Tin Soldiers

I tried finding work.  Gave up, found an abandoned shack to live in.  Grew my weed, had enough to get by. My ‘minder’ refused to visit me here--met him at the road every ninety days.

Outside town is a rendering plant, I live just past it.  Hear the semis day and night, smell the stench day and night.  Rotting animal carcasses get boiled down, hides processed.  People avoid the area.

"Recluse" they call me.  They're right.

* * *

Remember that day; first warm day of spring.  Rinsed out my old clothes, worked the dirt naked.  A Southwester blew the putrid smells away from my place.  People who built my house planted ligustrum.  Sensual smell to the blossoms, heavy, obesely sweet.

Opened all the windows in my rickety hovel; stuffiness from winter fires and stale sweat dispersed.  Spread my tattered blankets on the overgrown hedges to sweeten them. My sixth winter here.  So far, so good except for hauling water.  One whole day every week spent on that.  Have to ration it.

* * *

Heard footsteps, someone rustling through the mast of acorns, scuffling among the leaves, breaking twigs.  Slipped my jeans on.  Rustling continued across the bog to the east, along the edge of the saplings by the stream. Climbed a pine, saw him crossing the meadow.

Go on by, don't stop here.

He slowed, took a slug of water, looked around.  Must have seen the corner of the roof, he headed that direction.

My ramshackle abode was deserted around the same time the rendering plant came.  Built decades ago--plumbing and wiring were added; neither worked.  Had to chase the opossums and snakes out when I came.  Roof leaked throughout the place.

My cot was in the driest place, near an old wood stove in the kitchen.

I'm not greedy till it comes to my privacy.  I slipped through the underbrush near the house, watched him look through the windows.  He got on the porch, looked in, then just opened my backdoor and walked in.  Heard him rummaging around.  Must have dropped his backpack, something heavy hit the floor, shook the window panes.

Nothing worth stealing but he'd breached my refuge.

* * *

Jumped hard onto the planks of the back porch, "Get outta here!"

He spun, "Who're you?"

"Git!"  Stuck my hand in my pocket, made like I had a gun.

He laughed, "Dial it down a notch, old man.  Not looking for any trouble, need a place to stay a few days."  He stuck his hand out, "Name's Howell."  He smiled, wide--row of even, white teeth.  Dimples appeared.

Pretty kid.  His age?  I don't know--too young to be wandering the woods alone.  Dark locks of hair fell on his forehead; tanned skin, eyebrows like a woman's and long lashes.  As tall as me, slender, at ease with himself.

Confident; gotta watch people like him.  "Get outta here.  This is my place."

"Been on the road over a week--I'll pay."

"Hundred dollars."  That'd chase him away.

"How about I work it off?"  He chuckled, looked around the small room, "I'll chop wood."

"Get along."  Pointed to the door, stomped my foot.

Nope, he didn't leave.  He turned and leaned, dug into his backpack, held a thin, rectangular object; a small, flat gold tin. "Would you take this as payment?"

"Is that smoked oysters?"

I took the tin from his hand, "Yeah, well don't bother me and don't make a mess."

Hadn't had oysters since... years.  Grabbed a sleeve of saltines and went to the back porch.  Sat myself and slowly pulled the small ring.

Howell came beside me, "On the run, desperado?"

"Did my time."

"Whaddja get pegged for?"

Upsetting, this line of talk. "Why're you on the road, bubba?  Rob a bank?  Serial killer?" Snapped back.

"Did other people's time, and not wasting a minute of freedom.  Going to Tucumcari--ever been there?"

"New Mexico?  Nah, nothing but desert."  Took each oyster, put it on the center of a cracker; tasted rich, strong.  Oil greased my teeth.  Didn't chew, just let the cracker dissolve and squeezed the smoky meat against my palate.  Smell of the ocean and smokiness rushed out my nose.

"Blue skies, sand; seldom rains.  Gonna get a job, build up some cash, buy a place of my own."

"Don't have to leave to do that."

Howell ignored me, pulled a harmonica out of his shirt pocket and played Red River Valley, interspersed with an unusual tale:

Young Howell came from a farm family.  When he was five, the barn and several out buildings burned down.  Only his mother was around that day so the kid got nailed as an arsonist.  Arson's a serious crime from a sick mind.  He was sent to a mental institution instead of a juvenile prison.

