forehead he had already regained enough of his composure to walk him toward the gymnast mat.

To say that the confining garment rid the poor boy of his slouching would have not have given the garment its due. The restricted mobility forced the subdued creature to have to walk with a mince and caused his hips and robust bottom to sway to accommodate the shortened stride. Like some iron-fisted gripe it robbed him of his breathe, and like an extension of her hand rendered the mummified boy defenseless.

All this was done with the utmost discretion of course. Ms. Stanton was the consummate professional after all and, to protect her good reputation, she told him she had his aunt’s enthusiastic and wholehearted approval to ratchet up his program. “There’ll be no nonsense from this moment on,” she warned him, and if he thought her demands were too severe . . . well, he’d just have to, “soldier-up, dig deep for some of that Sgt. Rock grit and bear it.”

This was a whole new Ms. Stanton. He could see that in the suspect glimmer in her eye when she tightened the lacing of the corset to the point of catastrophic failure. And along with that glazed look in her eyes she wore an enigmatic grin as she went about her heavy-handed ways. All far beyond even her usual level of insensitivity and seemingly quite calculated, as if part of a script she was yet to have him read.

But how could that script read any different? He had always been compliant to the nth degree. After all, he wanted to measure-up, and the determination it took to be somebody special was a man thing made of grit and bravado. He always dug deep for what it took to sustain and bear it. Even in the face of so little progress he never gave up trying, doing so with a relish, hoping one day he’d overcome the malaise that seemed to grow worse, not better by the day. If he could do more, he didn’t know how.

Surely she could see that, yet instead of a sympathetic pat on the back she gave him an unsympathetic grin becoming more strident and heavy-handed by the day. Almost as if to break his will, but why? Just trying to count all the possible reasons caused his suspicions to grow exponentially, and as his suspicions grew so did his mistrust. Where once he believed in her and all she was doing, now he didn’t.

Obvious he would've liked to slap Ms. Stanton senseless and run off to a safe place. That is, if he could. Like everything else about his life these things were easier said than done. In truth, he could no more stand up to her than he could his aunt. His aunt had surrendered complete control to her without demur, and what voice he did have Ms. Stanton heard with just one ear. The other focused on what she was bent on doing whether he agreed or not. All seemingly designed to entrap him yet further, diminish him into a little prissy, like Nicky, that paragon of manliness.

Still, not all was without hope. As is the case in even the darkest tale there was always the possibility the villain might lose the upper hand or unwittingly expose a vulnerability. Until then, he'd just have stand by and let his suspicions grow and hatred fester as he considered ways to save himself from her clutches. A resolution he made to himself, though it certainly wasn’t going to happen this day.

Nope! Today the master craftswoman and her young apprentice were determined to finish the assembly of their project in the works. All done forthright without hedging or subtlety, and began immediately the moment he began his floor exercises to firm up the flab on his chest and buttock. Exercise that only seemed to exacerbate instead of improve his condition. Punishing under any circumstance, but bound in that corset and with Nicky all over him like a tight pair of pants, he was in a constant state of swoon. The whole while they assessed, fit and hammered away on their version of the Queen Mary, and following his every move was that haunting, purrr-plexing grin, glowing pearly white against the darkened backdrop.

It was left to Nicky to pound home the finishing nail. Perched upon the white sheeted gurney head down, bottom up like a ship in dry-dock, Nicky was given the task of planting the new bowsprit — new, as in one step up the linear order! To make her point, she handed Nicky the post with all the ceremony of a sea captain inaugurating a new vessel then stepped aside to salute. But a ship he was not, at least not yet, and if they planned on turning this dingy into the Queen Mary it wouldn’t come without a struggle, or so he’d try.

A new wise saying: Be careful what promises you make, even to yourself, because the expert deck hand can right a troublesome fitting. Not so much a broken heart, but then his heart wasn’t what the heavy hand of Barbara Stanton sought to correct. A thorough job she did with it too. She had that wretched fitting shipshape and ready to do duty in less time than it took to say . . .

“You-whooo,” that would be Jane, chirpy and buoyant as a Merry-andrew returning from shopping with Mrs. Whipple in tow. “What a lovely day.”

“Ah-hu, it is indeed,” that would be Barbara, miles away in her thoughts as she attaches the second liter bag of her special substance to the tubing.

“Oh look, Miss’esth Stanton, pretty gifts,” that would be Nicky, sunny as a spring day as he fastidiously wiped his hands clean of the lubricant. “I already got my gift.”

“Yes you do. You’re giving the gift that just keeps giving,” added Barbara, reaching up to pinch his cheek in passing. Then turning to face Edith, she smiled and motioned for her to come and stand beside her. “Almost done, Edith. In all, I think our little Musclemaniac has taken the lot rather well.”

Edith joined Barbara and looked down at her nephew. She heaved a deep sigh, and then embraced his grateful smile as she wiped the glint of moisture from his lashes. Then without further ado, she reached up to turn the petcock.
 
 
Chapter 5
 
 
Monday morning 9 a.m:
“. . . Rogers, present sir! Cummings, present SIR! Donaldson, present sir! Whipple . . . Whipple?” Ssgt. Web put down the morning roll call and looked over the top of his glasses toward the empty seat that should have been occupied by Cadet Patrick Whipple. That would be S-s-g-t, as in Staff Sergeant, and Web, as in Patrick’s disgruntled headmaster. Dressed smartly in his Dress Blues, the gray haired gentlemen looked quite distinguished with a long track of stripes and chevrons down the length of his sleeves, his shoes shining with a glassy luster and on his dress jacket all the medals from his distinguished service in three wars. Standing tall at the podium, he leered with a scowl as he studied his class of cadets. All sitting stiffly upright in their cadet blues, with hands folded on top of their desk and a blank look on their faces.

“Stewart!” He barked with the ferocity of a cornered Pit Bull. “Sir!” A tall, red headed boy in the front row smartly snapped to attention and shouted his response. “It says here Cadet Whipple signed in this morning. Where is he?”

“Sir, I don’t know, sir!”

“Check the Head, quick time, boy!”

“Yes, SIR!” As young Cadet Stewart hurriedly replied, a pent up snicker rolled through the room, but quickly quieted when headmaster Web glared with a menace for signs of the culprits. The room was so quiet you could hear a cough down the hall as Ssgt. Web walked slowly up and down the isles to size up the matter. As he approached the rear of the class he heard a shuffling coming from inside the coatroom.

Although a subtle movement, it wasn’t hard to pick up on any noise in a room absent any sound other that one owns breath. Knowing to look inside he opened the coatroom door, reached in to switch on the light and quickly scanned the long line of dress coats all neatly hung along the perimeter of the 8x10 room. “Sir,” Cadet Steward shouted after again coming to attention upon his return. “Sir, I didn’t find Cadet Whipple, Sir!”

The snickering again flared up and thinking he’d have to quickly get to the bottom of this, he reached in to switch off the light. Having a problem finding the switch with his hand, he looked in to locate it and saw what had been out of his field of vision until now. In the corner and next to the light switch was Cadet Whipple, buttoned inside his coat and hanging a foot off the ground from the coat hook. The poor boy looked a scarecrow with his shoulders pushed up around his ears and his arms trapped in the jacket sleeves hanging out straight.

“Damn it, boy!” Ssgt. Web growled as he hurried to unhook Patrick to let him down. “I can’t take my eyes off you even for a second!” With Patrick again safely on his feet he noticed that other than the  ¾ waist coat he had been buttoned into, he appeared to otherwise be without any clothes.

Well . . . not exactly. It seems that once the headmaster unbuttoned his coat he saw that he was not entirely without cover. Though not much besides a short, pleated white tennis skirt and what looked like a training bra. “DAMN . . . BOY! If you’re not the most pathetic pansy I’ve ever seen,” Ssgt. Web glared down at him with his fists resting on his hips and in a rather bad mood. “How’d you get into this, boy?”

Poor Patrick, now in tears, was beside himself and to ashamed to speak. “Stewart, tell me quick boy, what do you know about this!”

“Sir, I don’t know anything, Sir!”

“Nothing, BOY?” Ssgt. Web gave him a menacing glare. “Sir, only what I’ve heard, Sir.”

“What you’ve heard . . . hmmm, well . . . What is it boy?”

“Sir, yes sir,” young Cadet Stewart replied, then lowering his voice to a barely audible mumble, “I heard some boys wanted to fag him, Sir.”

“FAG HIM . . . who did?” Web barked out now entirely pissed off. “Sir, I can’t say, Sir!”

“Can’t say BOY?”

“Sir, yes Sir, I’m bound by my word of honor, Sir!” The boy bravely replied, but fearing the worse, looked away to avoid his glare. “Word of honor my ass, BOY! Before I’m through you’ll be willing to incriminate your grandmother. So where’s his clothes?” he asked as he pulled up on the hem of the short skirt revealing a pair of shiny, white silk panties. “Holy, mother of . . .”

