Sweet Life

Evening came, I packed my tools. Made sure I could watch the boy from the bed of my truck. He was untied and taken inside as dusk fell.

Settling in for sleep, I heard noises from the camp. Got a funny feeling—the campers stayed up late, loud discussions around the fires. Men raised their voices, but I couldn't decipher their words.

Seemed odd if they were picking all day. Why weren't they sleeping?

Heard a few cars coming and going; sunset usually brought quiet in the camps. Not here, not tonight.

Under a half-moon, I felt the truck sway, someone beside me. It was the boy in the dress, "Dogs gonna raid tonight. Get out."

"Are you sure?" Packs of armed vigilantes formed to rid the area of communists; union organizers.

"My uncle and his men already left."

"Didn't take you?"

"He said I'd probably get dropped at a mission. They'd take the fag out of me for good."

Distant hum of motors alarmed me. "Get in the cab. Going west, then up the coast." He stared at me. "Get out where you want."

For the first time in my life, I said it out loud. Foreign words to my ears, but true: "I'm like you are about men. Don't want a woman, I want a man beside me, else I'll live alone."

We heard voices in the camp waking everyone and jumped in the cab of the truck. The kid showed me how to leave by the back route and we hit the highway passing a number of cars and trucks screaming past us to raid the camp.

***

The boy fell asleep on the seat beside me. Slender boy and his shoulders were just beginning to widen. Looked like he'd been fed, his skin was clear. He'd shucked his work boots and lay in a tight curl on the seat with the cool, night air chilling us.

Reaching behind the seat, I found my old coat and threw it over him and continued until the first rays of sun hit the rear view mirror.

After several hours, I pulled off for gas and woke my young companion. "Get over there behind the bushes to pee. Tell anyone who asks that you're my sister till we find you some pants."

Those words made me realize I suddenly had two people to feed until he left. Needed some new strategies for work and twice as much food.

***

Had a couple of tin cans I cooked in. Usually built a fire, boiled cactus paddles after I'd singed off all the thorns; nopales. Red and sweet, they made enough for a meal. Better with egg cooked along with the cactus.

Pulled into a farm where I saw several sheds behind the house. Knocked on the door. Took a while but a woman answered the door, eyeing me, then she glanced at the truck to see the boy-girl smiling.

"Need an egg or two. Got any to spare? I’ll pay."

Took her a while as she sized up the situation. "That girl, she's hungry?" Two children stood behind their mother's skirt peeking around at me.

"Sure is, ma'am. That's my sis.” Lying unsettled me. “I know you've probably met with hustlers from the road. Ain’t looking to make trouble. Just a couple of eggs to quiet our bellies."

"Wait here." She glanced again at the truck. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"Been a while, can’t remember." I was bony enough to make a hard impression.

Waited patiently listening to the mother order her children about making buttered bread and packing left-overs for us. Boiled potato sandwiches, dried apples wrapped in newspaper, half a jar of apple butter, a few soda crackers, bits of what she had.

She came back to the door with an old flour sack heavy with food. I offered her several coins along with my thanks. She refused any pay.

"God be with you. Where're you two going?"

"California. I fix cars, tires especially. Need any work done?"

"Pa does all that." She looked closer at me, my unshaven face and ragged clothes. Sniffed a few times, probably for alcohol.

"Up north of Los Angeles is Santa Barbara. I was born there. Not as busy as Los Angeles, but not as much riffraff."

I stuck my hand out to shake hers. She leaned forward, wrapped her arm half-way around my neck and patted my back. "I'll pray for you and your sister." She glanced at the truck again and lifted the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes.

***

While the woman was busy putting together the food, that boy sneaked out the driver's side of the cab and ran to the fence where the woman hung her wash. He stole several things then sneaked back with dungarees and two shirts and a pair of socks.

On the road, the boy found the food, handed me a sandwich and told me what he did. Pulled the clean, damp clothes from under the seat, grinning.