Parents visited weekly, then stopped.  Howell's mother and father were taken down later on insurance fraud about the fires.  Family was in debt, then lost everything.  Howell was transferred into a children's home.  No family wanted to adopt a child associated with arson. Till recently, he was institutionalized, he said.  Didn't seem upset by it, told me he learned a lot in his warehousing.  "Not as bad as living like you do, desperado.  Which train you waiting for?  Don't tell me you want to die in this dump."

Impertinent bastard, "Shut up."  I grabbed a bucket in each hand and headed for the stream.  "Bring those other pails, c'mon."

* * *

Day had warmed, we filled our buckets; I turned to take mine back to the house.  Howell didn't.  He stripped naked, stepped into the stream.  Began splashing water, squatted.  "Hey, old man, you stink.  Rinse off--feels good."  Motioned for me to join him.

Smooth skin, muscles covered with a thin layer of fat made him appear doll-like.  Moved easily, like a dancer, finding a place to sit and wet his hair, face.  Beautiful body, straight, shoulders weren't wide, had no chest hair but dark nipples.  Uncircumcised cock swung from a scraggly bush of hair, small scrotum dark, almost gray.  Thighs and calves strong from his travels.  I watched, sun on my bare back, then waded in beside him.

Careful.

"I'm not an old man, I'm only... around forty."  Sat beside him and started rubbing the crud off.

"Hung like a bull."  He mumbled.

I turned away.

Lay in the water, letting it flow around us for a long time; watched clouds through the boughs above.  He rinsed his clothes, tied them together and slung them around his neck.  Carried his buckets back to the house.

* * *

Quiet evening, he went to gather wood, kindling while I heated water, got the radio out.  Sun was setting when he brought the third load back.

Old house was dark; gibbous moon rose.  Howell came in with a handful of something, scattered it over my cot, the floor.  "What's that?"

"Pine needles, blossoms.  Smells like a snake den in here."  He strew them over the floor, glanced at the radio.

"Wind it up--there's a crank on the side."

Peanut butter and crackers, tea with dry milk and sugar.  Brought out my pipe when we were done, filled the bowl and took a hit, passed it to the kid.  He handed it back.

White briefs glowed in the dim light as he unrolled his sleeping bag.  Tucked himself into the darkness behind the door.

* * *

Weed kept my brain from razor cuts, it held the knives of memory away until I fell asleep.  Old visions came; reached under the bag of rags I used for a pillow, pulled out a toy soldier.  They were scattered around the house by a boy who lived here.  Almost a hundred years since the tiny infantry saw an imagined war.  Held the figurine which forever stood at attention with a Lee Enfield; WWI.  I'd fill my mind with a dark-haired boy, around nine-years-old mounding dirt bunkers, hiding his army in the chickweed.  A boy who was my spitting image.

My boy.  Distant now, his tenderness still burned my eyes.  Gone forever in a few hours.

Heard popping joints.  Howell was up, went out to pee.  Came back and sighed.  Heard tiny clicks--pulling one off.  Heard that a million times before in the dark.  I turned to the wall; my dick wanted attention.

Attention denied.

* * *

Got up before dawn, almost tripped over Howell.  Heated water for tea, took the radio outside.  Rain in the forecast, no dawn.  Birds' songs began around five.  Began breakfast when Howell got up, 

"I'm still alive, desperado.  Guess you didn't do time for murder."

"No--and stop calling me desperado.  I'm not hopeless and I'm no thief."

"Not hopeless?  Sure looks that way."  He snorted, grabbed a cup and took his tea straight.  "Musta served time for something serious to act so mean. Bet you got caught for something weird--playing with animals?"

Without thought, I sucker punched him square in the face; twisted my torso, right hand fisted and swung right into his nose.  Rubbed my knuckles watching him back away several steps, surprised.

Deep red blood came from his nose, he smeared it with the back of his hand and left for the stream.

Calm down.  He doesn't know anything--just a stupid kid.

* * *

Assault. 

Suddenly regretted losing control.  I followed him, "Hurt bad?"

He looked at me, no expression, hung his head.  "I deserved it for mouthing off."  Came to me, arm around my shoulder, "Sorry."  Diluted blood dripped from his wet face onto his chest.

Slipped my arm around his waist, "Gonna haul groceries with me?"

Turned and hugged me, "Sure, pops."

"Name's Dade Dailey.  Not `desperado.'  Not `pops.'  Not `old man.'  Call me Dade."

Had to clean him up, check his nose.  Howell lay on my cot while I found a clean rag and wiped his face.  His hand went under my pillow, "What's this?"