“Bathroom, Sir,” the boy followed.

“Well go get them and be quick about it boy!”

“Can’t Sir, they’re in the toilet and someone has used the facility, Sir.” The tittering turned to laughter. Ssgt. Web scowled in that direction then just shook his head. “Damn poor . . . damn, damn poor . . . Well, run off quick time boy and get Major Bushmire.”

-----

“Yes ma’am, they were his sister’s clothes,” replied Major Bushmire, his disgust painted on his face. Edith Whipple sat across from him dressed in a house dress and apron, her knitting still on her lap. Between them stood young Patrick still dressed in his heeler loafers and white knee socks that matched his lovely new skirt, bra and panty. “Leastwise that’s the story the boy’s are sticking too.”

It had been a traumatic day for our young hero starting from the moment he boarded the bus. Living farthest from the school he was always the last to board and like always, they were all waiting for him. He took the seat behind the driver always left vacant while the other boys huddled together toward the rear. They wanted to sit as far away from the sissy as was humanly possible, except Jeffrey Morse, one of the bad guys at school and Patrick’s worse fear. Today, Jeffery chose to sit in the seat immediately behind him.

Over the roar of the diesel the driver could hear little of the taunting, the laughter and ridicule. Or if he did, chose not to take notice. He seldom did. Not withstanding someone leaving their seat it was truly a teenage wasteland for the thirty minute ride - literally every man for him self. And if he wasn’t motivated to do anything about the boys pelting Patrick with spitballs why would he show concerned when he saw a gym bag being passed up from the rear to Jeffrey? He paid it no more notice than the roar of laughter that followed when Jeff pulled out a pair of panties and set it in a pile on top of Patrick’s flattop head.

Of course Patrick didn’t respond, but he knew what was going on. Jeffrey’s threat to fag him before the end of school had been going on for weeks, and as promised, today they had brought the panties they would make him wear. Patrick didn’t want to look or react. That would be giving them what they wanted. Still, hiding his eyes was one thing, hiding the fear and the intimidation was another. He was visually shaking as Jeffrey dragged the panties over his head and the bus rocked from the laughter.

Upon arriving at school he tried to keep his distance from them, giving sufficient leeway before departing the bus. After everyone had disappeared into the building he followed to sign the morning register that was required of all the boys who arrived early by bus. Neither Jeffrey nor his cohorts were anywhere around by the time he was through, and believing himself lucky went to his classroom to take a seat to await the later arrivals. The path seemed clear and safe enough, but as he passed the coatroom, Jeffrey, Chris Myers and Martin Philips popped out, grabbed him and pushed him into the closet, closing the door behind.

There wasn’t a lot of fight in him, though some of that might have been expected. After all Jeffrey and Martin were two of the biggest, roughest leathernecks in the school, both nearly as big as the formidable Ssgt. Web, and worse, the apple of his eye. Over the years he had been subject to untold bullying from them. And all he ever got in response when he got a knot on the head was, “Don’t be a wimp, boy,” or “Stop your damn sniffling and act like a man!”

Other than cry, he was too frightened to do anything else to save himself. There was nothing he could do at any extent, so when it was certain he wasn’t going to escape his fate he volunteered to put the clothes on without their help. It was only the early arrival of Tim Olin that saved his butt. Hearing the scuffling in the closet he burst in on them catching Jeffrey literally with his pants down.

Seeing what was going on he quickly put a stop to it. Tim was one of the few boys in school who Jeffrey respected, not so much for his size as for his ranking on the boy’s boxing team. He was also a good guy who on occasion stood up for Patrick. Though not because he was sympathetic, but because he had a solid sense of fair play. This time too, and fortunate for Patrick, he wasn’t listening to any excuses. It wasn’t that Jeff didn’t try to explain it all away, looking rather foolish standing as he was with his pants gathered around his knees. “The little fag wants it. Look he even dressed himself.”

“You’re the only fag I see you damn prick. Want to fag someone try me and I’ll see what we can do about stuffing that prick of yours up your ass.” The threat wasn’t taken lightly, and even though he was out numbered 3 to 1 the scramble from the coatroom was like an alarm sounding off in a firehouse. That is, except for Martin. Determined not to let the threat deter him, he managed to lag behind long enough to hang Patrick on the coat rack while nobody was watching.

-----

“. . . And you are sure you believe their story, Mr. Bushmire?” A shaken Mrs. Whipple asked, remaining starchy erect and unmoved throughout the exchange. Not that she disagreed with the good Major Bushmire, or would doubt his word. He was a straightforward man of unquestionable integrity, and like Barbara Stanton he was a man with a firm commanding hand. She liked that about him, but then he was a man, not a woman and somehow she just didn’t feel inspired by the same sense of awe.

For his part, Major Bushmire didn’t like having his integrity in question. If he had known better he would have let Greta Buller accompany him as she had wanted. There wasn’t much his school nurse couldn’t handle. A retired WAC drill instructor, if she couldn’t handle this hardheaded spinster no one could. All the same, he hadn’t and now he was sitting on a keg of dynamite that presented as big a challenge as any on the field of battle, the loss of which would reflect badly on the school, the careers of several young men as well as his own.

For him it was a sacrifice of one for the betterment of many. Defeat was not an option, at least not for a gentleman of his persuasion. So he furrowed his bushy brows to show his displeasure with her. Then he peered in as if to say “lady, mind your place” while his bald, spit-shined head refracted the overhead light into the spectrum of red.

“I understand your concern over this, but I can’t emphasize enough that these are solid your men, outstanding soldiers, all from very influential families. If it isn’t the truth then I’m sure there would be severe legal consequences, courts, attorneys and lots of public attention with accusations of moral turpitude, or worse, charges of deviant homosexual behavior. Furthermore I must warn, you might not like the way the axe might fall,” he spit out with terseness, as if to remind young Patrick of what was at stake.

“Of course, we shouldn’t let that sway us from knowing the truth, but as he doesn’t deny it, I’m afraid I have no choice but believe the boy’s story true just as they stated. So unless Patrick says otherwise the story is that Chris Myers brought his sister’s gym bag to school accidentally believing it to be his own. He only discovered this fact when putting the gym bag away in the coatroom and that’s when Patrick unknown to anyone put the clothes on. Now, isn’t that right Patrick? Isn’t this story you and your fellow cadets told me?”

“Y-y-yes Sir,” Patrick managed to mumble after taking some moments to reflect upon the carpet below his feet. All the same he already knew the answer he had to give. No mention of the “intended” fagging, no mention of being hung upon the clothes hook was the way it had to be, and he needn’t bother lifting his tear spotted face as he drove in the finishing nail, “That’s the truth of it, Sir.”

“That’s right, son. Now tell your aunt why you did it,” Major Bushmire followed while prompting Patrick to respond with a slapped on the back. “Come now, you don’t have to be shy. Be a big boy, there’s no shame in wanting to dress in girl’s clothes. Every boy goes through this one time or another. No harm whatsoever. Just tell her the truth and it’ll all be done. I’m sure she’ll be very understanding and supportive. She just needs to know the truth, so just repeat what you told me.”

The words did not come easily. In fact it was down right gut-wrenching to have to spit out the contrived confession. It was like spitting out what remained of his manhood. All that Ms. Stanton had not yet stolen from him was now going to be finished off by the Major and his classmates, and there was nothing to be done about it. “I . . . ahm . . . I like pretty clothes.”

“Well Patty . . . I’m sorry, I just didn’t know,” Edith paused, cause off-guard by the admission. She had wanted to believe his classmates were responsible for the mischief, but after her nephew’s confession she didn’t know what to think, or how she should react. She looked as if she was thinking very hard for a long minute, before her face went relax and the uncertainty in her eyes evaporated, replaced with an obliging nod and again, that guilty flutter in her stomach. “You should have told me, Patty.”

“That’s a good boy. Now that it’s off your chest I’m sure you feel much better. I know your good friends at school will feel relieved as well. Ever so, I think it would be best if you remain at home for the remaining days of the school term. You can help your aunt about the house like a good boy . . . perhaps use the time to work things out,” he hurried broke it off — and good riddance Patrick thought. However, after the major rose up from his chair Patrick quickly realized his relief was only short-lived. The Major still had one final nail in his hand he had yet to nail in his coffin.

“You know, modern thought on the matter is if you let him play out his fantasies instead of punishing him he may soon grow tired of it. Or so our school nurse assures me. She’s a very knowledgeable source in these matters and an opinion I wholly trust. Just something you might like to think about Ma’am. In the meantime you can expect me to send his diploma to you in the mail,” he finished his diatribe, happy to wipe his hands of the whole affair.

Along with Patrick’s supposed admission to his cross-dressing tendencies the school was absolved of legal responsibility. It was done, but a clever man knows not to let such matters linger in the open for to long. There is always the chance it might not hold up to closer scrutiny. So not wanting to wait around to see his good work undone, he put on his hat in haste and didn’t even wait to be escorted out the door.

