The Promised LandPart Two"'My Dear Sons,' he started over. 'Tonight we sang at a county fair. The lights were beautiful, just like magic...' He was disrupted yet again as his latest satisfied customer paused to have a brief conversation with his next one. "You getting sucked off?" "Sucked off?" Q heard a different voice say. "What's that mean, exactly?" The first voice chuckled, willing to extend his country camaraderie, but only so far. "Sucked off," he repeated. "You know, sucked off. Go in there, pay what he asks, then do what he says." Q then heard the first man laugh and walk away. The innocent stranger walked in. Another church-going country citizen. At first, Q expected him to recoil in disgust, but the man walked towards him step by determined step. Then the man held out his hand. "They call me Zefram," he said in a creaky voice. Q was bemused. That never happened before, but he shook hands. "Zefram? That's Biblical, isn't it?" "Yup." After that, they seemed stalled. Then Zefram pulled his wallet out. "What do I owe you?" He looked so dazed and uncertain he probably would have signed over the farm if Q had asked for it. But Q was an honest whore. Sort of. "Forty dollars." Zefram agreed. "Sounds fair." He handed Q two twenties. Q shut the stall door and knelt and smiled at Zefram from the small pile of newspapers he'd put down to protect his knees. Then Q reached out slowly, unzipping Zefram's pants, and pulled Zefram's penis out. It was flaccid, which was a bad sign, but, as Q handled it, it began to stiffen. "Lordy," Zefram said, astonished. Q rubbed his face against it while his hands were busy below. As Zefram sighed and moaned in disbelief, Q dabbed some Vaseline inside the condom and put it in his mouth. "You don't have to do this, boy," Zefram said. "I want to," Q looked up at him and Zefram's eyes grew large. Then Q wrapped his mouth around Zefram's burgeoning erection, the condom gliding over it with practiced ease. Zefram's head reared back -- Q could feel the motion through his mouth -- and his penis jerked out of Q's mouth. Zefram appeared to be trying to say something. "It's alright." Q soothed. Hands free, he could reach out and pull him back. "Didn't anyone ever do this for you before?" Zefram shook his head. "When I seen them men going in and out, I thought something like this might be going on," he whispered. Q smiled again. "Let me show you what it's like." He took Zephram in his mouth again, all the way to the back of his throat. He massaged the tip by swallowing against it. He massaged the sides with his suctioning cheeks. He covered his teeth with his lips and applied pressure to the top and bottom. Zefram was beginning to catch on. He rocked. He laughed. This was the best ride of the night, he cried. Of the week. Of the century! "Shit!" He cried. Then: "My Lord, my Lord!" And suddenly he was gasping and sagging over Q who was holding him in a loose embrace so that he wouldn't fall down. Then he righted himself . "You sure are something," he whispered. Q was amused, delighted with the man's pleasure, always glad to be of service. Zefram couldn't seem to stop smiling, staring down into Q's eyes as if he'd just found true love. He reached down to caress Q's face with big rawboned farmer's hands, unexpectedly gentle. Then he ran his fingers over Q's mouth. Q picked up the Vaseline and condoms and shoved them in the pocket of his jacket. He had two hundred and thirty dollars. That ought to be enough. He leaned back on his knees. Zefram was still staring at him intently. He took his wallet again and pulled out another bill. "Pretty as a young girl," he mused. "Your mouth . . ." He shook his head in wonder. "And you're so nice about it..." He sighed and fished in the pocket of his overalls to pull out a pen; then he wrote something on the bill and shoved it at Q. Then, after reaching down and patting Q's hair, just as he would a dog or a kid, he let in a gust of steamy air as he staggered away. Q looked at the words written on the money, and his face did a curious thing: tears sprang to his eyes even as he smiled. (From then on the farmer cannot go down the road without looking for tattered posters from traveling shows, and when he sees them he is immediately erect. Several times he has to stop and . . . make himself . . . hear the frantic clatter of his own breath . . . feel the slow clotted warmth on his own hand . . . clean himself up with one of those festive plaid-edged hankies his grandchildren gave him for Christmas. He thinks about Q's lips, Q's mouth, Q's eyes, Q's sensations. And he gets hard quickly again, like a young boy. What would his wife say? He calls her Momma, but he doesn't want Momma to suck him off. Amazed that having sex with another man invigorates rather than emasculates him, he revels in the heretofore unawakened elements of his own masculinity. Men's secrets, Q's sexiness, and by extension his own. Passion is a country he wants to visit again and again. Like a spy, alert and alone.) "Where's the money, Q?" Jean-Luc said as Worf and Q came back. Q said nothing. "Here," Worf said. Jean-Luc's nerves were at the breaking point. He looked at the two hundred and thirty dollars. "That's it?" his jaw was pulsing with anger. "That's a lot of cock," Worf pointed out. Jean-Luc didn't hear him. Something was different with Q. Jean-Luc was never wrong about his possession. "Is that it?" Q couldn't say anything. "Give me the rest of that money, you whore." How did he know? Q's eyes teared up. "Please, Jean-Luc, it's just five dollars." "Did you hear what I said?" Q's voice went soft, low -- he was begging, "It's only five dollars." "Let me have it." Q could not tell Jean-Luc no. He brought out the money from his shirt pocket. The pocket over his heart. Jean-Luc stared at Q with utter contempt. Then he looked at Zefram's five dollar bill. "What is this shit?" "That last man . . . gave me a Valentine. . . because it's Valentine's Day." It was true. Zephram had written "honest Abe says happy valentine day pretty honey " on the bill in his scratchy uneducated hand. Jean-Luc was too furious to speak. Then he said, "Get in the car, all of you." On the remaining driblets of gas in the Impala, Jean-Luc got them to a convenience store where he filled the tank. Meticulous in his fury, he checked the oil and water and brake fluid and air and transmission fluid. The Impala had to last a long time. Then he went to the window and paid. "Oh, and do you have change for a five?" he said in a loud toneless voice. When he got back in the car, he threw the five ones at Q. "Here's your fiver, cocksucker." In the back, Will and Worf were quiet. Then Will said, "I want a candy bar." Everyone was silent; then Q handed him one of the dollars. The others watched, amazed, as Will walked into the store, spoke to the clerk, fiddled around at the checkout, and came out with a Payday. "Sorry 'bout that," he said. Jean-Luc hit the accelerator and drove furiously. What if all his decisions turned out like this? He'd lost all their cast, but he still had to feed all of them and get on the road and Q was worried about some damned love note. So he had to be rough on Q. He had to teach him that this was not a game. Lying together in the folded-down back of the Impala, Worf and Will started going through Will's bags of stuff. Earlier Worf had said: "I guess we should turn in. Jean-Luc, you mind if we take the inside tonight?" For answer, Jean-Luc grabbed the sleeping bag and some blankets and tossed them at Q. Then he gave Worf a smirk that was somewhat more strained than intended. Q was trying to cry quietly, but