The Alexia Chronicles

THE INITIAL AFTERMATH

Alexia Township’s small City Hall usually was a laid-back, friendly place where its few employees recognized comers, goers, even passers-by. Greetings this day were subdued, an uncharacteristic mood.

The office of Mayor Clayton A., unable to accommodate eight concerned citizens, all men, was closed. Open, however, was the adjacent meeting room lined with gray file cabinets and, in its center, someone’s former dining room table, nicely polished to bring out its mahogany grain, with chairs for eight. Eight men drifted in, looking forlorn, to shake hands solemnly before taking places. They knew one another fairly-to-really well. One, Joshua S., had to stand until one of the hallway’s old ladderback chairs could be dragged in for him. At the head of the table, Alexia’s Mayor, already intent on pouring coffee into paper cups. Offering to all a plastic plate heaped with sugar cookies (half a pecan neatly atop each) baked by his assistant, Mellie P. (who was nowhere to be seen), he sat, finally.

“Fellows, we all know why we’re here, so let’s get down to it. It was inevitable. We all knew that, but we never planned for it. So what are we going to do? Who’s got ideas?”

*

It wasn’t a meeting of the Town Council nor a Town Hall for one-and-all but an unofficial ad-hoc gathering of concerned dads. Considered the worse thing since Alexia’s water tank had sprung an irreparable leak years before (necessarily replaced at great cost) – a recent event had come and gone with suitable fanfare and appropriate decorum: the death and obsequies of the Hon. Clarence D., the community’s champion of clean living by teenage boys. Thanks to his many years on the bench and uncountable hours of time and attention donated extra-curricularly, local juvenile delinquency virtually had been eradicated.

The place, Alexia – unremarkable, honest, and calm – lay off State Road 33c. It seldom attracted visitors, having no landmarks of note. While its sluggish economy was nothing to boast about, the fact that, in ages, there had not been a single unwanted teen pregnancy, no vandalism at all, little drunkenness, no vagrancy, nor any break-ins by teens, and a remarkably low rate of truancy from school by teen boys occasionally caught the attention of those in Capital City who kept track of and generated statistics. What nuisances they could be, snooping around and wanting to know about the methods behind ALEXIA CARES, the town’s quiet program for combatting adolescent male misbehavior.

More than once, after pro forma meetings with the Mayor and Alexia High School’s reticent principal, Orson C., State inspectors found themselves confronting Judge Clarence. His facile smile and easy-going manner disarmed them initially. “ALEXIA CARES is simple,” the judge would tell them. “When one of our boys, usually around the age of fifteen, begins to show signs of developing troublemaker tendencies, we involve him in intensive after-school activities and therapies,” he would say. “Our strictly private, small group meetings, often of just two boys, win confidences. Then we work together on their problems. It’s all about behavioral betterment.”

“Are parents present?”

Indignant, he would spout to the room at large, “Certainly not. What use would they be?”

“But what about consent?”

Getting huffy, Judge Clarence would reply, “It’s in every report.” An eyebrow cocked, he would add, voice low, “You should read them.” Clearing his throat audibly, he was likely to continue, “Boys are referred to me by their fathers. They endorse ALEXIA CARES wholeheartedly…” – each syllable stressed – “…because they know their sons’ confidences are never betrayed. Now if you people will clear out of here, I’ve got work to do.” Looking up, he would spout, “And no, I’m not giving you any examples. You people remember anything about attorney-client privileges? The boys are my clients, not their folks.”

Typically, he would wipe his mouth (reminiscently) and lift his gavel as if in threat. A hard judicial stare followed those exiting.

*

This background was in the minds of the men gathered to ponder Alexia’s immediate future.

“I can’t answer your question yet, Mr. Mayor,” Daniel (known now as Big Dan) G. said. “There’s too much going on in my head. It’s not just about my farm. I’m worried about my boy.”

“Something wrong with Little Dan?” Alexia High’s principal, Orson C., asked. “He’s been okay at School, I think.”

“Why, he only just got started with the judge. Two times was all he had. Kid’s all tore up, emotional-like, you know. It’s pitiful.”

Big Dan would have gone on about how Little Dan wanted the treatments, really wanted them, but Bradley (Brad) R. interrupted.

“And what about Maybelle’s son Larry? Larry, you know, or should, went to the judge after Maybelle asked him for help. Poor boy with no dad to look after his interests the way a dad should, you know, with the Judge. Larry was right keen, I think. Judge Clarence was real nice about it. Said for Larry to drop by and ask him about getting through puberty. Never even got the chance. My Lew’s more or less okay, what with nearly a year behind him. Got him circumcised in time, and the Judge took over. I think Lew’ll manage.”