--------

After supper Edith put Patrick to bed early. Again, it had been a trying day for them both, and though she didn’t want to show it, a bit overwhelming. After she was sure he was asleep, she sat in the family room in the dark with the phone on her lap. With so much on her mind she needn’t to talk with someone and thought to call Barbara.

The buying spree at the boutique and all the things Jane had told her still reverberated in her thoughts. And now with all this cross-dressing business at school, she didn’t know what to think. She supposed she should call to let Barbara know what had happened. She wanted nothing more then to share the burden to help relieve the worry, or just help clear up the muddle. Unfortunately it was also late and not wanting to disturb Barbara this late at night, Edith went to bed not knowing what she was going to do in the morning.

Edith had a short, intermittent rest and got up much earlier than expected when she received a phone call from Barbara. It was almost as if she willed it during the long night of restless sleep. Just the sound of her voice immediately eased the worry, but it did not come without a price. Along with the advocacy came the enigma that was Barbara Stanton. Listening to her was like sweet torture a masochist couldn’t do without, and it began almost immediately with Barbara’s first words. “Edith, I heard about what happened to Patty at school.”

She offered no explanations as to how she could have possibly known about what had happened to Patrick. She didn’t even bother to respond to her question about it. She just carried on, reassuring her she hadn’t need to worry. That everything was quite normal and in accordance with “modern thought” - something Edith was hearing a lot these days.

Listening to her was almost like listening to the good Major Bushmire. From her way of thinking it all made sense. It was just a silly bit all boys go through and should be free to explore as a natural course. She also sounded excited for Patrick, believing he had come upon an important moment in his young life. “Think about it Edith, all this coming about on the week of his graduation, when it was still unclear as to what he was going to do after. I don’t know if you believe in fate, but if this wasn’t meant to be, I don’t know what is.”

“Fate!” - The usual refuge of the dishonest. In truth, this entire scenario had been carefully scripted by Barbara, Jane and their well-placed accomplice. But Edith didn’t know that. Nor had she reason to suspect any wrong doing as she listened to Barbara plot a zigzag course from one point to another. She listened as if in a trance, following the meandering course almost as twisted as her logic until she posed a question that brought Edith out of her reverie. “Look on the sunny side, Edith. It’s a great opportunity. His program has been lagging of late anyway, now he’ll have time to put in extra work. No extra costs to you, so if you’ve no objections I’ll be over in an hour to pick him up.”

“Why certainly, but you needn’t go out of your way. I can bring him in this afternoon.”

“No need, Edith. I have to pick up Greta Buller anyway so it’ll be easier for me.”

“Greta Buller?” Edith echoed, uncertain as to why she should know the name.

“A friend of mine, Edith. She’s a health practitioner who will be working with me this summer to help relieve my busy schedule. So if that’s alright with you my love, I’ll see you in an hour.”

--------

Edith scarcely had time to bath Patrick and prepare a light breakfast before Barbara’s Mercedes pulled into the driveway followed by the knock upon the door. Removing her apron she hurried him along to meet Ms. Stanton, only stopping to quickly survey him to make sure every hair on his flattop head was in order. Dressed in his white cotton shorts and tank top, knee socks and heeled, buckle-strap loafers, she opened the door pleased with how smart he looked. However, she didn’t gather as much from the pained look on Barbara’s face. It was as if she expected to still see him dressed in skirt and bra.

“Morning Edith,” chirped the buoyant Ms. Stanton as she entered and affectionately wrapping her arms around her waist. “Edith this is Greta Buller. Greta this is Edith Whipple and her nephew Patty. I think Patty and you have already met.”

Indeed they had, and perhaps if he knew she would be standing at his door he would have found a way not to be. Greta was the school nurse affectionately called “The Bull” for her unsympathetic, bullying tact. Patrick had been in to see her often over the years and he was not a happy camper seeing her once again. It was like a punch in the gut that immediately had him looking up for his aunt’s intervention with his pleading eyes, only she wasn’t looking. She was too busy sizing up the Bull.

While Patrick knew her, Edith did not. Tall, lean and fifty-something, she looked quite formidable, almost manly given the figurative sense of the word. With her pug nose and thick brow she looked like a Pit Bull terrier, and dressed in a khaki green army dress she looked like one on a search and destroy mission. She didn’t think much about the prospects of leaving her nephew in the hands of this woman, a health professional or not.

However, wrapped up like some captive prey in Barbara’s arms, it was a bit difficult to speak her mind, especially after Barbara looked sternly into her eyes. “Rest assured, Edith. She’s very authoritative and quite abreast on the issues. She’s a longtime associate and confidante, and her skill has helped many a misfit boy find his rightful place in the world. All of them are now happy, vital and much sought after I can assure you.”

After a promise to have him home before super, Edith watched them drive off with a teary-eyed Patrick squeezed between them. She tried to think of it as seeing him off to school. To be schooled in what she didn’t know exactly, but she didn’t want to dwell on that. No, she couldn’t-wouldn’t allow herself to believe wrong of Barbara Stanton, and too proud to admit it if she did.

Instead she chose to think of it as his being in Barbara’s capable hands, believing she’d do only what’s best for him. She went back in, but before closing the door she chose to take a final glimpse of the shiny new Mercedes before it disappeared round the bend. She looked back but suddenly found herself blinded by the high morning sun. Like a sudden, intense flash of a light in a darkened room, it momentarily obscured her vision of the car and washed away all remaining thoughts about her teary-eyed nephew. Only the thoughts and the vision foremost in her mind remained. Those that permeated her existence like the air she breathed — those images of Barbara’s striking beauty and those thoughts of her arresting poise and grandeur. Then suffering those feelings too shameful to own and too prideful to admit she heaved a big sigh and closed the door.

-----

Edith was looking out the kitchen window watching some sparrows feeding from the satellite disk in the Crawford’s backyard. The thing was an eye sore, in total disrepair, dormant, and facing straight up toward the heavens to nowhere. It served only as a bird feed now, collecting sand and rain water after the occasional desert storm in its grotesque concave bowl. Although it hadn’t always been so.

For many years it also served to support a clothesline and during the Holiday Season the Crawford’s had made it a habit to decorate it with Christmas lights. She hated it and thought it had finally reached its demise when Christmas last old Mr. Crawford went up on a metal ladder to replace a bulb after a rare rainstorm. The cheap Chinese made fixtures had a defect that only came to light (no pun intended) when submerged in the pooled water. The shock sent him flying across the yard breaking his arm in the fall and permanently straightened what was left of his naturally curl hair. It also shorted out half the houses on the block and the home owners association quickly put the Kibosh to that. She hadn’t seen him but once since the electrifying experience, but she could see that he carried off the new Einstein hair style well, due comeuppance she thought. Still the dish stood there eye sore that it was, serving as their bird feeder. Of course she wanted to see it physically brought down, often scheming on ways that might be done. But she was just an old woman after all, and her Patty, well . . .

-----

“. . . Why Patrick, I didn’t know you could warble in such a lovely soprano,” Barbara spat out in a rather vulgar voice. “A rather high soprano I might add.”

“Sounds more like castrato if you ask me,” Greta curtly followed.

“Hmmm,” Barbara carried on with her play on words. “Well, not yet, but I know inside every toughie there’s a caged tweetie just waiting to be set free.”

“Well now, ain’t that a fact! The cockier the bird struts, the higher he sings. A bit of pretty primping always raises a tenor up the scale a step, or two. Then tart-up the brisket and the tail feathers and Wall-ah! You’ve got a sashaying, warbling tweetie that could raise the dead and heal the sick with a simple swish of the hips.”

Barbara’s sly grin mirrored Greta’s as she watched the scene play out from the bathroom door, marveling as she applied her craft. No doubt she was in a league of her own. With Patrick bottom up and draped over her knee, she was diligently working the new blue — as in boy - appliance assuring a comfortable fit. And given the magnitude of this precedent setting event, Greta couldn’t have been more pleased. Still, having to take into account the need for Patrick to catch his wind every now and again did make it a very measured process.

It was also a very emotional process. In fact, you could say Patrick was stuffed to the gills with just about every kind of feeling at the moment — and in more ways than one. Actually there were two, as in the two forces that seemed to be pushing and pulling on him at the same time. Pulled on by the feelings of guilt over his failing, believing he had only himself to blame for still not “measuring up.” And pushed by his need to prove he was that “special boy” his aunt and Ms. Stanton believed him to be. This push and pull was a boy thing made of bravado and grit, and all pushed home by Greta’s firm hand and pulled out by Ms. Stanton’s cruel, nonstop cajoling.

The creation of Barbara’s one-of-a-kind quality product was now in Greta’s capable hands, and from an observers point of view it made for quite a show. Barbara thought this scene alone was worth the cost of admission and Greta’s grin, well . . . priceless! All this and they still had the better part of the afternoon to go.