"Don't steal, boy. We'll depend on the bounty of the earth and the kindness of people who have enough to share," repeating my mother's philosophy. Ate as I drove, drinking from the gallon jug lifted to my lips.

"What's your name, barefoot boy?"

"Romero Dolcevita. I’m called Romy."

"Dolcevita? What kind of name is that?"

"Means `sweet life' in Italian."

"Name's David McCann, from Guymon Oklahoma. Osage and Irish."

We drove along for a while; I became curious. "You got family out here?"

"Only my uncle. He's probably at another camp now."

The boy was alone and didn't seem scared. Maybe he didn't realize how vulnerable he was. Confident or naive, wasn't sure which. Decided to be more of an older brother to him till he found his way. Wondered if someone would come looking for him, use him like a woman.

"Till we find a place for you, stay close."

With a full stomach, he curled on the seat and slept while I considered where I'd take him. Not any place would be welcoming if they found out his leanings, might be punished again and it could be worse than being tied to a chair in a dress.

A while later, he woke. We stopped beside an empty field, rinsed our hands and faces. "Heard it gets better when we get to the coast; more people, more business and more work, if you're old enough. Have you ever seen the Pacific Mr Dolcevita?"

"You’re going to the ocean?" He asked, eyes excited.

"Yep. We'll see it together, if ya' like." San Diego had to have a shelter for him.

***

Good day, full stomachs and a bit of dough in my pocket. About a week, we'd be in San Diego, felt good I’d funded myself this far. Still had the money Dad gave me and I needed to triple that soon.

***

In the distance I saw a line of trees. Water ahead. Stopped beside a river, washed our dirty clothes and ourselves in the cool water. Naked, we lay under the trees and let our clothes dry. Felt good to be out of the cab of the truck, I looked up at the sky in the afternoon sun through the leaves of the cottonwoods.

As Romy used his finger to wipe the last of the apple butter out of the jar, "Being tied to that chair didn't change me at all. Coulda stayed there for a year. That part of me won’t change. Born this way."

"Until I met you, I never said it before, I mean where I could hear my own voice admit it, but yeah, can't change that part of me either. I think about men, dream about them the way other men think of women." The roar of the cicadas built and waned above us. "Think about being loved by a man and loving him. Only heard it in whispers a few times, but there are lots of men like us in the big cities, in San Francisco, Los Angeles."

Romy's hand toyed with his till his short rod was stiff. Straight, hairless body, cute in its way. Smooth, unblemished, pretty. Felt tension in my gut and knew I had to protect this beauty. Bad things can happen to a kid alone.

“You got to be careful. Men like us can be hurt, or killed. The white guys get tossed in jail, but they're harder on the dark men, especially if they find out your secret. There's always people looking for a place to exercise their evil."

He rolled over and took a blade of grass, ran it along my dick till I was hard. Slapped his hand away, "You're not old enough. Stop it."

"When will I be old enough, in two minutes?" He laughed.

"You’ll be old enough when I'm around seventy."

Knew too well Romy's tender body was at the age it was needy for touch, affection. So was mine. Set that aside and excused myself to the river.

I could have… but didn’t.

***

Romy's stolen dungarees were too big. We found a way to hitch them around his slender waist with strips from the flour sack and rolled the cuffs up. The shirts were baggy, I took them and let him have my worn, but smaller shirt. Still Romy had no shoes that fit so, we cut the leather along the toes of his old boots and I patched them with my Michelin repair kit.

Drove through the night into the hills east of San Diego. I stopped and got directions when we got gas. Repaired three tires for the gas station owner and we left for the ocean with a bit more moola.

Empty cars and broken-down vehicles along the highways here and there. Didn't see any kids, so I didn't stop. Felt the ocean pulling me closer.

***

Crossing the hills into El Cajon the scenery changed. I knew it'd be so – San Diego was filled with unemployed men and their families. More shanties by the mile. Heartbreaking to see kids with runny noses, dirty and dull-eyed.