As he watched Brad lean over for another sugar cookie, Big Dan, his mind on his son, said ruefully, “That damn heart attack.”

Mayor Clayton A., not drawn in by Big Dan’s last remark, blurted, “How come Maybelle knew to ask that? I thought we men kept a tight lid on this thing,” He leaned forward, annoyed.

“Remember, Jory Beau’s family’s related to Maybelle’s. I heard it was him, Jory Beau, that told her – not the details, of course, but how great the judge was with him and his teenage problems.” Smug as usual, Mark C. settled back, his contribution made.

“Oh. Jory Beau. Our fine athlete. Is he still at Capital City College?” The Mayor displayed a different kind of interest. A couple of pairs of ears thought he murmured, “Mmm…mmm.”

“Yep,” it was Gerald B. who answered. “He and my Junior are rooming together. Second year. Doing well, too. Sports and the rest. Let’s face it, the judge got us all through that phase when we might have strayed. He was the authority figure we all looked up to. You could say he was thirsty to help us.”

No one laughed.

Briefly, silence filled the room. Briefly.

A commotion in the hallway stopped others who were about to ante their two cents’ worth. Somebody was calling the Mayor’s name. It turned out to be Gerald B.’s older brother Thomas B. from Sheraton and, from Hope, Rick J., the Sheriff, cowboy hat in his hand, shiny badge on his shirt, and holstered pistol at his side. A fine appearance. Tall, too. Over six feet.

Everybody shook hands with the newcomers. Two more ladderback hairs were dragged in from just outside the door.

Thomas took a deep breath and spoke his half-planned piece, “Since I grew up here in Alexia and enjoyed both a good education and the guidance by Judge Clarence I received, and since my work takes me frequently back and forth between Sheraton and Hope where my friend Rick here oversees how things work there, I thought he might be a useful resource to you guys, so I invited him to sit in with us. Hope that’s all right with everyone.” He settled back, breathing deep from his exertion, and scanning the audience.

Consensus, while quiet, was reached. The floor belonged to Sheriff Rick. A confidant cuss of a guy. The sort known as a Good Ol’ Boy. Movie star material maybe, once.

“Hope, where I grew up, is a farmin’ community like Alexia. We never had anyone like your Judge Clarence but we do have a tradition that stretches quite a way back.  We know that boys, like carefully grown crops, need to be harvested regular-like. Seeded, too – don’t want to forget that. Anyway, because we’re so close to Capital City, it’s an easy drive from there to Hope. On weekends particularly, gentlemen drive into town and go around the square, you know, where the Confederate statue is, lookin’ to see who’s hanging out. Usually, there’s quite a few or at least several boys. Now, I know ’em and I’m lookin’ out for ’em. By that, I mean the gentlemen and the boys. It’s my job to preserve the peace.”

When the Sheriff paused to reflect on a memory, Jeb F., who had listened carefully, folded his hands and asked, “Can you tell us how you got into that?”

“Sure thing. Old Sheriff Bob took me under his wing and kind of brought me up to be his successor. Wait a second. Let me back up. When I was about get into some teenage messes, he noticed. Really took ahold of me, gave me personal attention and, uh, physical training.”

His point registered.

“Stuck with me you might say, then looked out for me. Tended to me like I was his crop. When the time was right, he helped direct me toward the Police Academy, later hired me as a rookie to help him patrol Hope, made me his deputy and, when time came for him to retire those years ago, led the campaign to get me elected.” He smiled broadly, “I’m in my second four-year term. Doin’ great.”

Jeb thanked him and wondered if Hope’s tradition of seeing to growing boys’ needs began with Sheriff Bob.

“Probably, but that was way before I entered the picture. Nobody talks about that, leastwise out loud. But most of the families understand what goes on. I'll give you an example.” He adjusted his chair slightly while he thought how to put what he was going to say. Turning to Thomas, he muttered a question few could hear.

His friend nodded, “You can be straight with these guys, Rick. Excepting our Police Chief, who’s got the flu, and the Chairman of the Board of Education, who’s got family issues I’ve heard about (with his daughter), most of the men who count are here – seven of ’em have boys – and they want to hear from you. Principal Orson’s concerned about keeping the boys’ schoolwork up. We do face a problem.”

There was a pause. Sheriff Rick was thinking further. A sugar cookie helped. Coffee sips, too.

“Feel free to be direct, please,” the Mayor indicated with a finger. To him and the others, Sheriff Rick’s coming story might hold something useful for Alexia. “Don’t hold anything back.”

