Callahan's Place 07 - Callahan's Legacy (v5.0) (24 page)

So I ended up wit my mudda’s sister an’ her husband, over in Red Hook.
 
Aunt Martha an’ Uncle Dave.
 
He was a piano tuner, an’ she took in laundry.
 
Dey was bot’ great to me.
 
A helluva lot nicer than my folks ever was.
 
Never hit me once, laid off de God crap, laughed a lot.
 
It was nice, laughin’ in yer own apartment.
 
We got alone fine.
 
Dey had a good radio, a Philco.
 
Dey lemme lissena jazz.
 
Two years later, Aunt Martha drops dead onna sidewalk, an’ now it’s just Uncle Dave an’ me.
 
An’ dat was okay, too, after he quit grievin’.
 
He’s da reason I switched from licorice stick ta de eighty-eight.
 
Man, he could blow.
 
Taught me most o’ what I know.

So I’m eleven, an’ my life is great.
 
Den I’m twelve, an’ life ain’t so great.
 
Den I’m toiteen—and oh brudder, it sucks!

Da foist ting youse gotta understand is what it was like, back den.
 
I know some o’ youse go back far enough ta know what I’m talkin’ about—but most o’ youse grew up on a different planet.

I mean, today, any kid can see people screwin’ on cable.
 
Any magazine stand, ya can get close-ups of all de pink parts.
 
Anybody wit a computer can see pictures o’ broads in rubber doin’ it wit donkeys.
 
Dey got books on sex for six-year-olds dat’ll tell ya stuff my fadda never knew, pictures an’ everyting.
 
Believe me, I ain’t complainin’—I tink it’s terrific.
 
If dey had dat stuff when I was a kid…

But it was
different
when I was a kid.
 
Especially in a Cat’lick neighborhood.
 
Nobody told us
nuttin’
about sex, an’ all o’ my guesses was way off.
 
Dey wouldn’t even let a kid in de parts o’ de museum where de statues had bare tits.
 
I know, you’re sposta pick dat stuff up in de streets, from your friends.
 
Well, I didn’t have a lotta friends, an’ all I ever picked up in de streets was dogshit on my shoes.
 
I wasn’t even sure whedda my friends knew, an’ I was scared to ask ’cause den dey’d know
I
didn’t know.
 
I found books in de liberry dat talked about it, but dey didn’t have no pictures, just drawrins, an’ dey all used big woids like ‘intramission.’
 
I don’t even know how to find de goddam theater, an’ dey’re tellin’ me about da intramission!
 
An’ I kept gettin’ mixed up ’cause I t’ought a spoim was a kinda whale.

So by da time I was toiteen, all I knew was, dere was dis ting in de front dat stood up, whenever it was de woist possible time.
 
An’ it had sometin to do wit havin’ babies, but God an’ grownups only knew what.
 
I knew goils had sometin different under dere dresses, but I had no idea what it looked like, or where it was, even.
 
All I knew was, it hadda be horrible—’cause even if ya snuck inta da part o’ de museum where de statues o’ guys had dicks, de statues o’ goils didn’t have
nuttin’
between
dere
legs.
 
One o’ de liberry books had drawrins of a dick, when it wasn’t standin’ up—but all de goil drawrins showed was de insides.
 
Maybe it seems to youse like it’s obvious what de udder half of a dick is like, but I didn’t even know it was sposta go
in
sometin.
 
All I knew was, whenever youse thought about goils, an’ what dey had under dere clothes, it was pretty sure to stand up.
 

Oh yeah, I forgot.
 
One ting dey did tell youse.
 
Dere was sometin dat some
guys
wanted to do ta yer dick, guys called queers, an’ whatever it was, it was so horrible, if youse ever let ’em, your parents’d never love youse any more.
 
If a guy said ya was a queer, youse hadda fight him.
 
I tried to figger out what a dick could do to annuder dick, an’ all I could picture was like a sword fight.
 
It didn’t make no sense, but I’d tink about dat too sometimes, an’ it’d stand up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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