The further west we drove, the cooler the breezes became. Romy was excited, reading all the billboards and signs we passed.

The boy asked a million questions and I couldn’t answer; knew there were oceans and seas, but not much more about them than fish and whales, sharks and tides changing with the moon.

***

Wasn't as dusty as we neared the coast. Very different city, San Diego, odd trees planted everywhere that had the strangest odor. Smelled like the medicine Mom used to rub on our chests when we got the grippe.

We followed the signs of businesses at the beach. Then, the air changed, a new smell. The ocean has a smell? Suddenly, with the hills so far behind us I couldn't even see them, we stopped and stared at the Pacific.

Abrupt change from the asphalt and dusty roads I'd stared at for so many days. Intensely blue against a turquoise sky.

At our feet was sand sprinkled with what looked like sparks of gold. The water shushed us. Waves, in rolls came toward us. We dropped on the sand, rolled our pants legs up, tossed our shoes to the side to feel the cold salt water tugging at our feet.

Small holes in the sand bubbled from their inhabitants, seabirds screamed and the wind was strong and cool on our faces. Mysterious place, the beach.

The smell of the beach was foreign, strong and in some ways smelled like sex. It smelled like all life and the liquids it made in its joinings. I remember that smell from my parent's bedroom, their bed, their sheets.

Ocean waves whispered abundance in their breadth, my spirit fell into their rhythm. Renewed my hope considering tides; always turning, bringing the new. I grabbed Romy and hugged him right there in the open.

We took off running down the damp sand to a pier. People were fishing, we looked in their buckets. Only a few mullets, and a lobster. Looked like a big, ugly bug and I wondered how they were going to eat it.

Romy pointed to the west, "Ships!" Sure enough, ships so large we could see them from miles away.

He flitted up and down the sand examining shells and seaweed. I breathed deeply the cool, moist air like it was a remedy for all the sorrows I'd lived the past months. It calmed the worries inside me, closed the sharp wounds of parting, the mean heat of the road, the deserts and the hardhearted folks I'd met. Even softened the memory of Jonathan.

The enormity of the horizon tore all the jagged hurt from inside me and blew it away as if it were nothing. The greatness of a sky that hovered over me, hovered over my family and all those on the roads. That greatness brought me into a rightness I'd never felt before.

All was right, all was in the right place.

***

"What's that man doing?" I looked down the beach to a man with a cart under an umbrella, wrapping my arm around Romy's shoulders.

We raced off to see, laughing till we got to the man at the small, wheeled metal box. Older Latino man sold raspas, snow cones. Flavors were red, green or white.

"What's the best flavor?" Romy asked.

"White's my favorite—sabor a coco." The old man chuckled.

"Two white raspas." This was a day to celebrate. I gave him a few cents for the shaved ice with coconut syrup. Were they ever good. Never tasted coconut before and I was in love with life as the ice melted coating my tongue with the rich, sweet taste. Romy’s eyes smiled as he dug his pink tongue into the icy treat.

"Little brother, we're going to be alright." He only nodded, eyes in smiling crescents above his cheeks, as thrilled as I was with the ocean.

***

We'd passed several large missions built centuries ago, "Romy, the church can help you find a place, get in touch with your family. Don't you miss them?"

"I'm old enough to work." He grabbed my arm. "Don't leave me, I don't have anyone in Chicago anymore."

Looking at him I figured his family was separated the way mine was. He could work? "How old are you now? Don't lie."

"Old enough. Don't send me away. I'll work hard."

"Do you have a trade, a skill?"

"I'll do anything—anything. Just don't leave me in the church. I’d have to lie...."

That was true. Not sure about how he was raised, but I knew enough that most religious folk didn't like men like us. Leaving him in a church would only force him back on the road. "It's gonna be hard. "

Slender arms embraced me, "You won't be sorry; I'll work and we'll make it. I know we will."