“Well, it’s like this. Rollin and Tony, two of those Capital City gents – I don’t remember their last names – doesn’t matter – well, they rolled into town on a Sunday night when most folks were at home. I was the only person on the square, just walkin’ around checkin’ on the shops, makin’ sure all were locked up. They spotted me and waved. ‘Where’s everybody?’ Rollin wanted to know as we were shakin’ hands and I was sayin’ hello to Tony. Known ’em a couple of years. Nice, fair guys. So I tell ’em nobody’s around here because the Fairfax Theater’s closed for repairs. They wanted some action. I thought about it for a bit.”

Jeb filled the pause with, “And?”…

“And…I pointed down the road leading out of town. Asked if they knew where Rod and Doug lived. Rollin did. He verified it was a peelin’-paint farmhouse – actually, it looks kinda gray – with a red mailbox out front. ‘That’s the one,’ I said. ‘Drive out and see if they’re home.’ About an hour later, I was sitting outside Vic’s Diner in my car watching nothin’ particular go by when the guys pulled up to thank me. Seems the brothers’ folks were sittin’ on the porch and recognized Rollin. Monica – she’s their mother – asked if it was her boys they’d come to see. Rollin allowed as how it was. She said they were in the barn with Elgin – only kid in town with a ponytail – so to go on back.”

“Then what?”

“Jeb, don’t rush the man,” cautioned the mayor, all ears.

“Seems Rod was heading up toward the house, a big lump in his Sunday jeans, so he and Rollin talked about taking a ride. Elgin was up in the hayloft with Doug. You know, messing around the way big boys do with skinny ones. But, Rod thought they could get Chad, whose ‘pressure was likely built up.’ And that’s what happened.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Out to one of the fields. Rod and Chad got syphoned real well, leaning back on Rollin’s VW, and Rollin got Rod to bend for him. Browned that boy good. Of course, I checked that they’d given ’em a little pocket money for their trouble. Always do that. Keeps everybody friendly-like.”

Stunned faces looked at him. Money!

“It ain’t like what you’re thinkin’ if you’re thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin’. It’s like a thank-you. A tip. Plus, when we’re raising money for something in town, those sorts of guys always chip in. Pays to have good relations with Capital City folk. Smart, y’know, with good connections in high places.”

In the distance, a phone rang. “Don’t worry about that. Mellie’ll get it.”

Heels clattered on the hall’s linoleum.

“Uh-oh, something’s up.”

Mellie, about to knock, was surprised when the door opened just as her knuckles rose.

“Were you going to strike an officer of the law?” the handsome Sheriff smiled.

“Oh…ah…umm…” Mellie’s knees went weak. “No,” she finally said. “It’s a call….”

She didn’t get to finish because Sheriff Rick kissed her on the cheek and told her how delicious her cookies were. “Just what we needed for this discussion. Could we have some more hot coffee, though? Ours is cooling down.”

A voice any deeper and a smile any wider would have melted Mellie on the spot. But, being a pro, she composed herself. “Yes, right away, but you ought to know Roxana thinks all of you ought to come over to the judge’s house. She’s straightening things up like we told her but, after packing the kitchen and cleaning up, doesn’t want responsibility for his bedroom or personal stuff – closets and the like.”

On full alert, the Mayor declared, “Forget the coffee, Mellie. Men, we gotta get over there. You probably don’t know,” he said to Sheriff Rick, “Judge Clarence left everything to the Township of Alexia, so we’re putting the place up for sale.”

No one tarried. The room emptied quickly. Everyone high-tailed it in their cars to see what the housekeeper, a tiny Costa Rican lady who worked half-days for several families, had found – or did not want to find.

It was the judge’s musty closet of clothes and keepsakes: baseball caps, mismatched socks, once-odorous jock straps, photocopies of report cards, a comb missing a few teeth, and on and on. The oddest, a small, shriveled rubber band-looking circlet or ring. Brad R. knew what it was, his Lew’s foreskin, but kept his mouth shut while they filtered through albums of printed memorabilia, notes and postcards, stuff that stretched back to some of them, the present-day dads – such as birthday and Christmas photos, graduation pictures. On the sly, Brad filched the preserved foreskin as a souvenir for Lew.

“Why, there’s me,” Gerald said, “and you,” he handed over a cap-and-gown headshot of his brother similar to the one of himself just recognized.

“I gave him one of those, too.” Brad reached for another album. “Maybe it’s in here. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”

“Long as you’ve got your hands on those albums, go through each page. If everything’s copacetic, we’ll put them in the Alexia Archives,” determined Mayor Clayton A. “They’re historic by now.”

While Brad rifled pages, Orson C. rummaged on the closet’s highest shelf, asking aloud if there was “a box of Polaroids” someplace. “I heard there was.”