it was really getting on Jean-Luc's nerves. "He's all yours," Jean-Luc had said. Will was apparently very happy about that. He turned to Worf with a smile. "What do you want me to do?" Worf looked a little stunned. He'd never had a whole human at his disposal before. He'd had a wife once, a porcelain ballerina, exalted and not completely possessable, then suddenly so foully tainted that . . . Well, that was history. Right now, he wasn't sure what to do next. "Go ahead and lay out the rest of the blankets inside the car. I guess." Will nodded agreeably, let the back seat down and spread their blankets. Then he folded himself in, but not before grabbing his precious luggage. "I'll show you my stuff." Worf tilted his head toward the beat-up trombone perched carefully on top of the other detritus. "Can you play that?" "A little." Will quieted some, losing his air of determined cheer. There were some old jeans, some torn underwear, a couple of cheap shiny show shirts and several tee shirts. "Look, Worf!" said Will boyishly. He showed Worf a little metal yellow school bus scarred with use. "I used to play school with this! I've lost a lot of toys. Well, some I gave away to my, well, they weren't my brothers, they were the kids of my various moms, but I loved this toy too much to give it away! I found it in a dumpster! Isn't it great!" "You played *school*?" "It's very complicated." (When Will turned thirteen, Big Daddy Kyle had set him down for a father-son talk. "Son, I rely on you" -- this was news to the ignored Will "you know that. And I know you want to be daddy's little man, and I know you want to keep on helping your daddy out, don't you? You know you're very cute. Very very cute. I want to teach you something. It's a secret man thing." The curious secret had involved fingers, carrots; Will had almost choked. That weekend, Big Daddy Kyle sold his son's cherry for $500 to a man who returned again and again, a tall guy with flashy cheap suits and suspicious reptilian eyes. After that, Will did everything he was told, desperate and disappointed if Big Daddy Kyle stopped telling him what a good boy he was. How much money had Will earned on his knees between the ages of fourteen and seventeen? Will told himself it must have been a million dollars, all of which his father spent. His father even slapped him around if he didn't bring home $1000 a night. But the older he got, the lower his earning potential became. Then he got pudgy, just enough to turn customers off, and then pudgier. "Fat boy like you will have to get a real job," Big Daddy Kyle said dismissively. Will began to fill in for the d.t.-ridden bass player sometimes. Will found out that, if he let the bass player fuck him, he would teach him to play bass. ) But that was then; this was now. Safe with Worf, Will looked down at the school bus and smiled. (If only Big Daddy Kyle had let him stay in school somewhere Will would have kept on sucking and fucking those old guys -- but he could have also been in the band with his trombone, his natural musicianship. Sitting with the other eighth-grade boys on the back of the bus. The little school bus. They could go on a long-distance band trip, maybe to the state finals for the band competition! Night would fall. They'd get rowdy. They'd talk rough. They'd show each other their . . . things in the darkness at the back of the bus, Will and the other boys, and he'd have one special friend and they'd be closer than girls and they'd go camping and take off their clothes together and show each other . . . ) "Vroom vroom" he said, and made the little bus go up and down Worf's thigh. Worf looked startled. Will returned to the bags. "Here's some reefer. And I got a lotta cough syrup." "Jean-Luc will want you to get rid of that." Will shrugged. "Oh, here's my most prized possession! My tape recorder. I found it in a parking lot in a convenience store! It runs on batteries! We can tape stuff! We can tape us singing and picking and singing!" "Nice object." "Sometimes," Will leaned in, "I tape myself saying sexy stuff into it and play it back. It's a hot thing I can do for myself." Worf's head moved back a fraction. "Things like 'suck my dick?'" Will's lips parted ferociously and he nodded. "Things like 'suck my dick.'" Worf looked at his new present and breathed in: "Suck my dick." Outside, Jean-Luc tossed uncomfortably on the hard ground. Q was still weeping in their make-shift sleeping bag. He hated Q. Q -- vague, cloudy-headed Q with his geisha eyes and whore's mouth, and his foolish prattle that forced Jean-Luc to think and wish and imagine. After he had met Q, he suddenly could not help dreaming, as if Q had infected him somehow. Q made Jean-Luc think about what he wanted rather than what he knew how to endure. He could imagine himself in a future, and suddenly the things he did were not as appealing as they had been. Annoying Q, brainless, yet smart in all kinds of ways, and deathly good in bed, and Jean-Luc was shocked all over again at how correct his instinct had been that afternoon in the lunch room. But he had to put up with a lot of shit from Q. Take this. Here Q doesn't say a word about sucking cock all night. But let Jean-Luc get change for one fucking five-dollar-bill and it was boohoos til sunrise. Well, Q was going to have to learn that . . . shit like that just didn't matter. You had to move on. You can't give in to every emotion. You can't give in to any emotion. "Shut up, Q." Q wanted to shut up, he wanted to not feel these things, or to feel them only in Jean-Luc's arms. But someone else had treated him as if he mattered, and Q wanted to explain to Jean-Luc, but, when Jean-Luc looked at him that way the words didn't come out like he wanted and all he'd done was make Jean-Luc angry. And angry Jean-Luc had turned mean, deliberately breaking that fiver so there was no possibility Q could have it back. He turned restlessly against the damp shirt he was using a pillow, twisting away from the memory. Then something rustled. Something paper-y. He nearly jumped out of his skin. With the stealth of an abused child, he moved his hand to the source of the rustle. It was a tiny piece of paper. He palmed it. He knew that whatever it was Jean-Luc couldn't be allowed to see it. "I'm going to pee," he said softly, and got up and walked away. The night was incredibly bright and beautiful. Under the Milky Way and the full moon, he could easily read the little piece of paper. Flimsy, off-white, it looked as if it had been torn from the back of a phonebook somewhere. He held it up to the starlight. Oh. "This is a valentine from Will" had been written on it; then in a different hand, "& WORF." How did. . . how did they . . . and then he remembered Will fooling around at the counter of the convenience store. One of them had even drawn a heart below it; it looked like something a dog might draw. A flood of emotion, strong as the stars themselves, flowed over him. He went back and crawled in beside Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc's eyes rolled back in his head: what a bitch! Now, having pissed, Q was lying there, merry as could be, the bright stars reflected in his dark eyes, that downcast smile on his mouth. But instead of the stiffness of the sobbing Q, now Q's body had changed to softness itself, a molding softness, the thing that made Q so desirable. Jean-Luc suddenly thought of all the cocks Q had sucked that very night. But who was it owned Q? "One more dick tonight won't kill you," he said out loud and moved in on Q. It took them a couple of days to get to Tennessee. In that short time, Will tried