When all the preparations were finally done, Greta turned the petcock and looked up toward Barbara with a gleam in her eye that could have lit up a city block. “You know Eric has been saying he found it as easy as slicing a knife through butter.”

“Is that right, Patty? You relaxed nicely for Eric but not for Greta?” What’s that tell you, Greta?” She asked, her words spit out like venom from her smiling red lips. Patrick just shook his head as if somehow that could negate the lie. He would have liked to do more to express his outrage, but at the time anything more than a grunt a bit hard to come by.

“Dunno,” Greta replied, “maybe I should pretend I’m Eric.”

“Hum, that might be nice, better yet, Nicky!” laughed Barbara before turning to check the time . . .

-----

. . . It was five o’clock when Edith set aside her knitting to finish preparations for dinner. The roast nearly done, she returned to her kitchen to turn down the heat when she heard Barbara’s car turning in the driveway. She hurried out to greet them as Barbara escorted a decidedly different Patty than the boy she sent off in his smart boy clothes some hours before. Gone were the crisp new shorts and tank top.

In their stead he wore a pair of brief, skin-tight shorts and a ribbon-strap halter that exposed his midriff. Across the front of the halter it read “Puss E Willow” in sequins that refracted the myriad of colors in the sunlight. And between the large capitals “P” and “W,” two discernible and no longer deniable peaks wobbling ever so slightly with each hip swaying, high-heeled step. That’s high heels, as in pumps, white patient leather with narrow three inch heels. Though quite apt at walking on his toes, it was still a short, cautious, heel to toe stride that took a firm grasp of Barbara’s hand to steady him as she walked him to the door.

Edith greeted him with a warm smile and a hug, her hand pressing his face to her bosom. Then after a long moment she pulled his face away and held him at arms length thinking she needed to have a better look at him. At least that’s what she thought she needed just to make sure the sun wasn’t playing tricks on her. After all, mirages were common place in this part of the world and it was a hot sun over head.

However, her second, closer look had proven the sun wasn’t that hot. At least not hot enough to explain the scalding vision that loomed at arms length. His flattop, short on the sides and high and flat on top stood in stark contrast to his sumptuously sculptured face. With a hint of blusher on his cheeks, blue mascara and pink painted lips he composed quite an imaginative, though delightful work of fiction.

It was an interesting bit of work to say the least, but it was his clothes that truly tilted the composition to the extreme. Especially the crop top with its ribbon thin shoulder straps that hung just low enough to honorably cover the twin jut peaks. Further down the heels lifted and fluffed up his bottom like two plump, form-fit pillows. The shorts too were a bit of a meager peel, scarcely able to contain the ripe fruit beneath. Given the contour of their low, hip-hugging fit and the high upward arc of the leg-cut, the skimpy cover exposed a bit too much cheek by any standards. That is, unless . . . ahm, unless he just happened to be dressed to kill for some girlie-boy strip show at a Las Oasis City casino.

Like the ingredients that make up a pie offer little until combined, you had to see it on him to see how well it all worked together, especially those shorts and heels. Like lemon and meringue, a pretty pie topped with a small pearl in just one ear, and a hint of candy cane pink on his lips. The very same shade of pink lipstick that matched the pink smudge mark Patrick had left on the white lace covering Edith’s bosom. “Sorry about that Edith,” Barbara giggled, “I should have warned you. Don’t worry I’ll have that cleaned for you.”

Poor Mrs. Whipple, the woman looked bound hand and foot and even to find the mechanism to respond seemed a labor. Tongue tied and shell-shocked, she flushed a beet red and behind the white of her rapt brown eyes the battle raged. The two sides of Mrs. Whipple were fighting it out, each vying to see who would fill in the void and the voice of the routed Mrs. Whipple. It was war, and when done, there would be blood on the tracks. And while there is nothing amusing about the chaos and disorder in a bloody fight-to-the-finish, quite frankly, the state of the battle that raged within Mrs. Whipple was so palpable you could almost “hear” her buckle and cringe.

In a scene that could have been plucked from the pages of a Marvel comic, “Kapow . . !” Mrs. Stubborn Pride took a left directly on the chin from Mrs. Wistfully Longing. “Ooomph!” grunted Mrs. Longing as Mrs. Pride fired back with a right to the solar plexus.

Of course, we already know what side of the fight Barbara was pulling for, and wanting to tilt the battlefield in her favor she thought the time right to bring out the heavy weaponry. “The lipstick goes well with his outfit, don’t you think? I had it lying around and thought why not a bit of dress-up fun. You know, to indulge his fancy a little and add a bit of sweet flavor to the session. Given “Modern thought” and all, I thought it only best. I hope you don’t mind,” she feigned her patented wide-eyed ‘innocent’ pout before coming around behind her to again wrap her arms around her waist.

It was a glorious moment for Barbara and her satisfaction was written across the length of her smile. Then as she leaned in to whisper in Edith’s ear, she could no longer mute the glee that bubbled up and took on a life of its own. “Like the name on the halter, Edith? I chose it just for him - after that pretty Willow of yours around back!”

“Kaboom . . !” she had Mrs. Pride doubled with the body shot.

Resting her head on Edith’s shoulder she was eye to eye with Patrick and blew him a kiss. “Patty darling, why don’t you run along to the car and get your lipstick from my purse. Oh, and some tissue, you can use a touch up.”

Together they watched him gingerly waddle his way back toward the car, looking not unlike a young girl’s first day on skates. “Hmmm, now that he’s off and busy tidying up let’s go see what we can do about that stain on your bodice?”

“Pow . . !” another right landed square on Mrs. Pride’s jaw. Picking herself up off the floor (figuratively) she soon found herself in the bathroom, alone with Barbara, the door closed behind. “It’ll be easier to clean if you take off the dress, Edith.”

“Whap . . !” a follow-up left jab that had Mrs. Pride on the ropes. In a daze she tried to fight back, but no longer having the upper hand she soon found herself succumbing to Mrs. Longing and handed over her dress, only her undergarments remain.

“Oh my, but your undergarments look to be such a comfortable fit,” she beams her radiant smile while fondling Edith’s sagging, rotund globes. “I always have the most difficult time buying the right one, what with one breast larger than the other and all. It’s not easy being a bit lopsided you know. Here . . .” she carries on as she continued to intimately caress the old woman, “. . . Let me show you.”

“Wham! Pow! Ker-ploosh!” Mrs. Longing followed with a rapid fire combination of jabs that left Mrs. Pride reeling.

Breathless, Mrs. Pride could scarcely stand as the object of Mrs. Longing’s desire stripped off all but her panties and asked her to have a closer look. “See the lines where the elastic binds and chafes here and here too . . . ” Barbara purred between sultry pursed lips, her hands lifting up her heaving, massive breasts until her nipples fronted the old woman’s face. “Please, give it a feel and let me know what you think.”

“Zwapp . . !” went a right cross to the temple of Mrs. Pride. Staggered by the blow to the head Mrs. Pride’s defenses where shot to hell, and with her vision still a bit hazy there was not a lot she could do. Sensing the victory close at hand Mrs. Longing went for the kill. She took hold of Mrs. Pride’s hand and placed it on her breast so she could examine them more closely. Which Mrs. Pride did, to soothe the savage beast least she be pummeled again. “My panties too . . . I always pick the wrong size, or material, or whatever. Here sit down on the toilet and let me show you.”

“Ka-Boing!!! *~*!!!” was all she remembered thinking when the knock out blow to the jaw finally came. With Mrs. Longing’s clean shaven pubis posed inches from her face the world to her was cut off, the voice above only an echo careening down the empty halls once occupied by Mrs. Pride. “I know it looks smooth and satiny, but feel it . . . it’s so hot to the touch. Can you soothe it for me please? Perhaps just a little moisture will do the trick . . . Oh! Yes, my little minx. Reach further, deeper . . . please, or Mommy will have to put you over her knee and give you the spanking you deserve . . . Oh! Ummm, that’s it . . . don’t stop . . . my pet, or . . . ummm . . . it’s over Greta’s knee … ahhh, or my kneeeee . . . ummm . . . right now, ahhh . . . to spaaan, ah . . . spaa-ank Greta’s lil’ pet . . .ummm . . . mummy’s lil’ girl . . . ummm . . . oooh! . . . you naugh-teeee lil’girl!”

-----

As the interminable week wore on Mrs. Longing took charge as the victor and Mrs. Pride was no longer anywhere to be seen. Rightly or wrongly she now paid homage, while over at the Homeopathic center Greta applied her new shaping gadgetry and exercises to pry and prod, mold and form Patrick into an even more remarkable looking creature each and every day. Just as “modern thought” would have it. Whereas in the Whipple household bathroom, the shrieks and the moans and the growling at Mrs. Longing’s stiletto heeled feet could be heard reverberating off the satellite dish in the Crawford’s backyard.
 
 
To Be Continued...
 

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 © 2007 by Josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.

He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.

She called this Homeostasis. Patrick called it torture.