“Oh shit, there was,” Jeb said. “We gotta find that. He had one of the first SX-70s. The only one in town. It was fantastic. He took a lot of Polaroids of me and Maddox and Lurleen’s husband, what’s-his-name.”

“Lester, was it, or George?” someone offered the question.

“George!”

Being taller than any of the others, Sheriff Rick volunteered to rummage further back on that shelf. “Found something. Feels like a shoebox but it’s too heavy for shoes. I’ll get it.”

The very box – in which interest ran high as it was dragged by one finger from hiding. Sheriff Rick’s tug caused a weak side to give way. Photos literally cascaded as if from a cliff.

Dust motes flew.

Hands grabbed wildly. “Dicks!” and “Oh, lordy!” and “Damn” filled the air.

Sheriff Rick glanced at a few and turned them over. “Seems like the names are on the back and the dates.”

“What?” and “Oh, no!” and “Hell’s bells!” added clamor.

The Mayor decided, “Let’s put ’em all back in the box and, Sheriff, you please take it out back to the barbeque pit and burn the lot. Ask Roxana for some matches and a few old newspapers.”

Expressions flexed every which way as the Polaroids were handed over in haste – all but one.

“This one’s me, and I’m going to keep it,” so-far-taciturn Joshua S. said.

The Mayor wanted to know, “Whatever for?”

“Sentimental reasons.” It went with a flourish into Joshua’s shirt pocket. Under his breath, he added, “That was the day he diagnosed my ‘clogged vesicles’.”

“Holy crap,” Mark C. said under his breath. “What about these things?” He was suddenly proactive in going through the bedside table’s drawers. “They aren’t exactly heirlooms.”

All eyes went to a range of mail order objects in several sizes – dildos, plugs, lubes, condoms, vibrators, batteries, an open packet of soft paper napkins, another of baby wipes, and some well-squeezed tubes of emollients. A few worn-out emery boards. Half of one blue pill.

Orson gaped, “He didn’t use to have these things, not back when….”

“Let’s not go mushy here. Anybody want this stuff?” the Mayor asked. Staring eyes greeted his. “All right, get a trash bag from Roxana. I’ll see to dropping it in the dumpster back of City Hall.”

They noticed Sheriff Rick coming from the backyard, dusting his hands, the job evidently done. “I’ll wash up,” he said as he headed for the bathroom. “Anybody been through the medicine cabinet in here?”

Mark made a dash, “Let me.”

He and the Sheriff could be heard arguing, but no one wanted to get involved. So what if their pockets got stuffed with a few meds? Or whatnot? There were other closets to check, drawers in a highboy, a cedar chest. Fortunately, nothing out of the ordinary. The guest room was practically empty. Except for dust and dead bugs, nothing was found behind the paperback and hardbound occupants of the judge’s regular bookshelves. His copy of Shakespeare’s plays was the subject of slight notice. His dining and living room furnishings, too, produced nothing of note. All the clothing could go to the Salvation Army. A yard sale would take care of the furnishings. Progress was being made – safely.

The afternoon waned. Sheriff Rick had to leave for Hope. “My job, you know.” Hands were shaken all around. “I can come back next week if it’d help.”

Everybody agreed that, nothing having been settled about ALEXIA CARES’ future, another meeting would be in order.

“Our civic duty,” a voice was heard to say.

“What about my Little Dan and Maybelle’s Larry?” Big Dan worried, less under his breath than the Mayor’s patience could take.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Daniel, you and Brad tell ’em to take matters in hand, and hand ’em a jar of Vaseline. They can help each other. It’d be a start in the right direction for their age. Remind ’em it’s what Judge Clarence called ‘a dairy job – milking’.”

Nobody batted an eyelash.

Anxious to get away, the Mayor tossed in, “Tell Maybelle Larry’ll be fine for now. Not to worry. She’s a nice Mom.”

With farewells and cash payment to Roxana, who was winding up her day’s work, the men headed toward where their cars were parked, and waved as the Sheriff drove away in his spiffy white sedan with its gold star in a circle and the name Hope at the top and the title Sheriff at the bottom.

No one had any idea that, beneath the passenger-side front seat there reposed the Hon. Clarence D.’s shoebox filled with Polaroids.

*

Gerald turned suddenly from his car and called to his brother, “Thomas, got a minute?”

“Sure.”

They neared, stood close.

“How is it you know Sheriff Rick?”

“My business takes me between our towns a lot.”

“Of course, I know that, but how’d you link up with him?”

Thomas hesitated, looked directly at Gerald, and slowly said, “I must get a little old-fashioned action every now and then. He hooks me up.”