their patience enormously. Q finally just gave in and ordered him around. He was relieved that Will was away from his horrible father, but it was hard not to break down and scold him like a child. Will's manners were awful, his habits disgusting. "Don't do that with your fingers. Go get a tissue. And go wash your hands." "Wash your hair. No, I mean go back and do it right now." Jean-Luc did not object when Q did this. Fastidiousness was second nature to him; it left fewer footprints. And Q was a bitch with a bitch's natural fussiness. Worf had been raised by prissy Methodists who had beaten any slovenliness out of him. Will had evidently been raised by wolves. He clutched his fork in his fist like a Neanderthal, chewed with his mouth open, smacked his lips. Jean-Luc recoiled, "Go eat over there." Will looked at him uncomprehendingly, but he obeyed nonetheless, taking his paper plate over to a stump on the other side of the car. Worf looked embarrassed. It had taken him a very short time to feel responsibility for Will's behavior. But he could not refrain from a certain softness when he thought about Will. His woman now. His own bitch. On the other side of the state line, Will asked, "Where will the band play now?" He didn't want to say 'we' yet. "A blind festival here in North Alabama. Something about Helen fucking Keller," Jean-Luc said. "Where?" said Worf. "I have no idea. And it would take an act of God to put some of these rat towns' asses on the map." "There's a KOA campground near here, and the festival is over at Tuscumbia," Q said. "We could spend the night in the campground and go over there tomorrow." Jean-Luc nodded. "I guess we could practice in the campground," he said grudgingly. It was one of those strange February weekends in Alabama when the sun was shining and the air was like summertime. "That campground's near a lake," Jean-Luc lifted his chin in pleasure. "Let's go swimming." "We have no swimsuits," said Q, with just the faintest edge of flirtatiousness in his voice. Jean-Luc smiled. They parked and got out. No one was around. The sun was bone-white. Will was standing there embarrassed. The other men were undressing, and they were perfect. Perfect bodies. Jean-Luc noticed he was still dressed: "You think I can't tell you're fat from here? Get in the damned water." Will did not want to undress in front of these men; he was quite aware that not only was he fat in comparison, but he was also smallest in one very important way. Definitely smallest. It was easier with . . . he could compete better when he competed with . . . "You heard Jean-Luc. Undress," Worf ordered. Will was where he always was: no choice but to obey. Worf watched him: then he leaned in and whispered, "I like your big ass." The sunshine had been deceptive; the lake was freezing. They splashed for a while, but soon they gathered back on the shore, drying in the warm sun, enjoying its heat. Jean-Luc was lying down watching the others; they were all talking now. Will was over his self-consciousness. He was relaxing with his back to Jean-Luc, facing the other two who were sitting shoulder to shoulder, looking like deities in their beauty. Q was moving his hands and smiling, touching Worf, who had a half-smile on his face. They were all talking about music. They were laughing too. Jean-Luc didn't want to feel the way he did, which was happy. Watching Q gesture, watching Q pull his hair behind his ears, watching Worf frown at Q and gently remove a bug climbing up Q's arm. Then Jean-Luc looked at Will: he too liked Will's big old fat-girl ass. Life was pleasant; Jean-Luc distrusted that. The Helen Keller Days festival went very well. To Jean-Luc's dark intense murmur, the constant thrum of Will's bass added a darker color which set his voice off even more. After two encores, they knocked it off and took the stage down; then they were free to wander around in this strange festival of the blind. It was a very sensuous place everywhere the scent of good food cooking, everywhere cloth and jewelry for sale whose touch enchanted, everywhere the sound of bells and chimes and other bands playing. And the Boys felt a certain peace walking among so many outsiders. Then they heard it. A tense guitar boogie which kept changing rhythms, but which was always consistent. Somebody was driving that guitar like a train. "Listen to that beautiful work," Q smiled. They walked over to the stage. It was one man, a young black man with sunglasses, sitting alone, but the music he made seemed to represent a thousand souls. Abruptly the music ended, and a older white man got up on stage: "That was Gordon LaForge, one of our old Boys from the Alabama School for Blind Boys -- he graduated some time ago, but Gordon is still waiting for his ship to come in," he said in an oily insinuating way. The three Magic Mountain boys didn't look at each other. "Where's that school at, I wonder," said Jean-Luc. Since they thought it might seem odd if all of them showed up at the blind boy place, Jean-Luc left Worf in charge of their campground. He told him to watch out for the other two. Worf loved the campground; now he had a pair of slaves to step and fetch for him. Q sucked him off in the morning, and Will sucked him off at night. He told them it was a contest to see which one was better. The whores were tickled by the simplicity of their camp life. And Worf was in ecstasy. He was even able to vary their pleasure a little. He put his hands on Q and looked at Will: "Maybe you'd like to see me fuck Q in the ass." Will was stunned, hard as stone, leaking already. "Oh yes," he breathed out. Geordi didn't need a cane to get around the blind boy's home. He knew it by heart. He knew every creak of every floor board; he had been there for over twenty years, left by parents too poor to give him the proper treatment for his condition. It had been his home for twenty years. Every day alike. Every night the same. He lifted his head. A car in need of repair was coming up the drive. Had the owner gotten lost? He heard a lone pair of footsteps come up the wooden walkway. It was a man, slim by the sound of him, with a deliberate pace that slowed down as he approached. Stopped. "You're Gordon LaForge, aren't you?" White, middle-aged, tense and mean. Geordi was suspicious. "What do you want with me?" "I''m in a band, and we heard you at the Helen Keller festival. We want to ask you if you'll join." There was hard edge in the voice. This was not a man used to getting what he wanted from life. "Who are you?" "Jean-Luc Picard." A hand slid into his; large, firm, muscular, but not the right callouses to be a musician's hand. Geordi's suspicions returned. "What instrument do you play?" "I don't. I sing." Geordi believed him instantly. He had been so busy listening for clues that he'd missed the greatest clue of all, the velvet purr of this man's voice. Musically, Geordi could hold his own against anybody. Of that he had no doubt. But the rest of his life was one-sided and pitiful. His friends had graduated and gone on to make lives for themselves. But Geordi had graduated and stayed, teaching music to the younger ones, studying theory. Going nowhere. Night after night spent in the soothing racket of the Home. He felt trapped. But suddenly not anymore. Jean-Luc played mountain music by the sound of him, and Geordi's guitar would fit right in. Jean-Luc said they played prison songs (whatever they were) and old classics. Intrigued. Geordi asked Jean-Luc to give him a tune. Jean-Luc started right in on a song Geordi had never heard before, but which he understood to its marrow. Jean-Luc's low