HOMEOPATHIC THERAPY
Part 3, Chapters 6 & 7
By Josie

 

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Part 3 — The Cool of Night
 
Chapter 6
 
 
On Saturday, the day of Patrick’s eighteenth birthday party Barbara came early to pick him up to give Greta and his aunt time to prepare for the party. The day had been long in preparation and short on the details given to Edith. All for a very good reason of course, because this was not to be just another day of sessions at her homeopathic clinic. Nope, she had more important things to do now that he was ready, or almost so. Today it was a trip to the beauty pallor. A quaint little place across the street from the Puss n’ Poodle, and afterward, it would be Patty’s introduction to the club, all the lovelies and soon to be playmates.

After a brief stop at Ms. Stanton’s for some pretty dress-up it was off to Las Oasis, “where the party never dies.” It wasn’t the first time Patrick had been there, though never had he driven down casino row. Even at this early hour the neon light façades and gigantic billboard signs glowed nearly as bright as the morning sun, overwhelming old and the young alike, and most of all young Patrick Whipple. Barbara could see it on his awestruck face as they drove past one club after another until coming to a stop in front of Rosie’s Gurl’s n’Curl’s Salon. Across the street was the flashing neon façade that fronted Puss n’ Poodle. One of the last of the old town lounges still standing as the giant casinos sprout up like wild flowers all around it.

Though a relatively small façade compared to the two behemoth casinos it was sandwiched between it lacked nothing in terms of glitz and glitter. Standing beneath a fluorescent, cotton candy pink canopy, stood a doorman dressed in a black tuxedo. About the canopy a 20’ tall neon sign that featured a trio of high kicking Can-Can girl’s, ruffling their skirts then bending over to show their knickers before looping round to begin the sequence again. “Come along Pretty Patty, you’ve an appointment and we wouldn’t want to keep Rosie waiting.”

If you were looking to see the same Patrick we all have come to know and love sashay his way out of that Mercedes then I’m afraid you’ve sadly underestimated the power of Homeopathy and the skills of Barbara Stanton — one clever Marketer. No matter what you might think of her, or her bastardization of an honorable profession, she can’t be accused of not affecting results.

Oh, I hear the “hissing” and the “boo’s.” You’re thinking I’ve giving credit where credit isn’t due, that Barbara Stanton was just a shyster, a charlatan or worse, a criminal. And of course, you’d be right! There’s no defense of the woman, but then there wasn’t a just defense for Rasputin either yet we still admired his evil genius. After all, she was just a free market opportunist, in hyper-drive perhaps, but just someone taking advantage of her position in a marketplace where scruples and a conscious will get you trampled by the herd in a minute. It takes genius, evil or otherwise, to stay ahead of that ruthless pack, and that one-of-a-kind quality product she escorted to the front door of Rosie’s salon was exactly the kind of innovative thinking that was going to keep her top of the class.

Well, you’d have to see him to understand why I am quick to give Barbara her due. She had done her job well. Perhaps not as she had promised him, but it wasn’t a meager boy suffering a “lingering malaise” she escorted inside Rosie’s sanctuary of girlie-dom. Wearing but a whiff of a skirt short enough to show a bit of white silk panty beneath, he looked very much like a saucily dressed teen aiming to tease the senses. You might even call him provocative when you take into account the clutch purse dangling from his wrist and the one pearl earring he now wore. Barbara’s trademark! The mark that focused all eyes on him was the oddity of his mismatched, slick, Vitalis laden hair.

Ah, but only if that was all there was to him. Because when you throw in gartered white lace stockings, 4” stiletto heels and a white silk blouse sheer enough to see the flower rosettes stitched into the fabric of his new bra, you have the picture of quite a healthy boy — or girl — or some androgynous creature in between. Or, if you prefer boy-girl, an apt name for a hybrid the likes of our dressed-to-kill blossom with jutting mounds and a flattop.

Suddenly the wiry, gooseneck boy didn’t look quite so awkward or misfit, especially those spidery limbs now attractively encased in that gartered lace hosiery. In truth, while he might not have looked like Sgt. Rock he was just as exceptional. “Special” if you like, just as Barbara had said, and given his sultry appeal, a head turning gift to mankind as he walked in the door. Not that he looked out of place. The room styled in a French boudoir motif with lush burgundy-red velour and brass throughout, the fluff and the pomp was the perfect setting to find an aspiring queen of the casino row. It was the perfect setting to find the elegant creature that greeted them at the front desk.

Tall and sumptuous, he wore a red sequin, off the shoulder pencil dress that hugged his hips like honey on a spoon. On top of his head he wore a beehive bouffant which he seemed prone to want to balance upright as if fearing it might fall off should he happen to look down. “Barbara, darling, how nice it is to see you," Howard broadcasted with a deep, hoarse voice, “. . . and oh, my! You lucky girl! Who is this lovely thing you’ve escorting you?”

“Patty this is Howard, Howard, this is Pretty Patty,” she smiled down at him warmly, as if to say. “Relax he’s not going to bite.”

“It’s Patty’s birthday, eighteen and all grown up. Is Rosie ready to begin his make-over?”

“Yes, of course. If you’ll escort this lovely thing I’ll get you situated and Madam Magnifique can begin to work her miracles.”

Ten minutes later he sat back in the styling chair with his eyes closes, body taut and seemingly detached from himself while a cadre of specialty artisans working on every aspect of him. Curious amorphic creatures in fanciful dress and richly painted faces they scurried about like enchanted fairies in Geppetto’s workshop to bring Barbara’s puppet to life. The manicurist, pedicurist and cosmetologist giggled and fastidiously pampered and toyed with his nails and his face with practiced hands, while Ms. Rose was busy coloring the landing strip on top of his head a golden blond.

Barbara sat close by to watch the product of her innovative thinking take form, and the vamp that emerged three hours later was truly worth the wait. He was quite the beautiful boy, but all Barbara could see were the dollar signs in her eyes and the “cha-ching” of cash registers sounding off in her head. With his flattop and high arching brows now dyed a golden blond and his cheeks dusted with a tint of sweet scarlet, he made up a very contrary picture. Add in the extended lashes, the soft-violet mascara and lips painted the same luscious cherry-red that matched his extended  ½ inch nails and you have everything Barbara had hoped for — and more! “My, my Rosie, that look is definitely him! Those glorious lashes, the brows, those lips, the hair . . . you’ve really outdone yourself this time. He’s a definitely a man killer!”

Her words proved to be as true as they were prophetic starting the moment they walked outside into the mid-day traffic. Eyes were riveted on him as he approached and swiveled round backward as he passed. Then when crossing the street, brakes screeched, horns tooted and cars collided in a cascading fall of rear-end collisions as they sauntered effortlessly across the unmarked street toward the entrance of the Puss n’ Poodle Club.

“Good afternoon Karl, busy?” She beamed her smile at the equally enthralled doorman. Dressed in a tuxedo with sunglasses, the dashing figure looked like a man who had seen it all, but a quick glance down at his protuberant trousers showed that he’d never seen anything quite like this.

Inside was a wonderland, a fairylike imaginary realm to excite the sense in a re-creation of the original Moulin Rouge. Centermost was the stage with its long vamp walk that also served as the counter of the bar. Fronting the stage and the long vamp walk was the lounge, its tables and chairs stretched across the parquet floor like plume feathers on a peacock. The crowd struggled to be heard over the pounding hard rock beat that reached dangerous decibels, while on stage the dancers were in the midst of the day’s first number before a hardy and somewhat inebriated crowd of admirers lined up at the bar.

Clearly this was the kind of setting that kindles imaginings of sin and seduction, and with the scantily clad entertainers and raucous, raunchy, out-of-control drunks, it hardly seemed appropriate place to find our hapless young hero. No doubt that’s how Patrick felt and if you looked closely you could see the tremor play across the bow of his candy-apple painted lips. Still, you must realize that eighteen was the age of consent in this fair state. The state certified brothels, the casinos, the strip clubs and yes, the wedding chapels were brim full of aspiring eighteen year olds looking to make there way in the world. All of them just as mortified as Patrick when they first walked in to a place like this; but then again, they were not seen as children anymore.

Barbara managed to squeeze her pet poppet and herself between some gentlemen sitting on bar stools nursing their cocktails and their torose slacks along the vamp walk. Darting between one outstretched claw or another, the dancing Puss’s and the dancing Poodle’s bumped and grind their way into the hearts of their admirers, then positioning themselves accordingly when proffered a tip. The Puss’s wore the familiar micro crop-top, skyscraper 6” heels and a g-string. The Poodles wore a leather collar; the heels and a g-string with an attached poodle’s tail that dangling behind.

Of course the spot she had selected to squeeze in had been anything but random. Patrick could see that the moment he looked up to see Nicky “the poodle” wagging his tail. Beside him a she-he, a Puss aptly named “Galore” shook and shimmed his scarcely concealed boobs in Nicky’s face. Nicky turned round and blew Patrick a kiss then thrust his hips out at the man sitting next to Barbara. Patrick was dumbfounded and petrified as Barbara leaned down to be heard over the riotous noise. Handing him a hundred dollar bill she nudged him to follow suit as the man stuffed a like amount into Nicky’s micro g-string. That’s micro, as in not even close to enough, and “Gee,” as in geepers! Where’s the rest of it?