“Oh, I didn’t, y’know, know that.” Flummoxed between feeling embarrassed and curious, Gerald twinged in a way he had not in a long time. His question, not having been answered directly, lingered in the rear of his mind. This seemed an unlikely occasion to pursue the matter.

“Don’t worry about it.” Thomas smiled indulgently, “Only a bit of fun now and then. You should try it yourself.”

His own brother! Senior’s eyes rolled.

*

All the way back to Hope, Sheriff Rick’s mind turned as fast as his official wheels. That old judge… All that reputation and recognition... A legend in his own time and now… Sure-fire tradition, what with everybody standing up for him and their women knowing it was a good thing... And look at what I do for little or nothing. Jesus, what’s a guy like me supposed to do? Re-election’s not that far away… Got to get myself some recognition….

As he drove, he struggled for an idea. When one hit, Sheriff Rick pulled over at the sign for Pearl’s Food Mart & Gas. Pearl’s motto beneath always made folks smile, even Rick on a day such as this: Food First, Gas Later.

Wind chimes against the door were Pearl’s signal to holler from wherever she was, “Hang on. Be there in a minute.” In seconds, the Men’s Room door revealed her with mop and bucket in hand.

“Son of a bitch, it’s you, you bastard. Where you been and what’re you doin’ in that outfit?” Pearl was always direct.

Rick grinned like a pumpkin. “Put that stuff down and c’mere, girl.”

Down went mop and bucket. Pearl, her trademark smile broadening, shouldered her way past the racked bags of cheesy snacks, potato chips, over-sweet candies, shelves of canned Vienna sausages and potted meat, boxes of crackers, stacks of energy-drink six-packs, and misplaced baby wipes.  They hugged and kissed smack on the mouth. Opened, for old time’s sake. Least they could do.

“Hmm…pretty fair for a man I heard had gone over to the other side.”

“Hell, I’m on the other side of the law now. See my badge?”

“Who could miss it?”

“Show some respect for the law – and slip me some more tongue.”

“Well….”

“Umm…your butt’s still nice, too,” Rick’s baritone never failed in its effect.

“You ain’t had none of it since….”

“I know, not since me and Sheriff Bob had to run you out of town. Nothin’ personal. Just politics.”

“So y’all said.”

With one hand, Pearl felt below Rick’s wide belt; with the other, around his behind. “Still packed. You always were. Nice in a man.” Admiration for his anatomy did not stop her adding, “That tin-horn Bob was all into this, wasn’t he?” A pat to his pants’ back seam and a rub to his fly in front, she stepped away to look the old Sheriff’s former deputy up and down. “I don’t blame him. You was hot stuff.”

“Pearl, my job was on the line. Had to keep Bob happy. And I’m the Sheriff now. Can’t afford to mess around with the ladies.”

“So you shag Hope boys?”

“That’s different. They can’t get pregnant.”

“Sit your ass at the counter. We’ll have some fresh coffee.”

During the next half-hour, as they sipped her scalding, muddy brew, Rick learned Pearl was “more or less” happy living in her trailer “just out back.” Certainly, she had known of his election. She knew about Judge Clarence – “Honey, who didn’t?” – as well as “the pickle Alexia’s in.” She heard “all the gossip from all around.”

Seeing how interested he was, she went on, “Everybody’s pick-ups stop here goin’ and comin.’ Weekends when the farmer’s markets are open all around and the roadside trade’s good, lots of the ladies are along for the ride and need to pee. You want some apple pie?”

“Who made it?”

“How the hell should I know? Bought it at the damn Sheraton Grocery Store.”

“Long as you keep talkin’ and tell me some stuff I can use. See, I’ve got problems.”

Once Pearl caught on, she came up with pretty good ideas about a “collaboration.”

Rick listened, then remembered the box of photos he had swiped from Alexia. “If you’ll hide for me, uh, let’s call it ‘some evidence’ I’ve gathered and can’t have in Hope, say under the counter or any place safe you can think of, I’ll see what I can do. Hang on, like you say, and I’ll get it.”

He did. Pearl riffled through, whistling a few times and making grunts now and again. “I believe I’ve known a few of those dicks.” I was their first woman when they was straightening out. She fetched a strong box labeled RAT POISON. DO NOT TOUCH. “They’ll be safe in here.” And they kissed again.

My other stories on this wondrously free site:

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Cosmo_Lulu_22150.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Hiram_RandyJames_22209.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Ting_and_The_Jefe_22134.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Gerald_Jr_the_Judge_22151.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Douglas_in_residence_22188.html

My erotic novel available from Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/Young-Edwin-Eros-Art-Cooper/dp/0692056823