voice was all that it promised to be. Smooth, a little ragged around the edges because it hadn't been trained, but for the most part flowing effortlessly around the music. It was, quite frankly, spectacular. Geordi felt privileged to hear it. "You really can sing. And that's a great song. Did you write it?" "Actually, my boyfriend did." Ah. Hmm. Geordi thrust his head forward, a gesture Jean-Luc would learn was his equivalent of a nod. "Call me Geordi. Let's go tell them I'm leaving." The manager was vaguely relieved; he liked it when the boys got mainstreamed. But he had to ask: "Have you ever worked with a blind person? Have you ever been around a blind person? Do you know they have special needs?" "I have worked with all kinds of people. I know how to deal with special needs," Jean-Luc said. And, for the first fifty miles, it was exciting. Jean-Luc talked to him about the band, about their songs. He sang a bit and Geordi sang with him. Then the Impala just stopped. Jean-Luc was barely able to safely roll it off the Interstate. "Shit. Shit. Shit," he said. Things had been going too fucking well. It had had to end. "Geordi, help me push the car into this grove of trees. We'll spend the night here and tomorrow I'll see what's wrong and go get parts or whatever. Shit." Geordi was impressed by this man's anger. Jean-Luc clearly felt things very deeply. Well, they had crackers and soft drinks and vienna sausages in the car so they had something to eat, and they had the car so they had somewhere to sleep. Things could be worse. Mighty humid for February. That was Alabama for you. Jean-Luc made the first move. "You're a pleasant traveling companion. I'm only sorry I couldn't provide us with better transportation." His voice was low. He liked Geordi's well-cut features, his compact muscularity. And he was so different from the others. Q, Worf, Will all were much taller than Jean-Luc, but Jean-Luc was bigger than Geordi. But even more appealing was his personality. If it all worked out, Geordi's quiet calmness would be a welcome respite in the group. He wanted Geordi to stay. "I want you to like our band." "I'm glad to get out of the Home. I wanted to see the world." Jean-Luc looked Geordi over. Well, he couldn't spend every second of his life coddling this man. "Did you have any lovers in the home?" Was this man saying what Geordi thought he was saying? He had heard people on television seducing each other, but he assumed that was just big rich Hollywood stars reading scripts. He never thought . . . "I might as well tell you, Geordi. I've never made love to a blind man before." Geordi breathed in. Jean-Luc took his hand again. That warm rough flesh of Jean-Luc's hand. "You have a very kissable mouth. Help me to know how to make it good for you." "It's already good," Geordi said. It got better. All Jean-Luc wanted was to play with the wonderful arcs of Geordi's ass. Geordi was slightly plump, and his smooth compact fleshiness delighted all of Jean-Luc's senses. Soon they were standing together naked hidden in the trees of the median of the interstate. That delighted Jean-Luc too, the whoosh of passing trucks, the pounding stereos of the college boys' 4x4's, the strobe of all the headlights; when you fucked on the edge of disaster, it was just tastier. Jean-Luc broke from a kiss; "Don't worry. Nobody can see us." "I'm not. I can tell that there are trees all around." Jean-Luc rubbed Geordi's smooth thighs; there was a faint bristle of hair there. He kissed him until Geordi was sighing and writhing. Then he licked Geordi's mouth avariciously, and stuck his tongue between Geordi's lips. "Suck me," he murmured, and Geordi did, gently pulling Jean-Luc's tongue in as deep as it could go. "Do you have your eyes closed?" Geordi pulled back and asked. "No." Jean-Luc sounded a little surprised. "Close them. We'll be alike." "Mmm. Yes. I'd like to discover you that way." He ground himself into Geordi more carefully. It began to rain. Jean-Luc erupted into dark laughter. "What else can go wrong?" "Please don't stop," Geordi whispered. "You'll get wet." "I want to be wet." "I have a better idea," Jean-Luc said. He led Geordi to the Impala. "I want to fuck you in the car. Make the car good for something. Get in the front seat. No, not so far over. Just crouch there, baby, keep your big ass within my reach. I'll stand out here in the rain and fuck you from here." Then Jean-Luc reached in the glove box and got out a lubricated rubber. "Don't worry. The dome light never worked on this fucker. Now, get that ass ready for it." And he place himself at the edge of Geordi's asshole; Geordi groaned deep in his throat. He could feel the rain pouring off Jean-Luc; he could feel Jean-Luc's wet hands on his hips. Then Jean-Luc was all the way in. Clearly Jean-Luc was one to pound all the way at first, to make his lover's ass feel all the way full, to gently massage his balls with his lover's ass. He liked them impaled, pinioned, stuck up the ass with all of him. "Harder, lots harder," Geordi said. Jean-Luc pulled his head back. He liked this collaborative kind of fucking. Geordi wouldn't be as weak as Q or that Will; his giving orders meant Geordi could make his own pleasures, it meant Geordi wouldn't . . . depend so fucking much on Jean-Luc. He kept pounding and Geordi was groaning. Then he reached around to Geordi's remarkably fat dick; "Ummm," he said, thinking of seeing it in Q's ass, and that was it: "Oh, God, oh, God," and he came, startled by the way his heart felt, startled by the sudden chill of the rain he hadn't even noticed all over him. He pulled out and rubbed the rainwater over his chest. And as abruptly as the rain had started, it stopped. "Storm's over," he laughed. Geordi touched his hand and, after a pause, said, "no, it isn't." It was the first time it had happened to Geordi, but he already knew he loved taking it up the ass. It had been an incredible sensation -- a shock of pressure and a pain that quickly disappeared, then a dick in his ass, good and hard. In the home, at night, he had heard other boys doing this. Heard the quick gasp, then the long moaning sighs of pleasure, and the sudden, sharp intakes of breath as they were probed deeper and deeper. He understood the way it built and built and built, making him want to thrust back as hard as he could, making him want to stay this way forever. It was like the time he'd gone ice skating, one stroke leading to another and another and another until you were sure you were going to take off into forever. "Oh, God," he groaned, "I never knew." "Do yourself, Geordi, let me see you." So Geordi turned around, opened his legs wide, and pulled and pulled. Soon enough he lay back against the seat, gasping, his hands sticky, his mind in a whirl. He couldn't help but envision a perfect future. He and Jean-Luc would sing together. They would do this together. Life would be wonderful. Jean-Luc set up the back of the Impala as a makeshift bed, and they lay down together while Geordi told him stories of his life in the home and Jean-Luc listened enchanted. Then the next morning they hitchhiked into the nearest town and bought a used alternator. An elderly man gave them a ride back, and they were on the road again. The car had rolled slowly down a quiet road and pulled to a stop on some gravel. Geordi got out and listened. A dove trilled off to his left and high up. The air held the scent of pine straw and burning wood and outdoor cooking. A distant latrine. They were in a campsite of some sort. Then someone said, "Jean-Luc," in a voice that spoke of sheer happiness. "Q," Jean-Luc