"Tin soldier, found lots of them around here.  My memento, a charm of sorts.  It holds a certain memory."  Brought a bag of them I'd found.  "Helps me go to sleep." He examined the tiny figure.  "That one's mine.  Pick one for yourself."  I got my boots and shirt on, grabbed my rucksack.

The kid found a tiny soldier, its rifle drawn, and put it on his sleeping bag, "I need a few easy memories myself."

* * *

Cut through the back way to town, dewberry vines in blossom, poke salat sprouting.  He played the harmonica as we walked the edge of town.  I went to the grocery, he saw the library, told me he'd be in there, tossed me his empty backpack.

Got real food: meat, potatoes, bread and butter.  Soap--two kinds, toothpaste instead of baking soda.  Oranges, grapes and bananas.  My usual cashier gave me a strange look, "Getting healthy?"  I smiled, which perplexed her.  Me too.

Heavy load.  I left it inside the door to the library.  Howell was on the computer, "Look.  These toy soldiers are worth a mint.  You don't have to squat in the woods."

"Sell `em.  Get yourself a grubstake."  Sat with him for a few moments, "I'll wait by the door."  Got a newspaper, read a few articles.  Waited outside.

* * *

On the way back, I noticed he went through several recycling bins, found an empty tuna can, scraps of wire.  We ate oranges while we walked.  "Researching New Mexico?  Gonna have to live like a horny toad, find a rock to crawl under."

"There's a school  in Hobbs, I can get a trade."  Noticed he ate the orange peel as well as the pulp.  "Do you gamble?"

"In a casino?  Never."  Cut back through the woods.  Howell took his tuna can outside.  He was out there a long time while I put the groceries up, built the fire.  Skillet-fried chops and potatoes.

The kid came in, dug through my rag-pillow and stripped a slender ribbon of fabric, wound it through a wire coil he fitted inside the can.  Poured some cooking oil in it; he'd made an oil lamp.  Pushed two old crates together next to my cot and we ate high.  Chops, potatoes, canned tomatoes and bread, listened to the news.  Ate grapes and made jokes about the government.

Afterward, we sat on the edge of the porch as a light rain begin, him playing the harmonica, me content with a full belly.  Howell told me about his friends in the institution, close friends.  Got in a lot of trouble as he grew, he had a boyfriend in a religious orphanage.  Howell ran away; boyfriend stayed.  "Won't whore anymore."

"Whore?  In an orphanage?"  I guess it happens.

"For privileges--night staff always ripped me off.  They made videos of me."

* * *

Temperature dropped as we readied to sleep.  In front of the sound of rain, "Move over, it's cold."  He shoved me over, threw his sleeping bag over me and crawled under.  Cold skin of his chest pressed against my back.  His arm came over me.  Cold feet touched my legs.

Don't move.

Couldn't sleep for my guilt.  "Sorry to hit you.  I'm touchy about some things."

"Still hurts that much?"

Why did he keep stabbing me with his questions?  "Shut up."

Howell wriggled closer.  Felt his breath on my neck, hand on my chest.  Felt his face on my shoulder, his hard dick on my tailbone.  Put his hand on my hard dick and shoved my boxers down.  Felt his hard cock leaking, opening my cleft.

Stopped breathing; soft hum as he pressed.  Didn't move, paused over the threshold of pain to get to the fullness, the rub.  Burn subsided; familiar expectancy burst inside me with his strokes.  
He kept mumbling as tears filled my eyes. Something broke lose inside me,  I began sobbing.

He stopped.  "Are you hurt?"

"...been so long."  Warm skin, a man's sweat, his breaths, kisses, that deep twisting tension inside.  He rolled me face down, going deeper.  Humping against the mattress, I gasped, crying long moans.  I pushed back; he pistoned; every stroke wrapped me tightly in desperation to empty myself.

Warm, sated, he began snoring.  My mind stayed awake, feeling every part of him that touched me as foreign, damp, desperately needed.  Pulled the sleeping bag over us to capture the scent of cum.

* * *

Rewound the old film of the day I lost my boy.  My boy.

Long since forgiven my mother-in-law, I should have been more careful.  She was protective.

Saturday morning, holding my son against me.  Decided it was time to give him more than a quick suck.  He came so fast, skin tasted so good--my perfect treasure.  Tiny rod I twirled around my tongue while he grabbed my ears.  Game to him--ecstasy to me.  Craved more of him every day.