Odd to hear the boy say that to me. "We'll make it, I know we will." But there was a rightness around us, and all felt in order between us.

***

Since we had no friends in San Diego, we had to build our reputations from the ground up. Had to find ways to survive and keep some dignity about us. Had to stay ready for an opportunity if one opened up.

Garbage cans in town were already picked through, Romy suggested we watch for the ritzy restaurants to take their trash out. They took it to the alley early in the morning, just before the garbage men arrived. We got there a few minutes earlier and filled our jar and cans with whatever looked like it would make soup.

Along with a few stale bread crusts, it was enough.

We knew there were soup kitchens. Food lines were rough, fights broke out often among the hungry men. Alcohol-fueled fights; other men made bets to turn a quick buck, the others waited to strip the loser while he regained consciousness.

Desperate, some of the men committed crimes just to go to jail; “tramp’s vacation” they called it.

Easier for Romy and me to forage off the leavings of wealthier folk and eat from the bounty of the land.

Found shoes at a church donation bin, kept those though they didn't fit us. Planned on selling them. Only stayed in their shelter long enough to get our hair cut, shower and wash our clothes. Missions and shelters had their problems as well. We didn’t want lice .

***

Other days, as we scrounged small tasks to earn enough for gas, slept under a tarp in the back of the truck parked in a canyon. That became our routine.

We pulled into our usual campsite and knew there were others nearby in their own places. Never bothered anyone; they didn't bother us in an unspoken agreement.

One night, we heard a ruckus down the road, about a half mile. Went to the road to see what was going on. The group didn't douse their campfire completely.. Flames were climbing, spreading. Fire engine was barreling toward the campsite. Quickly, we threw everything into our truck and left. Didn't stop till we were in Otay Mesa, flat land. Parked behind a cluster of scrub oak.

Next day we went back to the canyon. Entire place was blackened, bare. Several houses on top of the ridges were gone. Romy ran to the burned campground. In the dark hulk of a car, he searched looked through it, tearing through the still-smoldering seats then the trunk.

"Whacha doin'?"

"My dad was a driver. He said people hide valuables in their cars because they can lock the doors."

He held out his hand. In his palm were two black, flattened mounds and the remnants of several bills. I looked closer, those were corners of twenty-dollar bills. Worth nothing now.

He spit on the flat mounds and rubbed them. I took one and inspected it. Looked like gold, yellow but dull metal. "How much do you think it's worth?" he asked.

"Don’t know. Not sure what it is." Appeared they were wedding bands. Didn’t say that aloud.

Picked up a few metal stakes that looked like they were from the rails, and took the license plates off the car. They were from New Mexico—we'd clean them up and repaint them carefully. Might be worth a few dimes.

Kinda sad finding parts of toys among the ashes. Wondered where the family was now.

***

That fire brought us luck.

That next week I got one day of work at a gas station south of Logan Heights. Well-heeled clientele came from Logan and Banker's Hill. Did my best to impress the clients and the owner.

The gas station was located near Coronado Bay, pumping gas and checking the oil levels, simple tasks and steady work. Romy went off during the days, making a few nickels sweeping parking lots and stocking for stores in the area.

Still sketchy finding work for him, he looked so young. Romy looked like he should be in school, but there were so many kids on the streets and in the camps. No one ready to try to round all of `em up for schooling even if they had enough classrooms.

As we drove the alleys and back streets, I noticed some folks turned to the trade, selling themselves, and I suspected Romy could have sold himself in the right places. He was a good-looking young man, but he never even mentioned it. I didn't either. Kept reassuring him we'd make it somehow though we looked and smelled so damn poor.

We held out and held on scavenging day-old newspapers for any sign the economy was improving. Listened to the radio at work, heard talk of the Civilian Conservation Corps.

***

After our canyon burned, we camped south and east of the downtown area near National City, going to shower late at Imperial Beach hydrant.

Most nights we ate soup, Fridays we split soda crackers and a can of sardines. We'd dine and watch the blazing sunsets together as we talked about ideas for work.