speaking now. "I want you to meet our new guitar player, Gordon La Forge. Call him Geordi." Jean-Luc's voice was triumphant. He was bragging to this person. Had they had a bet going? But no, the person's voice was pleased and warm as he moved closer. There was a hesitation for a moment; then Geordi held out his hand. He always hated this, relying on the other person not to hesitate, to assimilate quickly the fact that he would have to find Geordi's hand because Geordi couldn't find his. Long fingers slid against his palm. "Pleased to meet you, Geordi. I'm glad you decided to join us. Your music is spectacular." So they at least had that in common. Geordi thanked him and let his hand fall to his side. Other footsteps were approaching. Heavy ones. These were big men, or fat ones. Another introduction. "This is Worf Rodshenko." A large strong hand. A deep voice. From the sound, he guessed Worf to be black, but he wasn't sure. "And this is Will Riker." Will clutched at him too eagerly. This was the fat one, his meaty, sweaty palm closing over Geordi's and staying far too long for a simple handshake. "Will, Geordi can't see. So if he asks for something, don't point and say 'over there.'" It was an obvious insult, but, from Will's cheerfully affirmative answer, he didn't seem to think so. "What do you play, Will?" "Bass. Though I can blow the harmonica some. And the trombone a little." Geordi perked up. "Really, where'd you study?" Now the voice was hesitant. Confused. "Well, I just picked it up as I went along, mostly." He faded off into a mumble. "Will." It was Worf, his voice commanding. "Go break more twigs for the fire. Don't put them in the fire. Just leave them right where they are until Q tells you to bring him some." "Okay." His voice held that same weird eagerness. The heavy footsteps wandered off, and in a moment he heard the small spitting sound of twigs snapping. "We thought you'd be back early this morning. I saved your breakfast, but we ate it for lunch when you didn't come." "Damned alternator blew." Jean-Luc was moving as he talked. He walked right past Geordi, who stood there for a moment and then unfolded his cane and began to walk towards the sound of Jean-Luc's voice. "Oh. Sorry, Geordi. Come over here and sit down." Jean-Luc came towards him, took him by the arm and led him to a table. He walked too fast and Geordi stumbled. "Sorry." That's okay." He wasn't being treated like a blind person. "Why are you smiling, Geordi?" "I'm just learning my way around." He pointed. "Q is making beans and hot dogs, the sleeping bags are over there. The outhouse is back down that road, and so are the showers. Will broke too many twigs because his pile keeps falling. I can hear it." There was a moment's profound silence. "I'll be damned," Jean-Luc murmured. "Well, if you're that good, what am I wearing?" Will said. More silence. Worf's footsteps. A slap. An order. "Apologize." And Will's voice filled with pain. "Sorry. I didn't mean anything by it." Over the next few days, Jean-Luc learned just how lucky he was. He hadn't told Geordi he'd be living out of a car, or that he'd joined a band that lived from hand to mouth most of the time, singing music no one was used to. He really hadn't bothered to learn much about Geordi either, apart from the fact that he could play and carry a tune. Still he found himself liking Geordi more and more. Geordi knew a lot about music. He had words for things the others knew by instinct, and he was able to teach them the names for things. Jean-Luc learned words like arpeggio, crescendo, pizzicato. His band's lack of knowledge embarrassed him a little at first, and he had wondered if Geordi would think he was too good for the rest of his rough crew and demand to be taken back to the home. But Geordi seemed patient enough, even with Will. The band was cooking. Q sang a melody. Geordi played the accompaniment, twinkling around it. Q twinkled back on the mandolin, and Worf whirled around them on the banjo. Jean-Luc came in on a phrase but didn't get it quite right. He tried again. Geordi asked them to play it again, his head cocked in that particular way that said he was listening for what was wrong. "How about if we do it like this. Listen." He eased the last note down a half step, and suddenly the music reflected the irony of the words. "Will, do you know what a scale is? You know. Do-re-mi-fa-soooo?" "La-ti-do?" Will finished for him. "That's right. Can you play one?" Will picked a scale out on his bass. "That's good". Geordi didn't sound impatient or exasperated. He sounded encouraging. Remember just now when I played that blues bit, and I said it was in a minor key? Well, I'm going to play a minor scale, and when I'm done I want you to pick it out on the bass." And Geordi showed Will the riff. Over and over and over. Finally Will got the bass right. They played the song all the way through; then Jean-Luc told them to knock it off for the night. He felt exhausted even though the work didn't seem all that hard. Still: "Geordi, how about if you give us all another music lesson. We could all stand a little more book learning, I guess." A big success. They all loved to listen to Geordi play his guitar; they liked it when Geordi, leaning his head to one side, listened carefully to their music and, making one timing or emphasis change, improved their sound no end. And they loved talking to Geordi; his temperate acceptance of every hand the world had dealt him always helped them to get to the next day. But Geordi had his own needs. After his first week with them, Jean-Luc whispered to him, "Are you getting laid enough?" "No, are you?" They both laughed. "Have you ever had a threesome?" "No," Geordi said softly, delighted. "I've heard of them, but . . ." "I'll get Worf." Worf was sitting by the campfire with his arm around Will; they were talking in a sleepy end-of-the-evening way to Q. Q was smiling; it had been a good day. The car was running smoothly, they had made close to a hundred and fifty dollars at a bar, Q had fixed a good supper. Jean-Luc squatted by Worf: "Want a little fun, friend?" Worf looked at him. "Ladies, do you mind? Geordi is lonely. I want to keep our newest member happy. You girls can amuse each other." He waited. "Well, I wouldn't mind some," said Will. "And when I let you get some," Worf said, "you will. But I get it first." And Worf and Jean-Luc walked off to find Geordi, while Q and Will watched them leave. Geordi was lying aroused and willing in his sleeping bag when he heard the two men approach. And suddenly, without preamble, Jean-Luc was kissing him deeply, full-throatedly. They writhed against each other: "let's get rid of some of these clothes, baby," Jean-Luc whispered. "Worf's going to help us. Wait til you feel his." And Geordi felt another warm presence, and he turned to it. "Your thing has got me curious," Worf said. "Besides I like a big ass and you sure got that." And Geordi felt Worf's hands, gentle, not as rough as Jean-Luc's, but with a banjo player's hard fingertips pulling his pants down. Rubbing his nipples through his thin tee-shirt. "Let me see some titty," he rumbled and Geordi felt his shirt lift -- oh, he was getting hard in the right places. Jean-Luc was still nearby, Geordi could feel him. "Let Worf fuck you, you won't be sorry. Then I'll suck your dick. One genuine pleasure in this bad world." "Is that okay?" Worf said congenially. His hands were going over and over Geordi's satiny buttocks. Geordi began to pump against the air; it was very okay. Worf took Geordi's hand and put it on his cock. "Jesus, that is big," Geordi whistled. "Think