Moving in to face Patrick, he again placed his hands behind to grab hold of his bottom cheeks and then to each of the thunderous cords: “. . . gimme, gimme, gimme . . .” he pumped his hips, and on “. . . the honky tonk blues” — O-o-o-ooph! He thrust out in such an upfront way as to leave no doubt exactly where he expected Patty to tuck in the hundred.
 
 
Chapter 7
 
 
Until recently this had been a day young Patrick Whipple had long been waiting for. Since a small boy he had always seen this as the day he would smartly walk into the recruiter’s office, proud of what he had become. Buffed and rugged as Sgt. Rock, he’d look eye to eye and shaking the hand of the man who’d have jumped through rings of fire to get him to sign on the dotted line. He had played upon the fabric of that dream until the threads wore bare, even now bringing it again to mind when he remembered it was his birthday. Something he had mercifully forgotten during the turbulent day. Only now did he shutter from the thought as they pulled into the driveway behind Edith’s rickety old Renault.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been expecting the party. He knew it was being planned. What he hadn’t expected was for Greta Buller to be there to complete the cast of characters. The prospects of having to face his aunt looking like Barbie incarnate was a gut retching thought in itself, but when you add in a dash of the bitter, caustic Greta and you’ve a toxic brew that had his stomach in knots and wanting to vomit. It was all a bit much to deal with, and expectedly, his wobbly knees and faltering spirit sounded his retreat into himself to protect what remained of his manhood.

The kitchen was decked out with streamers, balloons and party hats suited for a five year old. It seemed almost as bizarre as his Barbie impersonation, all going to prepare him for the worse. Outnumbered and definitely out gunned by Greta’s lethal hands, he lacked only the blindfold as he slumped and waited for his assassins to pull the trigger. Instead what he got was a warm embrace from his aunt. But what pleased him most was what put him at ease. Greta “The Bull” had an uncharacteristic smile on her face, and she uttered not a word.

Greta wasn’t prone to such niceties. Built like an M-1 tank with a fearsome scowl affixed to her turret she wasn’t one to do a lot of smiling, unless she was really pleased with herself - which was seldom. She always pushed the envelope and its method of delivery to the limit, which it in itself never seemed good enough. Even after pummeling him to complete, unconditional surrender.

There was something different about his aunt too. Something about her smile that would slowly fade from her lips whenever Greta spoke to her. Speaking to her in that cold, calculating way he thought had been reserved for him alone. In a voice that would cause her to bow her head and take on a flush, not unlike what would happen to him. He had noticed it while sitting in the living room too, when Greta spoke as if to order, not ask his aunt to prepare a spot of tea. Something she scurried off and did without question in the same manner he did when she told him to play some songs on his piano.

All the while he played, Greta sat in his aunt’s chair sipping her tea and chatting with Barbara about his musical talent. His aunt stood beside, eyes cast down and not saying a word. All out of character for her, but all that came to a stop when Nicky “the poodle” sauntered in.

Nicky, given the rare Saturday night off came dressed in a pair of white bell-bottom hip-huggers and a pink blouse. He had with him a single red rose to give to his “Peach’esth,” and to the delight of the ladies, a pair of hungry red lips that left a snail’s trail of lipstick smug that stretched from the tip of Patty’s nose to the base of his neck. A moment later, the birthday boy was blowing out the eighteen candles on the three layer cake and smothered beneath a mound of gifts.

As beautifully wrapped as they were he couldn’t bring himself to open them. With the pink ribbon and bows, and the fancy script “M’Lady” moniker printed on the boxes, it would have been tantamount to asking a man to pull the trigger himself! In his stead, Nicky took up the first box to open for him. Patrick slumped and fidgeted with his extended,  ½” pink nails while Nicky hurriedly sought to see what was inside. He hadn’t want to know, so his eyes just wandered about the room, his mind a blank until he fixed upon the framed picture hanging beside his piano.

It was his freshman year class picture. He always had mixed feeling about the picture of him standing front and center, the 12 members of his platoon standing in file alongside. All smartly dressed in their parade regalia, their bearing was proud and dignified, save for one. That would be him. As it certainly wasn’t the proudest or most dignified moment of his life he wondered why she left it to hang there after all these years. There were others after all, better ones, one for each of the following years of school. But for some reason she chose that one to hang even as offensive as it was. Then again, maybe that’s why she did it. To remind him, so he wouldn’t forget his place.

The picture was taken the first week of school about a month after he came to live with his aunt. At the time he was still pretty much a regular boy, you know, free to be himself. His aunt was still scratching her head wondering what to make of him and his little problem of wetting the bed. That was also the time of year when class pictures were taken. He was new to his aunt and new to the academy, but not new enough to have already become the most bullied kid in school.

That’s Martin Philips standing behind him. You remember him I’m sure, the boy in the coatroom next in line to fag him. He had it in for him pretty much since the git-go, and just moments before the shot was taken he had promised to pull down his pants right on 3-2-1-smile! Of course he believed him. He had already become the favorite target of his reticule and abuse, so why wouldn’t he? Fact is, he was scared to death it was going to happen just as he said, and when the photographer counted 3-2-1 he peed himself. Soaking the entire front of his pants down to his socks before the man could say “Smile!”

Of course his aunt had to come to school to take him home, although she wasn’t as angry as he would have expected. Still it seemed to have become a consummate moment for her and things were never the same afterward. From then on it was short pants instead of blue jeans and never again allowed to wander further away then the length of her apron string. Then along came Barbara Stanton, the frame to add to the picture. The enclosure that would forever bind and seal him in - subdued and caged like a rabbit awaiting the evening stew.

So there he was, left hanging on the wall seemingly forever. Front and center with tears in his eyes and sopping wet across the front of his pants and down the length of his leg. It was the most humiliating day of his life. A day that changed his life forever and still stained his memory as Nicky now held up a pair of expensive white lace stockings. “Oh look, new stockings and garters and a panty that match’esth too.”

He hadn’t even to look away from the picture. From his perspective, the picture could be seen in the background next to Nicky standing in front of him. The new pair of stockings he held out was juxtaposed, with the snapshot of life’s worse moment on one side and Nicky’s smiling face on the other. A four year stretch in time separated by millimeters underscored just how far he had come. And as Nicky continued to show the intimate feminine apparel that would change the look of his outside, he could see from the picture he was the same feeble, sickly boy suffering a lingering malaise on the inside.

The silk nightie Mrs. Bottomly had bought couldn’t have made it any clearer. Nor the pair of baby pink, point-toe patent pumps Ms. Stanton got for him. With their six inch stiletto heels and a jeweled star affixed on top, they were the very same heels he had seen worn by the “Puss” girls that afternoon. “Aren’t they beautiful Patty?” Barbara spat out. “Size eight and perfect for your new job at the “Puss and Poodle.”

“Oh, isn’t that wonderful, Patty,” Edith added, pointing out the obvious. “Barbara wants to hire you. Your own car, lots of new friends and a chance to become a man’s man . . . oh, I’m so proud of you.”

His aunt’s words were like a punch in the gut, and a sobering blow at that. Enough to draw him out of his stupor and merge again into the world around him. Looking around he saw Mrs. Bottomly sitting beside his aunt holding up the nightie between them. Nicky now sat on Greta’s lap playing some silly game with his pants gather around his knees and a pair of the new pink panties in his hand.

Barbara came around in front, lifted up his chin and stared into his eyes while she spoke in a tone as harsh as a shot of Kentucky rye. “Yes, you have all the makings of a great one. That is once you’re learned to handle the tricks of the trade. And with Nicky’s help you’re going to learn to perform those tricks ably for your admiring clientele, making you one of the most sought after commodities in the trade.”

“Oh my, look at the time,” interjected Mrs. Bottomly. “Time does fly when you’re having fun, but young boys do need their beauty rest and . . .”

“. . . and Nicky still has to give his gift.” Greta abruptly cut in, “By the look of things, I’d say the poor boy can hardly wait.”

“Well . . .” Barbara smiled and winked in an “I gotcha” sort of way. “How does this sound. Patty can put on his new nightie and Nicky, you lucky duck, you can run along to bed, get everything nice and warm and comfy for Patty.”

Nicky jumped off Greta’s lap and dashed to Patrick’s room flapping his arms and quacking with a lisp. As for poor Patrick . . . well, he retreated back into the solitude, his mind again blank, his gaze fixed upon that picture as the three self-serving, self-seeking parasitic harpies’ did their worst.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Self-serving and parasitic,” there, I said it! About time I did, right? All I can say is shame on me, and I apologize for not having done so before now. My silence was paramount to making myself an accomplice to the crime, or worse, excusing it in not coming to the defense of young Patrick. But that wasn’t my intent. As the story teller I simply wanted to air out the issues so you the reader could come to your own determination as to the right and the wrong, not give short-shrift to an injustice. That’s what it was after all, plain and simple. For their own gain these criminals, these self-serving parasites sucked the lifeblood of this hapless boy, his welfare nowhere to be seen.