I suggested we find a place to park and grow a few rows of corn and beans, maybe squash.

Romy laughed, "Somebody'll steal them while we're scouting work."

He was right. When I told him about the steers and milking cows, having to hoe row after row for our food. He was surprised, being raised in Chicago, he knew nothing of farm life.

Romy explained his life—feast or famine it appeared. His dad was a big man who commanded respect on the streets of the Windy City, was recruited early by the teamsters and rose in their ranks.

Romy's family went from living in a tenement to a real house when he was a boy. Later, his parents sent him to a boarding school but had to leave when the all-boy's school found him with another student. Didn't set well with their policies. Then Romy went to public school.

Going to public school wasn't hard for Romy, he had a good education so far and did well.

A few years later Romy’s father was still with the union and earned the confidence of the leadership. He and another man were put in charge of picking up the union dues from the workers every Friday. Thousands of dollars. Each shop steward had a brown envelope in a black bag that contained a list of the workers who'd paid along with their dues—in cash.

Because that much money is a temptation, you never know who's got designs on it. Money disappeared from the delivery truck they drove, more the next week. Romy's Dad didn't come home one night after driving his route.

Police said it appeared someone had held up the truck they drove. Romy's family heard nothing from Mr Dolcevita for a week, then two weeks.

Knowing how the union operated, Romy's mother sent her three children to distant relatives, unsure if the thugs at the union hall would come looking for her thinking she was involved with the theft. She hopped the border for Canada and went back to Italy.

Chicago was corrupt and violent during those times, the capital of dirty dealing. Romy was street-smart, much more than me. He could spot a crook at twenty paces; bookies, and cons. He knew their tricks from the sidewalks of Chi-town.

Never suggested we try any of those schemes; I wouldn’t be around it. My reputation and my freedom were all I had.

***

"Do you ever write your mom?" I asked Romy. "She probably wants to know you're okay."

"Don’t have her address."

"We'll find it." I explained we could go to the library and look on a world map, "Maybe find a town close to where your family is from. They'll get the letter to her."

The reason I recall that night clearly was because I'd read of the violence in Chicago before. It was in almost every issue of any newspaper. Crime bosses established territories for distribution of illegal booze before prohibition ended, now they sold private insurance policies to business owners; collected weekly.

My mind filled thugs with burp guns. Forgot all about that when Romy told me about bathhouses and there were bars—usually shady places without signage where men met other men. Speakeasies before, now the hidden clubs, shady haunts. There were parties in private homes and secret places where men met, but you had to know where they were. Circles of friends were tightly secured.

“How do you know?”

"One of the union men told me. He had to leave when my uncle caught us kissing." He sighed, "But now I can be myself. I’m gonna find those places."

"Some call us an abomination. You were lucky that man was your uncle, otherwise we might not be having this conversation."

"We look okay, act okay, no one would guess."

The next day, we mailed a sheet of paper we wrote the letter on, folded it by the instructions and mailed it to Brindisi, Italy with a note on the back asking the postmaster to please find and deliver this to Serafina Cancio Dolcevita and gave the name of the small coastal town on the heel of the boot of Italy.

***

Our evenings were calm. Romy told me about geography, history, lots of things I'd missed by not going to school. He was good at math and began showing me multiplication and division. Wrote my numbers on the margins of newspapers remembering what I could of the my grandfather’s lessons. I could figure the small problems easily but got lost with big numbers. Felt kinda stupid beside Romy yet he never taunted me.

Sometimes we lay on our thin, straw mattress and looked at the stars. Showed him the Big and Little Dippers, Orion and all the planets like my grandfather had taught me. Told him about truing wheels and the ways of my mother's people.

The information we passed back and forth was new to the other, and we developed a deep appreciation for each others pasts.

***

Thin mattress of straw in the bed of the trunk was our bed; slept naked when the weather was warm. Our bodies touched. I remembered sleeping with my brothers.