Fifth grade-sized dicklet on my face....  Though I was rubbing his butt, only my one finger exploring, it was enough that we were naked together.  Wife shopped; mother-in-law arrived unexpectedly.  She saw us and left the room.

My boy and wife left while I was at work on Monday.  Came home to meet two plainclothesmen.

* * *

Waited for the birds' songs and got up, "How old are you, Howell?"  Heated water. He looked right at my face, "Sixteen."  Slow smile, "Does it matter?"

"You have to leave."

"In the rain?"

"When it stops, you gotta get out."  Couldn't look at him.  He was violating my terms of release.

Howell spent that morning gathering the tin soldiers, carefully placing them in an old box.  Threw his poncho over his head and left with the box.

Didn't come back until almost dark.

"Where've you been?"

"Librarian took photos of the soldiers, I posted them on an auction site.  Now I need a bank account, or some way to accept payment."

"I have a bank account.  We'll straighten it out tomorrow."  It had welled inside me though the day, "You can't stay--if anyone finds out, I'll have to go back."

Staring into my face for several moments, "How old was he?"

"Ten."

"You loved him?"

"More than my own life."  Had to turn away.

Long pause, "Is he okay?"

"Last time I saw him, he was smiling."  Sobbing, I went to the porch.

Howell tried to comfort me; I pushed him away.  He'd never understand.

* * *

Two days later, under clear skies, we went to the library.  Bids for twenty-three tin soldiers was up to six-hundred dollars.  I looked at the page, not much more activity, "Take that high bid.  You gotta leave."  Entered my account information.

The next day, we went back to town, my account held the money, "Get the address, we'll go to the post office."

Grabbed some real estate flyers, wrapped the figures, and bought a box.  Packed and sent the soldiers.  Back to the bank, I withdrew a thousand in twenties and fifties. "Don't thumb, take a bus."  Hurt to send him away.  He was a good kid, more worldly than most yet still held a curious, impatient tenderness about him. …

As we walked back to the bus station, "Hate it.  Having nothing to hold on to, everything's always changing...."  Howell whispered.

"You'll find your place.  I know you will."  Eyes burned as he left.  Another boy just disappeared from my life.

Took a deep breath catching whiffs of the rendering plant as I walked home alone.

* * *

Back to my stinking, decrepit life.  Howell stayed in my mind, ushering some strange fantasies, and I'd restrained myself while he was here.  Proud about that, then pride changed to disgust.  Disgust burst into anger.  Laws and terms of release warped my brain, my life, every part of me.  I'd never be able to stand up straight.

Went about my days devising a plan, considering everything I'd learned as a bookkeeper.  With some luck, with a few keystrokes I could rebuild my life under another name, in another place.  I'd never be able to completely unwarp, but I didn't have to punish myself any longer. Clearly saw myself with that thought.  I'd replicated jail with rendering stench as bars; walls of fear.  Self-loathing formed me into my own wicked warden.

* * *

Started going to the library every other day when the children were in school, left when they came in.  Reading gave me new ideas. For the holidays, I celebrated with a tin of smoked oysters.  Ate them by the light of Howell's lamp, wondering if he'd found his place.

Two more quarters; two more check-ins with my PO.

* * *

Hard winter, bitter cold, blizzard-gray days, blizzard-black nights.  Winds whistled and howled.  Warmth reliably returned; a wind-blown seed took hold, sprouted inside me as I worked the soil.  What was left of my few investments had increased steadily.  Began depleting my bank account every week by amounts that wouldn't raise red flags to the system.

* * *

Mind fixed on other things, didn't hear him rustling through the trees.

From across the meadow, "Desperado!"  Howell came running, "I borrowed a truck.  Hurry, we're going to Hobbs.  Got a job in the casino fixing the slots."

Pulled him against me, kissing his forehead, as close as we could be. "How did you know I've been thinking about you?"

"My tin soldier holds memories about you.  Never thought I'd find another man who was as lonely as I was.  Glad I found this old house and you." We held hands as we walked to the house.  "I met a guy who makes IDs.  I'm eighteen and my name's Kendall Dailey now."  He winked.

Chuckled, "Kendall Dailey?  Sounds good."  I kissed his lips, mind spinning.

Old rucksack held my cash, tin soldier, so few things.  I slung it over my shoulder, handed Mr. Kendall Dailey a box of kitchen matches.  "Been dry for almost a week now.  Disappear Dade and his prison."

Stench of the rendering plant was overwhelmed by the smell of a burning shack, then the grasslands as we left for Hobbs.