Of course Patrick deserves our sympathy and our outrage, but you have to ask yourself why he didn’t fight back. I mean any boy worth his weight in the genetic code would have fought like hell to save himself from having to wear that nightie, those panties and those outrageous heels. So why didn’t he summon up the testosterone and fight back when outfitted like some ersatz bride on his wedding night? Why didn’t he go kicking and screaming when they led him down the hall and to the bedroom where Nicky waited at the door?

Well, you might ask the same of a boy who unfortunately finds himself a victim of bullying time and time again, for no reason other than his manner and the clothes he wears. He cries out, but nobody listens. He tries to fight back, but can not win. Soon his anger toward the bullies turns inward, blaming himself for his failings. Correcting his clothes and his mannerisms to please them he soon becomes a bully himself. A class “A” bully, to prove his worth and garnish respect, to measure up as somebody special in the eyes of those he is tied — the bullies - his support mechanism, the only ear who would listen and without them he is isolated and alone.

Oh I can hear the complaints already. You’re thinking, what kind of stretch is it to equate young Patrick’s needless suffering to the plight of an ignorant bully. Okay, I’ve heard your point. Maybe it was a stretch. After all, we all have heartache, hardships and some of us carry around enough guilt to topple a mountain. But few of us go through life suffering the blame for our weaknesses, our fears, our failed state the way Patrick did. For him it was a form of disparagement that bred self-loathing. And let me assure you, one and all, self-loathing is a powerful motivator that could convince him to do most anything.

Simply put, the only war that need be fought was within himself, not in fisticuffs with Barbara Stanton. He needed to fight his way from beneath the guilt and the blame before he could see himself in some way other than the way Barbara Stanton defined him. Obviously nothing has as yet awakened him to that fact. So you’d have to wonder what, if anything would get him to see through the bars of his self-imposed prison. Was he to become the prima donna drag queen of casino row just because he hated himself for his failed state and not measuring up?

Well, I’m writing this story and I can’t even say with certainty what the future has in store for our young, hapless hero. What I can say is that it’s never too late to find redemption.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Patty my darling,” Barbara whispered in his ear, “tonight is your night. Nicky has a special gift to give to a special boy. Call it a welcoming gift, a christening of our new Puss girl, Puss-E-Willow!”

With the three harpy’s lined up behind him, Barbara placed her hands on his shoulders and gently nudging him closer to Nicky standing at the bedroom door. Nicky stood smiling, at attention like a good soldier, and our hapless hero, lost in his reverie. His solitude spoke volumes as Barbara stepped back, Edith sighed, Jane smiled and Greta looked on with a wicked glint in her eyes. It was a bleak and sordid scene in which all hope finally seemed lost - though fortunately, not all.

When Nicky reached out to take hold of his person a thought occurred to him. He thought about what was at stake in that life or death struggle between Sgt. Rock and that crocodile. Even in the face of impossible odds he didn’t give up. With no less than his life in the balance he fought like the warrior he was, and would have done so to his dying breath. Or so it read in the caption beneath and no doubt absolutely true. Was his circumstance any less dire? Wasn’t it for him to fight to his dying breath, to fight for himself like the warrior he always wanted to be?

Perhaps he should have taken to heart what Sgt. Rock had told him. In his written response to his fan letter, he wrote; “It isn’t how big your muscles are that that make you a beautiful person. It’s standing up for what is right regardless of the outcome that makes a person worth remembering.”

That’s the way Sgt. Rock defined himself. It wasn’t his muscles, or his gun. It was having the grit to do the right thing regardless of the outcome that made him a superman. Odd that he had not been able to see it in that light before. It was one thing to want big muscles, but without the grit to do what’s right all the muscles in the world were meaningless. And grit was one thing young Patrick Whipple had a ton of — thank you, Barbara Stanton!!!

The revelation shot through him like a bolt of lightening that broke him out of his reverie and spurred him to action. Refusing to go quietly like a lamb to slaughter, he turned quickly and ran in the only direction he could, toward the bathroom. Before anyone could react he ran in, slammed the door closed and locked it all in one lighting quick move. Behind the security of the door he listened to the pounding and the angry, vile threats, demanding he come out this instant.

He didn’t come out of course, not even when Greta threatened to break down the door. Something she was quite prepared to do until Edith begged her not to do so. In time cooler heads prevailed and shortly after they drifted away. Then as the house grew quiet Patrick was left alone to think about what he had done. He could only hope that the point he had made would bring a halt to all this. At least he knew he did the right thing and was proud of himself as he kicked off those dreadful heels. But did he win the war or just a battle with worse yet to come?

Patrick didn’t know, but he sure wasn’t going to step out of the bathroom to find out. Not even after hearing Barbara slam the front door then drive off, followed shorted by Nicky and Jane. Instead, he put on his pink velour jump suit that was left hanging on the back of the door. Slipping it on over his nightie for warmth, he took out some towels from the cabinet and curled up on the floor to sleep.

The house was dead silent and the new morning sun had yet to cut through the cold when he woke up with a shiver. Patrick sat up and waited long enough until he was sure the coast was clear than cautiously opened the door. He peeked into his room and found his room dark and quiet. Then not finding his aunt in her room he went down the hall and into the family room where, stopped in his tracks, reality slammed into him with tidal wave force.

Greta sat at his aunt’s chair waiting on him. Beside the chair stood his aunt, unstirred, her head slumped down. “Good morning pretty boy. Come in and sit down . . . Come now, do as I say or I may renege on my promise not to bite.”

No match for Greta and not wanting a confrontation he sat across from her and waited quietly while his aunt went off to prepare breakfast. During the entire time she didn’t take her eyes off him, although she said nothing. Even in the kitchen while she heartily ate her ham and eggs and finished off his uneaten plate as well. Then when finished, she asked Edith for the keys to her car, telling her she was going home to change clothes and would be taking Patrick with her.

Patrick found it odd she would hand over the keys without question. She just lowered her eyes as Greta snatched the keys out of her hands. Then stood idly by as she grabbed him by the hand and hauled him away like so much chattel. Or, perhaps, like a lamb to slaughter. Edith didn’t know, but then she wasn’t asking either. It was as though she had given up, given in or joined the conspiracy, submissively surrendering in a manner no different than he had as Greta led him out the door.

Five minutes later it became obvious that she wasn’t headed home. She was taking the route to Ms. Stanton’s, pushing the rickety old Renault to its shaking, huffing, and puffing limit as it raced down the road leaving a cloud of dust. When they came to a stop in front of the clinic a vapor cloud of boiling steam was gushing out from under the hood as the engine continued to sputter and grind as if in its death throws. The dying car looked as Patrick felt as Greta hurried around to drag him from the car to meet his fate.

Like a fly ensnared in a Widow’s web, no amount of struggle could free him now. And waiting to devour their prey was Greta, Jane, Nicky and Barbara, conspirators to a one, at the ready to consume what little reminded of the boy in him. All in it together, an evil plot from the start. As for why, you needn’t ask. Because you already know there is only one thing that could compel someone to be so ruthless and cold-hearted without principle or conscious. Not love, not even hate is more compelling in this world of ours than greed for the almighty dollar.

Only profit could bring together under one roof such an odd assemblage of conspiratorial assassins, smiling and eagerly licking their chops over the prospects of capitalizing on his demise. Just as had been Nicky’s fate before him, and hanging on the walls of Barbara’s office the portraits of others before that. All no doubt to be found center stage at the Puss n’ Poodle, or perhaps in some dark corner entertaining one of Barbara’s well paying clients. Shameless in their surrender as they sit on some gentleman’s lap just to earn himself a car and some pretty clothes while the claque of jackals raked in their lucrative profit.

A dastardly deed to be sure, and a vice they were about to thrust upon him with no one to save him but himself. The very same skin and bone, sissified self now in utter fright as Barbara approached grinning like a cat prepared to swallow his mousy self whole. In her hand the largest syringe in the case. The end of the line model, the one she had promised would come at the end of his recovery. She was using it like a pink, rubber baton, grasping it one hand and slapping her other, open palm with a menace. “Well . . . my pretty little puss, after Nicky has finished feeding the guppy, you can ask me politely to finish the job . . .” she paused, then held up the monstrous nozzle, “. . . and I’ll see what I can do.”

Patrick was beyond grief. Beyond response of any kind, save the tears that streamed down his terror stricken face. Quickly they striped him of his jumpsuit but chose to leave on the nightie, garter belt and stockings he wore beneath. Then as Greta held his hands in her iron tight grip, Barbara prettified his tear stained face while Jane retrieved yet another pair of high-heeled pumps from the closet. “Okay Greta, he’s pretty as a picture. Come, Patty, your belated birthday gift awaits you in the bathroom.”