Sometimes I felt Romy pulling his rod, I did the same.

All in silence—we were close, and though we both loved men, we weren't quite the men for each other. Neither of us considered ourselves complete. Survival dominated our lives.

***

We made it through a year living on little or nothing while the government dithered over a few bucks that would have sprung us into a place with a roof.

Trust deepened between us. Romy didn't want to go back to Chicago or with his brother or sister. That might be veering too close to the "family" in organized crime.

He wanted a new start. I just wanted a start on full-time work. We needed each other those days, hope was as scarce as greenbacks.

About that gold—or what we thought was gold. Books in the library said the price of gold was fixed. The US was on the gold standard to stabilize the dollar's value.

Took the two small metal mounds and I got out my Michelin repair kit and stuck them inside the hem of my coat with adhesive and a patch near the three dollars and sixteen cents I'd tucked into the placket.

Couldn't even tell they were there, but we had to hold onto that coat.

***

July, 12, 1933

Dear Mother,

Write me at General Delivery, National City, California. Jonathan's gone. I have a buddy. The ocean and the beach are beautiful. Heard about the Civilian Conservation Corps, am going to apply. Will send home money every month if I get on. Hope all is well. Love, David.

We scrounged through the spring and summer, showering at the beach on Saturday nights. Mostly earning enough for what we needed and keeping ourselves from looking like animals. Romy took that pair of shoes he found and we filled them with newspaper and cardboard till they fit enough to wear while odd jobbing.

Don’t know how he continued growing on our meager meals.

Lots of people liked Romy, he found a few regular jobs cleaning and stocking, unloading trucks around town. I was hired on an extra day pumping gas and fixing cars.

Two days a week doubled my income, and it was scant pay. Romy occasionally found us some clothing someone left out by an ashcan; we struggled and stuck together sharing what we had, and were finally able to afford soap.

***

The day was overcast, cool. Pumped gas all morning. Made a plan as I worked.

It was pay day.

Met up with Romy at a corner near the row of small businesses near San Ysidro, cash in hand. Went into our favorite bodega.

"Get two cans of sardines tonight, we’re gonna talk money." I winked at Romy and grabbed a bar of licorice. "You like this?"

He made a face, so looked around and decided this announcement needed something special. Bought a bottle of wine. I knew nothing of alcohol, only saw it was cheap and had a basket overflowing with purple grapes on the label. Those grapes looked so luscious, the wine must be good.

Crackers and sardines again but a little extra tonight. We sat on the tailgate of the truck sharing our dinner, opened a can of peaches to spear with our knives and drank our wine passing the bottle back and forth.

"What's this about money?" Romy asked.

Looking at him without his shirt, I saw his ribs and collarbones jutting under his smooth skin, "They're taking applications for the CCC soon. Announced it on the radio at work."

I explained we'd get paid and trained, work the forests and along the roads. "Six-month commitment, stay on for two years if you like it. Room, board, and pay, thirty a month. Only hitch is you have to send twenty-five bucks back home every month. Feds are priming the pump, getting the money goin' around again."

Slurring his words from the wine. "I’m not twenty-one."

"Probably lots of guys signing up won't have birth certificates—mamas had `em on the farms. Just say you're almost twenty-one and stand as tall as you can. That’s my plan. C'mon, if you don't like it after six months, go on. You'll leave with money in your pocket. Worth a shot."

I took a slug of the wine. Burned my throat as Romy took another drink. "How do we get in?"

"Applications at the post office."

We sat in silence as our heads spun with alcohol. My brain wouldn't shut down, my heart was beating fast. He'd half-agreed to stay with me. After so long together, hard to imagine life without Romy.

Thought about the CCC; I'd never been in any kind of big group of men, that was too big of a dream for this Okie. With Romy, we could take the knocks of learning the ropes together watching out for each other. I wanted to kiss Romy for bringing that calm to me by asking how we get in the CCC.

