dontravis.com
blog post #381
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| State Spotlights Courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net |
Sorry,
guys and gals, I tried to get it down to a single installment but couldn’t do
it. Interesting thing: By far the most hits I got last week came from Hong
Kong, and that’s not unusual. I generally have a bunch from that part of the
world. The astonishing thing was that they were followed by Turkmenistan. Both exceeded
the number of hits from the US. For those who are interested, I generally
receive 5,000 to 7,500 hits a month. Not great, but not bad, either.
At
any rate, let’s get on with the saga of Jarrod Gray, student lighting director
for Casa Verde College’s Drama Club.
*****
THE
DRAMA CLUB
Part 2 – The Stagehand (First Installment)
Great
to be back home! It was true. Casa Verde College was more of a home than…well,
home. This place, with its Drama Club and Thespian Hall, was where Jarrod Gray
was most comfortable. Not a people person, Jarrod totally submerged himself in
the Drama Club, where the inhabitants were at least tolerable because their passion
was his passion… the theater. Most liked to be on stage, but Jarrod preferred
to be behind the scenes as the lighting wizard. And now he was back for his
sophomore year!
The
long summer vacation, made bearable by a little summer stock, didn’t come close
to filling his need for Thespian Hall. Jarrod had spent his freshman year
improving the lighting boards and the spots and the curtain controls lurking in
the catwalks above the stage. He’d proved so dedicated that Ms. Atherton, the
drama coach, had given him a key.
He
used it now to enter the back of the building, experiencing a tingle down his
spine as he walked across the deserted stage and pulled himself hand-over-hand
up a rope to survey his world of catwalks and superstructure. Everything was
just as he’d left it. Even the mattress, easy chair, small fridge, and hot
plate. Those items plus the bathroom in the corner made this place a second
home.
Eventually,
the call went out for the first meeting of the Drama Club, meaning everyone
taking drama classes plus the theatrical vocational students. Jarrod took a
seat at the back of the small crowd in the front seats at the Thespian to look
over the people he’d be working with this year while Mrs. Atherton announced
the three plays the club would perform this school year. Jarrod recognized most
from last semester and took note of one or two new faces. One was an Oriental who
was a transfer from some other school. Kahn Something-Unpronouncable looked
about sixteen, but must have been older, because he was introduced as a senior
in the TheVoc program. Sets and scenery were his thing. He was a stagehand like
Jarrod. That was okay, stagehands were usually good people. For some reason,
Jarrod was pleased when Kahn emerged as set manager. After the regular meeting,
Ms. Atherton detained three or four of the TheVoc people to discuss the first
play, a drama that would require a lot of lighting changes and a different set
for each of the three acts. Kahn promised sketches in two weeks. There was
little Jarrod could do until then except familiarize himself with the play.
Regardless
of whether he had work to do in the control booth, Jarrod always got to the
theater early. The day following the club meeting, he was surprised to find
Kahn in the theater before him armed with clipboard, pencils, ruler, and
measuring tape. In a spirit of cooperation, Jarrod volunteered to hold one end
of the tape so Kahn could take more accurate measurements.
“Vietnamese
with Chinese ancestry,” the boy answered Jarrod’s question as he made notes on
his papers. “But I was born in California. Folks got out after the end of the
war.”
“Then
you’re American,” Jarrod corrected, earning a quick smile in return.
“Yeah,
but that’s not the answer they want to hear.”
“Who
wants to hear?”
“Whoever
asks that question.”
Later
in his aerie, Jarrod looked down at the slight figure as he moved around the
stage, looking, examining, planning. Kahn was deceptive. His fine bones and
five-foot eight frame made him appear small, but from his loft Jarrod could see
that the stagehand’s shoulders were as wide as his own. The chest was full,
tapering quickly to a waist smaller than some of the girls in the club. He
moved with a lithe grace that reminded the lighting technician of a feline. Jarrod
found himself thinking about some of the gymnastics that took place on the mattress
last semester.
A
few days later, Jarrod looked down and saw Kahn’s lonely figure sitting on the
edge of the stage reading something, the perfect picture of dejection. Finding
some imaginary task below, Jarrod lowered himself by rope and walked across the
boards.
“Hi,
Kahn! What’s up?”
The
youth looked over his shoulder, startled. “Oh, jus’ readin’ letter. Not so goo’
news.”
“Sorry.
Wanna talk about it?”
“No’
righ’ now,” Kahn said.
Jarrod
stared at the kid. When did he acquire an accent? “Sorry.”
“You
know where I am if you need to talk.”
An
hour later Kahn ascended to the loft the same way Jarrod often did,
hand-over-hand up a rope, his face sour, unhappy. “You mean it, ‘bout tal’?”
“Sure.
Sit down. Bad news?”
“My
girl. We go togetha two year. She write, say she gotta marry this man. Family
fin’ ‘im for ‘er.”
“Is
that a cultural thing? I mean finding husbands for girls?”
Kahn’s
head bobbed. “Sometime amon’ older folk. Yes, yes.”