about sitting on that baby," Jean-Luc purred. "I get to see it all." He took Geordi's hand and pressed it to him. He was fully aroused too. "Fucking, cock-sucking all the time. Isn't it worth it?" "Let's get busy," Geordi said briskly. "Do it with Geordi on his back. Can you do that? His dick's too pretty to hide." And they worked gleefully, intent on getting the positions just right, and Jean-Luc got to see all of it, pushing his hard wet-tipped cock against Geordi's side, against Worf's as Worf single-mindedly inserted himself again and again into Geordi. Meanwhile, Q and Will climbed into a sleeping bed together and talked about the things women like them always talked about. Q kissed the side of Will's face. Will beamed. Their men were so much alike, and not always the hard men they appeared to be. Q told Will about the time he was sick in the pen and Jean-Luc smuggled him in some good food. Will sighed. "Worf always buys me a Payday bar no matter what convenience store we're at." They talked about how fussy their men were. "Everything has got to be JUST SO for Jean-Luc," Q said. Will nodded solemnly. "But it's worth it," he said. "I'm crazy about Worf." Q was lying on his side, propping his head up with his hand. Will was lying on his back. Q smiled. The buxom peasant bulk of Will's body did have a certain allure. It was good that Worf had Will. "Worf always says he can't get enough of my big fat butt." "You're not fat!" Q protested. "You're a good size." They both laughed. "I like to eat," Will admitted. Q ducked his head. Food was always a safe topic. There was not a lot you could talk to Will about without it becoming sad and sticky and perverse. But, when you talked about food, you could even talk to Will about his life . . . before. Will loved to talk about circus food. Sometimes he had had to fill in at the various kitchens. Funnel cakes were his speciality. "I LOVE funnel cakes," Q whispered. Candy apples. Popcorn balls. Sno-cones. "I liked the blue ones best," Will said. "Oh, me too." "Wouldn't it be great to rent a little house sometimes? Just the five of us? With a real kitchen." "A big gas stove!" "A double-wide refrigerator!" "A built-in buffet thing in the breakfast nook!" "Oh, wow." And then they talked more about their dream home, and Q talked about finding one with an above-ground swimming pool! He could have his sons visit! Will nodded solemnly. He had had a "step-sister" once, a sad case. She was born with a cleft palate, but no one had the money to get it completely fixed. Will impulsively had told her he'd marry her. "We were going to have two kids, a little girl named Pixie Brandilynn and a boy named Barrington Kincaid." He smiled at the memory. Q kissed Will's cheek again. "We used to look at the toy ads in the newspapers and pretend we were making shopping lists for Pixie and Barrington." "I love toy ads! I make lists of toys too!" "They're so great!" And they were off talking about toys until they fell asleep. Their days fell into a pattern. In the mornings, Geordi taught them about music. In the afternoons, they rehearsed; pulling over to empty rest stops, state parks, empty buildings, anywhere they could find. Evenings they sang. And they learned the hard way how to represent themselves to club owners and managers. The car broke down. Will fixed it. It broke down again. Will looked sober and downhearted as he reported that he'd fixed the corroded battery with some Coca-Cola, but they were going to need a new one. Jean-Luc loved how they sounded, but this was craziness, this riding around, five grown men in a car, begging people to let them play. "You'll find a way." Q reassured him in his warm idiotic voice. "What makes you so sure?" He was so down he didn't even hit Q for being silly. "I don't know. I just believe you will." Q slid his arms around Jean-Luc. "I guess because life used to be so bad, and then it got so good." Jean-Luc sighed and looked around at his motley friends, his ragtag car. "You call this good?" "Johnny, I'm here with you." Q explained. "I could be a lot of other places that wouldn't be nearly as nice." They exchanged a look. Then Jean-Luc turned over on his side, and Q turned over with him. He was just tall enough that his mouth was right next to Jean-Luc's ear. Q liked to talk sometimes, most annoyingly when Jean-Luc felt like falling straight to sleep. Sure enough, this night was no exception. "Johnny? I've been thinking about how we need to get clothes for Geordi and Will. You know, so we all match again. I've been thinking maybe we should just break down and buy Will a new jacket because we're not going to find anything his size in a used clothing store. Or if we did, it would be a miracle." Jean-Luc snuggled closer, taking comfort in the way Q's smooth, solid body wrapped around his. "Shut up, Q." Q shut up, sighing with happiness. He loved holding Jean-Luc in his arms, loved being with Jean-Luc, period. Johnny beat him, and hurt him, and made Q cry, but Johnny saw Q and he heard Q, and, without Jean-Luc, Q would have long since faded into complete invisibility. From his youngest days, Q had been like a ghost to the world around him. Even his own mother stared through him. She was older than other kids' mommas, and tired. Q's two older sisters had been full grown when he was born, and he vaguely understood that he had been a not completely welcome surprise. She had no energy to spare for a desperate young boy, even when that boy was her own son. Q begged for her attention but she rarely talked. Sometimes though, if she was having one of her good days, she took him to church with her. A Sunday School teacher discovered his natural gift for singing and playing the piano. Q only bothered with it because it made his mother smile, but the preacher knew Q was a draw and made him a regular part of the service. His mother made him a little white suit, and after church she bought him a big sticky pastry out of Q's share of the collection plate. It didn't last very long. His father got laid off and started drinking again. Q's momma went silent once more. And Q became invisible again. It wasn't long before his momma was getting beaten every weekend. She cried and moaned. Q always ran to her, promising to help, but she didn't seem to hear him. When his father finally exhausted himself and passed out, she sat by the dining room window, rocking herself, crying out to God to give her strength and whispering the words to the 91st psalm. Q stayed at her side. He memorized the words to that psalm over the course of many such weekends, and he whispered it to himself, just as she did. He was captured by the images of terror: the pestilence, and the destruction that wastes at noon day. He hoped the words would help him understand her, or that maybe she might look at him and say thank you, but nothing like that ever happened. One day he woke up and his father had disappeared like the midday sun in the psalm. "When will Daddy be back?" he timidly asked his mother. She said nothing, merely looking through him. By the time he was old enough to drive his mother to church, he had come to understand that the psalm wouldn't work, despite incessant repetition. The Lord promised protection against adders, serpents, and dragons, but He hadn't said a word about mean daddies, beaten wives, invisible boys. As far as the Lord was concerned, Quentin didn't exist. He was the loneliest boy in the world. At school, he was too big to pick on, so most kids just left him alone. And he could never be sure anyone would pay attention to him when he spoke, so he stayed quiet. He sat in class all