Leaning toward him, only wanting to smell his familiar sweat. Romy turned and kissed me, held my face, he pulled me to stand and we undressed in the dark, then crawled onto the mattress, "One time you told me you dreamed about being with a man..." He whispered and grabbed my cock, turned kissed me again.

That was all we said that night as I grabbed the empty can of sardines, pushed him onto his back and took the greasy oil from the can and nudged his knees till he opened to me, oiled his tight hole with the sardine grease.

By this time, my root was straining and my brain whirling. Fumbled around in the dark, put his ankles on my shoulders, feet to Orion. Held my rod against his hole and pushed. Didn't work the first time, or the second till I stuck my finger in his ass. He moaned but I couldn't hold back. Pulled my finger out quick and shoved my leaking cock inside him.

Short yelp dissipated into the darkness.

During all the hours I'd driven the narrow, hot roads I'd fantasized all the ways my body would fit with, to fit inside another man. Kissing, licking and sucking every part of him, and his lips on me. There were a thousand ways I wanted to take a man and be taken.

My imagination saw ways to fuck almost everywhere I looked, but never let myself try.

Had a rubber hammer. Used the handle to fill my butt when I got really horny and it made me cum hard. Kept that to myself, knowing people would call it perverse; illegal. Now, though I was inside a hot hole, so tight around my cock it was almost overwhelming along with the alcohol.

Being hard as any crowbar, I began stroking into his heat to find my balls had a mind of their own. Wanted it to last but couldn't stop – feeling his tight muscle gripping my shaft was too inviting. I came like a dam burst, then my seed squishing around my dick; only made it feel better but my sac was empty too soon. Aching and empty after only a few strokes.

Smelling the sardine oil and my seed, I fell on him. His dick was hard and twitching, his man juice leaking. Rubbed myself against him a few times and felt his twitch and his hot release between us.

Silent, strong exchange almost made me cry. First time for me, seemed for Romy as well. Sweaty and wet, my dreams were finally realized and were better than anything I imagined. So much satisfaction, it made me want more. A lot more.

I kissed his neck and held him close; moist skin and the slippery fluids felt like a new kind of relief.

No, it felt perfect. I moved to lick his cum from his smooth chest. His fingers stroked my hair pressing my face against him and we fell asleep deeply.

Hard time waking up the next morning. Grinned, not knowing what to say.

Romy was smiling, too, walking a little funny. We cleaned up and he dropped me off at work then went to the post office.

***

We only had one pencil, it was short. Romy sharpened the lead with the knife. Sat on the side of the garage in the truck and started filling in the tiny spaces on the CCC application form.

On my lunch break he handed me a blank application, "I don't want to use my last name."

"Why?"

"It's an odd name, someone might recognize it from the Chicago theft. Could make it hard if they check. The CCC is part of tamping down the union organizing.” He looked straight at me. “I want steady work. Maybe graduate high school while I'm there." He held up the CCC application looking disappointed.

"You got another problem, you have to send twenty-five to someone every month. Who you gonna send it to?"

Biting his lower lip, "Better think about this."

Reading through the requirements, “Going to be hard work building fire towers and cleaning brush... we could wait. Join later." I offered.

After a few moments, "How much harder is it going to get for us? We're always hungry. We stink. We're filthy. Everyone around us is filthy and stinking... everything around us is filthy and stinking." He paused, "I'm sick of living like this. If there's a better place with work—being poor so long is wearing me down. Gotta be wearing you down, too. I’m gonna try."

His outburst of honesty surprised me. Romy just summed up our lives since we'd met.

Glanced around and leaned over to kiss his cheek. He wasn't going to be a teen for much longer, and he was a becoming a man right in front of me.

Looked at him differently. He'd come a long way with me and stuck by my side.

Hoped him staying was from want, not need.

Coming in Chapter 3:

Will these close partners both be accepted into the CCC? Will they be found out?

A past acquaintance from the road offers needed information. The door of opportunity is ajar.