“Damn,
Kahn,” Jarrod said without thinking. “You sound like you just came over on the
boat.”
“Sorry.
I get all excited, I talk like my parents do, I guess.”
“Look,
do you love this girl?”
“Yes.
And she love…uh, loves me. We want get marrie’ someday.”
“Maybe
she’ll change her mind.”
His
new friend’s face fell, destroying the myth of the inscrutable Oriental. “Too
late. She mar’ las’ week.”
“Oh,
man, I’m sorry! Look, you have any friends you can hang with? Any other
Vietnamese on the campus?”
Khan
shook his head.
“Well, you’ve got one friend right here. Whata
you wanta do? Bowl? Drink? Find some girls?”
“No.
Don’ wanna do that, ‘cep’ drink, maybe.”
So
Jarrod found himself in a beer joint that evening with a despondent Asian bent
on getting drunk. Getting drunk was all right, but getting stinking drunk was
something else. He hauled a protesting and surprisingly strong Kahn out of the
Pickled Parrot at one in the morning. Fortunately, neither of them had classes
on Saturday.
“Don’
wanna go home. Don’ wan’ roo’mate see Kahn all drunk!”
“We
can’t go to my place. My roommate’s there. We’ll go to the Thes.”
“Clos’,”
Kahn staggered against him and pushed off, launching himself down the street. Jarrod,
who had his own buzz going, managed to get him into his fifteen-year-old Chevy
and pulled out of the parking lot without damaging anything of material value.
“Key,”
he belatedly answered Kahn. “I got a key.”
“Ho
kay!” Kahn burped softly.
Neither
of them could manage the rope, and the ladder didn’t look likely, so Jarrod
loaded them into the freight elevator. Kahn headed straight for the mattress
and almost went over the edge to the stage thirty feet below. Jarrod managed to
catch him around the waist and haul him back to safety. The feel of warm flesh
against his body sobered him instantly. He hung onto the unresisting Kahn a
moment or two longer than necessary.
“You
okay?” he asked to delay things. He wondered if Kahn could feel his growing
excitement.
“Yes…
ho kay,” Kahn mumbled. “Baf room!” he squawked. Jarrod led him to the small
room and waited outside the door until Kahn emerged, his face washed and seeming
a little less stupified.
“Lie
down on the mattress. I’ve got a couple of blankets. You can spend the night
here.”
“You
go?” the stagehand asked, blinking rapidly, as if trying to focus.
“I
can stay if you want.” He gave a little laugh. “Make sure you don’t fall off.”
Kahn
didn’t answer, merely flopped on the mattress.
“Let’s
make you comfortable,” Jarrod said through a tight throat. He reached down and
unbuttoned the boy’s shirt, pulling it out of his trousers. What he saw made
him dizzy.
Kahn’s
upper body was phenomenal. A heavy chest divided into two distinct pads, each
crowned with a large black areole. Dark skin with a slight golden cast. Carbon
black eyes shrouded by a fold of flesh at the corners studied Jaron seriously.
With
a sob of desire, Jarrod fell to his knees and lowered his head. The left nipple
rose as he sucked it. Kahn’s hand caressed the back of his head.
“Kim…she
like do tha’. Oh Kim! Kimmie!” The chest heaved; a sob escaped the boy. “Ohhhh!”
The moan startled Jarrod.
Jarrod
dragged his lips across that wide torso and found the other nipple. At length,
he left that one and licked the center of the chest, feeling the boy’s heart
thud beneath the flesh. His hands fumbled with the boy’s buckle and fly. Kahn
lay like a log, giving him no assistance.
“Jarro’? Jarro’? Wha’ you do me? Ohhh! Jarro’!
Don’!”
Kahn’’s
voice died away as Jarrod lowered his head, only to begin moaning again. It was
almost a mantra. Jarrod wondered if it was.
The
climax came suddenly, explosively. Kahn took a few deep gasps and then slept.
Jarrod
sat on the edge of the mattress, his head resting on his drawn knees for a long
while as he watched his naked friend sleep. The fine oriental features were
handsome, almost pretty in repose. Every part of him was well formed and
shapely. Jarrod decided Kahn had been a gymnast in high school. He didn’t know
anything else that would build muscle tissue in exactly that way. The boy was
beautiful, was his final verdict before he restored the clothing and covered
the inert form with a blanket. Then he stretched out to sleep.
The
next morning Kahn was gone. Alarmed, Jarrod peered over the edge to the stage
below but found no crumpled body. Breathing easier, he went to his dorm to
clean up.
*****
Do you get the feeling
Jarrod feels differently about Kahn than he did the jock in the first story? I
do. And maybe that’s why it takes more than one installment to tell Kahn’s
story. At any rate, bear with me.. and Jarrod.
Until next week.
The following are buy
links for the recently released The Voxlightner Scandal.
Barnes
& Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-voxlightner-scandal-don-travis/1132632844?ean=9781640809260
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!
My
personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting
remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE
THAT ONE.)
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Buy
links to Abaddon’s Locusts:
See
you next week.
Don
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