day and stared out the window, dreaming of a magical future when all the other kids would invite him to their parties or talk to him, or just call out his name in the hallways sometimes. None of that ever happened, but that didn't stop him from wishing. His teachers tried to shame him for daydreaming. "Quentin," a carping voice would sometimes break through his lovely reveries, "since you don't need to pay attention, you can just tell the whole class. What's the square root of twenty-three?" But Quentin always had the right answer. He didn't know how he knew things, he just did. When he got older, it was worse. He was unpopular, a gangly, rawboned boy whose pants were always too short for him. He had a nice face, but, since he was invisible, that didn't count for much. All the girls had breasts now, and, whenever Quentin thought about touching them, he blushed. He blushed a lot. The beautiful fall when he turned sixteen, he met a redheaded girl who was just as lonely and awkward as he was. She waited up for him after school, and they walked together sometimes. The girl was a Crusher, one of a pack of redheaded Crushers who came into the store where he worked summers and bought RC Colas by the case. Quentin and Beverly walked and talked down by the railroad tracks, and one day, when they were out of sight of people, she turned to him and, in an oddly listless fashion, had said, "Do you want to do it?" Well, he supposed he did even if he had never done it before. She remained listless, but they did it two or three times a week. Soon, he didn't quite know how, she was pregnant. He said, "I'll marry you." She shook her head. It wouldn't make any difference. They waited with Quentin at the county clinic. He was cowed under the social worker's stern admonishment that a pair of sixteen-year-olds should have more supervision, but her mother and father truculently insisted that a girl her age would do what she wanted. It was a boy. Q never caught more than a glimpse of him. The social worker put a pen in Beverly's hand minutes after the child was born, and she signed her son away. Q followed the social worker down the hall where she handed the beautiful black-haired baby boy to a well-dressed couple who waited impatiently. The couple didn't even see the lurking, lanky boy as they walked out laughing triumphantly. Quentin was confused and sad. He'd had such big dreams for his son. He would quit school, get a job, marry Beverly, and at night he would come home and play with his beautiful baby boy. They might even have another child and then Quentin would be surrounded by laughing children. He wished they hadn't taken his son away, but he thought he understood why they'd done it. How could they give a baby to a boy who was invisible? After that Q isolated himself. He avoided sex and Beverly because the consequences were so overwhelming. In school, he drifted. Sometimes he made the highest grades in the class, and the teachers looked at him with great curiosity. Other times he slept at his desk and seemed not to know the simplest things. He became partly visible again the following year when the school hired a part-time music teacher. Miss Quinn came once a week to expose the hillbilly kids to culture. That was the only time Quentin paid attention. Miss Quinn obviously hated teaching music, and everyone hated Miss Quinn back, except for Quentin. To Quentin she was a savior. He looked forward to Friday afternoons because for an hour or so he could drift away on the beautiful music she played for them. After class, he would come up to her and stare at the records she'd brought from home and try to figure out why the music sounded so different. And glory to God, sometimes she would actually talk to him. More usually she would pack up her things and rush home, ignoring him completely. Quentin didn't care. Even a little acknowledgment was enough to make him slavishly grateful to her. Some days Miss Quinn looked awful. More and more her hair would be uncombed, and she would wear the same clothes several days in a row, obviously indifferent to the fact that they became untidier as the week progressed. The other kids all laughed at her behind her back, and the principal stared at her with an expression of utter distaste. Quentin became alarmed. If they fired Miss Quinn, his one lifeline to reality would snap and he would drift off into space and disappear forever. By the winter's end, she looked horrible. He had to do something. One raw afternoon, he asked her if he could please carry her things for her. After that, he was there every Friday afternoon, faithful as a dog, waiting to escort her home. One hot spring day she invited him in for a lemonade. Quentin felt as if he'd fallen into another world. a world where everything was known and perfect. He hadn't known there were so many records in existence. But the most amazing thing was that she actually owned a piano. "You got your own piano!" She seemed amused, but she wasn't through shocking him. Miss Quinn kept liquor in the house! She got a bottle out of the cabinet and poured herself a drink. Quentin stared open-mouthed. A woman drinking liquor! He didn't know what to think. Miss Quinn obviously didn't care about his opinion one way or the other. She went on sipping her drink as if there were nothing wrong with it. After a while Quentin got used to it. He kept walking her home on Fridays. She rewarded him with a nickname, calling him Q. He liked that because it made him different. He'd been named Quentin because Momma wanted something to rime the way his sisters' names did, Linda and Brenda. But now he was Q, Q the singular. Sometimes they sat on her back porch and talked about music. After a while, they talked about everything. He told her about his baby. He told her how he used to play for church when he was just a little bitty boy and how the people applauded when he came on stage. Miss Quinn laughed when he told her that. She went over to another cabinet and got out a photograph album. They were all pictures of her, sitting at her piano when she was a little girl. Then, in the pictures she got older, and there were articles about a prodigy, whatever that was. There were ribbons, too. Lots of first place ribbons. Then a bunch for second place, and finally some third place ribbons. Then the pictures abruptly stopped. There was a certificate from music school. "I don't know why I stopped," she told him. "I just did." "Me too." They shared a smile. Q was thrilled. Somebody was actually treating him as if he existed. After that, he wouldn't stay away from her. When school let out, he came over and cut her grass. When dishes piled up in her sink, he washed them. He heated cans of chicken noodle soup for her and brought them to her when she couldn't get up out of her chair. When he found empty liquor bottles, he put them in the trash. Q was used to the drinking by now. In a way, he was almost grateful for it. He loved taking care of Miss Quinn. When she was sober, she showed him the opera she was writing. They sat together at the piano and she talked way above his head, but it was so nice to learn something new and interesting that he didn't mind. Except for Miss Quinn's drinking, it was the best life a boy could have. At first it had been shocking to find her passed out on the floor, but he had learned to put her to bed, just as he'd seen his mother do for his father. A summer storm cracked a window in her front parlor, and rain fell on her beautiful piano. Quentin studied on how to fix it and took some of his dad's old tools and replaced the broken pane. He began to plan on