Nicky was already there, quite eager and quite ready. Greta sat down on the rim of the bathtub filled with perfumed bubbles then pulled Patrick’s shoulders down until his head came to rest on her lap. With his high heeled rear jetting up obscenely behind and his head pinned down like a butterfly to a mat, Barbara took up beside him. Everyone and everything at the ready she motioned to Nicky to step up behind our hapless hero. Which he hurriedly did wearing a most wicked grin as his stepmother Jane shouted her smutty encouragement from the doorway. Only then did Barbara Stanton lean in to whisper in his ear, “No more hiding in the cloak room closet for you. It’s time the little fairy queen step out and find his rightful place in the world.”

Patrick sobbed a mournful cry as he felt Nicky’s thumbs spread his cheeks. But when he felt the heat of his advance something inside him broke. His aunt might have given up, given in or joined the conspiracy, but he had not. His heart was broke, but as yet, not his will. So he dug down deep for some of that hard earned grit and, “S-n-a-p!” . . . went his self-loathing. “Cr-r-a-a-ck!” . . . went his hobbled spirit.
“Scr-r-e-e-ch” went the sound of bending bars, the bars that held him imprisoned!

I don’t know. Call it a reflexive survival thing of some sort. Kind of like what one would do if a bomb when off in the room you were in. The concussion and the blast blow everything to smithereens, but somehow you find yourself alive amidst the rubble. Dazed and confused, you’re not even thinking, probably not even conscious. You’re just in shock. Ears ringing, the dimmest of light illuminates your awareness, and you reach out to see what remains of you. And that’s what he did.

He reached out with his fist clenched. With a force coming from a source he had never felt before, he broke free of her grasp and swung. It was as if in slow motion and the involuntary reflex seemed to click by frame by frame as the fist landed square on Greta’s jaw . . . “Ka-Pow!” The follow through pushed the twisted, shattered jaw off its moorings and sent her flying back into the tub of water with a splash.

The momentum carried him whirling in a smooth pivot around on the point of his 6” stiletto heel, the sweep of his right leg aimed waist high toward Barbara’s midsection. The high heeled kick that followed plunged into her gut . . . “Thwack” . . . doubling her over then flying back, her head slamming against the wall. “Splat!” With Greta moaning and stewing in the hot water, and Barbara sitting on the floor still trying to figure out what day of the week it was, young Patrick Whipple rushed past the squealing Nicky, pushed aside the cursing Jane and ran out of the bathroom — free of his prison! Yahoooooo!

Spotting his jump suit pants he grabbed them on the way out the front door, slowing down only for a moment to step into the velour pants with a hop, skip and jump as he continued to run down the sidewalk. His pants up, he turned on the after-jets and ran, his pink stiletto heels clutched in his hand. He didn’t know where he was going, or wait to see if anyone followed. He just ran, his face laden with tears, all logic, all reason lost to him. Rounding a corner, he ran down a street before rounding another, running on and rounding corners until out of breath. Forced to stop running as much from bewilderment as exhaustion, he sat on a curb and sobbed uncontrollably.

He had no idea how long he had been running, where he was or what he was going to do. All he knew was he couldn’t go back to face all that again. He was lost to himself, so deep in despair that he hadn’t noticed a car pull up.

“Hell-l-l-o-o-o-there,” rang out a girl’s singsong voice, followed by a gleeful, throaty cackle that brought him back in touch with the world around him.

Looking up he saw what looked like a mobile billboard. Well, not exactly a billboard. More like a mosaic of chimerical, rainbow-colored flowers with pedals that looked like liquid teardrop that stretched out to transform themselves into the most exotic imagery. The whole of it conforming to the shape of the Volkswagen bus, and hanging out the passenger window a girl, wearing a flower in her fiery red hair, small purple sunglasses and smile as big as a quarter moon. “Need a ride?”

The side door slid open and a young barefoot man wearing red silk balloon pants, a tall, Persian style rabbit fur hat and Indian beads stepped out. “Far-out man, like it looks as if could use a friend!” Though it didn’t seem possible, the young man with the tall hat beamed a big, toothy smile even bigger than the girl’s as he reached out to offer him a hand.

Patrick could scarcely believe any of this. He had never seen anything like this before. Not the car not the people, not even his own eyes. It was as if he had either gone mad or mistakenly fallen into some otherworldly realm where everything was curiously unreal. His first impulse was to believe the whole thing some sort of joke and the pranksters looking for yet another way to humiliate him. He felt certain none of this could possibly be real. All the same, when he looked again at the girl’s big, earthy smile, then again into the eyes of the strange young man, he saw something that said it was quite real indeed. “Why don’t yah come along, we’re going to a parade.”

“A parade . . .” braved Patrick as he blotting the moisture off his long, fluttering lashes, “where?”

“San Francisco,” the girl again cackled in a gravelly, good-natured way. “It’s a people’s parade man, and the whole world is there waiting for us.”

“I can’t . . . ahm-aaah, ahmmm, not dressed . . .”

“Everything’s cool man, like it’s come as you are. Everybody is welcome. You can be whatever you want, or just be,” he happily said as his bare feet danced to the sound of his own words. “Come on man, come join the parade!”

These people were different, that he knew with certainty. Crazy, perhaps, but then he looked down upon himself wondering what he must look like to them. With his face painted like a Las Oasis showgirl and wearing a nightie, he knew he looked no less the Madhatter - A boy with perky tits and a flattop running to or from something in a world turned upside down on its head. In every sense, they were just like him, only happy - And if this was crazy, then this is where he belonged. Knowing he couldn’t go back there was only one way to go - forward, to join a parade!

So he planted a smile on his showgirl painted face and accepted the young man’s hand. Stepping through the sliding side door Patrick sat in the back beside another young man playing a guitar. He wore tattered blue jeans, a Mexican serape and like the driver, a head of electrified hair and big bushy mustache. “I’m Nick,” the young man said as he continued to strum the cords.

The young man in the rabbit fur hat stepped in, sliding the door closed behind. Then with a smile as bright as the rainbow of colors inside the mini-bus the boy sat down beside him, leaving Patrick sandwiched between an excess of hair. “I’m David,” he beamed. “That’s Nicky pick’in the guitar. That bushy mongrel upfront is Captain James, and the beautiful Texas rose is Janis.”

Patrick lit up when he heard the word “captain.” Looking forward, he spotted the army fatigue jacket he was wearing with sergeant stripes on the sleeve. Then as if the big bushy outcrop of hair was somehow masked from his sight, blindly blurted out, “Are you a captain . . . an army captain?”

Captain James had just taken a bite of an apple and, turning round, reached back to hand Patrick the half-eaten apple before answering. “Ah, yah, like in the peoples army, and I play a mean bass too.”

Nick ran his fingers through a frenzied sequence of loud, mismatched cords on his unplugged electric guitar, and above the ruckus, Janis’s coarse, throaty cackle sang out in wondrous laughter. A moment later Captain James put the bus into gear and they started out. As the guitar played and the little engines hummed, Janis pulled a flower from her hair to hand to him. “If you’re going to San Francisco, my man, yah gotta wear a flower in your hair . . .”

Then as the bus drove off, Nick played his guitar, Dave beat a rhythm on his knees with his hands and Janis sang. Patrick looked out the window as they headed back the way from which he came. Rounding one corner than another until they came to an intersection where he saw Barbara’s Mercedes across the way waiting for the light to turn. He saw Greta, Jane and Nicky sitting alongside looking up one street and down another, obviously looking for him.

Then when the light turned green and the Mercedes sped past, he followed it as it faded down the way then turned round to look again at his travel companions, soldiers in a people’s army. Longhaired, flower wearing hero’s to a one, sincere and genuine and caring enough to want to share his company. They went about their way without apology, guilt or blame, placing no demands on him or even each other. They just gave expecting nothing in return. There was no hate, just love; no “I” or “me,” just “we” and “us” together, sharing an apple and a song he didn’t even know the words to, but it didn’t matter. He was free to sing, to be himself and nobody ridiculed, cajoled or laughed at him. Nick just laughed with him, Dave just pat him on the back and Janis just sang, “. . . freedoms just another word for nothing left to lose . . .”

What a birthday present! Eighteen, free and Patrick Whipple finally came to be.
 
 

End — Part I
 
 
Lyrics: “Brown Sugar,” The Rolling Stones, RMG Music LLD, copyright, 1968.
              “Lola,” The Kinks, Birmingham Music, LLD, copyright, 1966.
 

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Acknowledgment: I would like to gratefully acknowledge Robyn Smith for her editorial support, guidance and infinite wisdom, all dispensed with a heart as large as her talent. Bless you, Robyn. You truly are a clear voice in a deafening world.
 

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 © 2007 by Josie. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without expressed written consent of the copyright holder.