buying a shovel for the wintertime in case they had snow. He never got the shovel. Towards the end of August, the principal called Miss Quinn's brother. The brother came roaring up in a shiny new car. He was well-dressed and sardonic, and he berated Quentin because no one else was around to listen. "How low can she possibly sink?" He demanded. "Getting fired from a simple teaching job in the middle of Dogpatch." He sounded disgusted. "Get her dressed and put her in the car." Quentin obeyed meekly. He'd seen Miss Quinn in various states of undress by now, so it didn't shock him to put clothes on her. "Where are you taking her?" he asked the brother. "State sanatarium. Where else?" Well, that was that. Quentin watched her brother's car pull off. He wondered what would happen to Miss Quinn's wonderful things, especially her piano. They were gone the next time he went over there. And in September they had a new music teacher. Mr. Kim was young and earnest and he played the clarinet. Quentin tried to like his class but the other kids called him 'chinky chinky China man.' Then, when they saw the hurt expression on his face, they closed in for the kill, vandalizing his car. Mr. Kim left. After that, instead of music class, all they had was study hall. Quentin had well and truly disappeared. When he graduated, he got a job at a big tobacco farm. He worked hard and lived at home and, since he was invisible, he was very quiet. After a while, his bosses found they liked him. He was steady and reliable. He moved up. They made a big deal of giving him pennies more an hour, but it was a sign of their approval, and he was very proud. He gave his momma fifty dollars a week, and she stared at it wonderingly. She packed a lunch for him and she fed him dinner when he came home. He asked her if she wanted anything. She said no. He bought a new colored TV, and set it up in the living room. She smiled and touched his hair, but silence had long since become a habit. They watched TV together some nights. He waited for something to happen, but life went on the same as always until he sometimes wondered why he'd even been born at all. Thanks to his money, their Christmas and Easter feasts became more elaborate, but, as the nieces and nephews got older, fewer and fewer of them came by anymore. They were growing up, going their own way. His momma's hair went grayer. The years passed. Then one day he ran into Beverly Crusher. He hadn't seen her for years. He didn't know if she'd want to speak to him, but she smiled when she saw him. "Quentin McConn!" No one had ever been glad to see him before. She invited him home with her. He shyly accepted the invitation. He began to drift into her family's orbit, and, before he really knew how it happened, Beverly was marrying him and he was loaning money to her brothers almost before the ink had dried on the wedding certificate. Quentin's bosses really trusted him; they asked him to travel to one of their other farms in North Carolina. They would give him a room. Beverly said it was a good chance for him to better himself. She would move back in with her parents. Quentin bought an old truck, and he learned to fix it; then he went away. The bosses gave him a little rent-free room on one of the farms. It was painted white. There was a chair and a table and a little refrigerator and a nice little metal bed that almost fit his long body. He also had a window and a radio. Quentin was as happy here as he had ever been. Every evening after work, he would buy a newspaper and go to his room to read. He became a connoisseur of the evening news. He pored over the sales pages, keeping track of pork roast prices, car rebates, stereo ads, women's dress fashions. The best days were Wednesdays; every Wednesday, the paper printed the real estate ads and they would always include a blueprint for a "Dream Home Plan." Quentin's mouth watered at the "Dream Home Plans." The impossibly idealized drawings of the houses' exteriors; the cunningly realized blueprints, the prospective landscaping and carports and lavatories. There was even a place where you could send off $14.95 and receive an entire year of "Dream Home Plans". He wished for a complete set of "Dream Home Plans," but such was not for him. Beverly needed that money. But maybe one day... He played his radio and invented beautiful little worlds around his "Dream Home Plans." Then, after ten months in North Carolina, he went back to Kentucky. Beverly was pregnant again. "The baby's due next month!" She glowed as she told him. "Beverly," he said worriedly, "how is that possible?" "Well, I don't know. I didn't get to go to high school," she wailed; then she began to sob. What did a husband do? Q had to make it all up as he went along. He was trying to fit in. He got a newer-model car. Beverly loved it. Eventually he found himself with three red-headed sons, first Jerry, then Vernon, and finally Roger. Q never raised the issue that his children looked a bit too much like their uncles. In the annual K-mart family pictures, Beverly and the boys looked as alike as pigs in a pen, but Q looked as if he had wandered in from another family or photograph or planet. Beverly said, "Can my brothers use your car?" Quentin had learned to turn the other cheek. What choice did he have? Of course they could. The brothers borrowed it often. They could put as many as six hundred miles on it in a weekend. Q figured they were up to no good, but he didn't know what exactly they were doing until one day the sheriff pulled him over and arrested him for possession with intent to distribute. Quentin laughed until they pulled five bricks of marijuana out of the wheel well, but he was in county lock-up, stripped, searched, and chained before it dawned on him that he was in real trouble. He was entitled to one phone call. He asked the jailer who he should call. The shocked jailer suggested Q call his mother. "Son," his mamma was all sincerity and sorrow, "I never wanted to say nothing to you, but I seen that girl was trouble." "I wish you had said something, Mamma." "I'll pray for you, son." She was very sympathetic, but even Q realized how useless that was by now. "Thanks, Mamma, you do that." The detective had been nice to him, in a way. "Son," he said, "Nobody would keep a job like you've got if they were selling this much dope. But I noticed two of your brothers-in-law bought new pickups this year." They had? Q was flabbergasted. The detective knew what exactly had happened. One of the worthless Crusher boys had noticed he was being followed and dumped the car back at Quentin's house. Quentin got in, took off, and drove straight into a trap set for someone else. Crushers, not Quentin, were the problem. "Quentin, if you go to the jailhouse, Beverly and them Crushers will raise those boys. Is that what you want?" "No!" said Q. He agreed to wear a wire when he talked to Beverly. "Beverly, you know it's not fair of your brother to do me this way." "Quentin, don't talk that way. If Junior goes to jail again, they'll put him in for life. He's got too many arrests on his record and you don't have hardly any." "You're asking me to take the rap for him?" Beverly shrugged. "I can't believe you're asking me to rat on my own brother." "I'm your husband. I love you." "I love you too, baby, but you won't be away all that long." "Did you know he was running dope in my car?" Her voice got very sharp. "Now what do you want me to say to that?" She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Q, what a question." Everyone regretted that an innocent boy was going down, but there was nothing to be done. |
