dontravis.com
blog post #530
Hope everyone had a good and safe Christmas. Thanks for your comments on Happy the Elf.
Today, let's get the first part of a tale about a youth with the unfortunate name of Widget--Widget Jackson--and see how his name influenced his story. Enjoy.
WIDGET
JACKSON
I don’t have a problem with
that. Well, I do on occasion, but not a major one. My big problem is
named Roger. Roger Redding, to be precise. You see, I’m hung up on the guy in a
serious way, and I doubt I even register on his radar… much less gaydar, if he
has any. Probably doesn’t know my name. Well, in a town this size, he knows
that much about me but not much more. You see, he’s physical—as in jock—while
I’m more mental. Don’t get me wrong, he’s bright enough, but his tastes run
more to footballs, basketballs, baseballs, and the like, while mine seem to
center on his.
Come to think of it, he had
three names too… at least for me. Roger the Handsome, Roger the Sexy, and Roger
the Unapproachable. All spot on. Some good-looking guys are bland, you know, pleasing
to look at but don’t raise the blood pressure. And we’ve all known plain
looking guys who get under your skin, stir the blood. Roger’s one of those
spectacularly handsome youths who make you think of the bedroom or the back
seat of a car or the local men’s room or anywhere you can be alone with
him. I would be alone with him in the middle of a crowd if he wanted me to.
Then came the glorious day
that Roger the Magnificent’s car broke down. I know that’s an odd way to put
it, but that’s me… odd. One Sunday afternoon, I was on the way back from the
lake after some alone time along the shore during summer break when I rounded a
curve in my old Rambler and saw a car with the hood up. I recognized that Chevy
Impala. It was Roger’s. His old man had bought a new one last year and gave the
old one to his son. Relying on an ancient Rambler for transportation
necessitated that I be handy with a wrench. Accordingly, I pulled up behind the
Impala and parked. As I got out of the car, I saw the unbelievably handsome
head of Roger the Faultless look around the car. A spot of dirty oil had the
temerity to mar his flawless forehead. But even that looked rakish on him.
“Trouble?” I asked.
“Hi, Jackson. You know anything
about car engines?”
Wow! He did know my name, at
least my family name. “Enough to keep this old Rambler running. What’s the
problem?”
He swiped his forehead with a muscular
forearm, smearing the smudge. “Damned if I know.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Be my guest.”
Crap, why couldn’t I come up
with suave comments like that? Obediently, I stuck my head under the hood, but
my first good look was at his lower extremities since my eyes were hidden from
his gaze. Nothing wrong with what I saw.
I recovered my senses, and
started tracing and testing wires from here to there like I did on my rambler.
Of course, the Impala was different… it was ruled by computers while my Rambler
didn’t even know what one was.
“Get in and try to start it,”
I said in as manly and masterful a voice as I could manage.
Obeying my
instructions—imagine that paragon of macho following my instructions—he crawled
in and made it easy for me. The starter dragged for a few seconds and then went
to clicking.
“You been having trouble
starting the car?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s been a little
balky.”
“Your starter’s gone.” I
frowned. “Did the car die on you while you were driving?”
He dropped his gaze. “Uh… naw.
I pulled over to take a leak.”
Oh my lord! A few minutes
earlier, and I might have been able to behold that awesome sight.
“And then it wouldn’t start.”
“Right.”
“I can give you a lift to the
auto parts store.”
“Thanks, but what do I do
then? Maybe I oughta call for a tow.”
“I can probably install it for
you.”
“For real? Thanks, man.”
Man! He called me a man. Well,
probably not. Just a jock term of address.
Shortly thereafter, Roger’s
shapely butt was planted in my driver’s side seat as we headed to town. I might
not let anyone else sit in that seat ever.
At the auto parts store, we
waited while a man fussed around in a big book before poking on his computer
for a few minutes. Then he walked away and came back holding a Chevy Impala
starter in a box. Roger whipped out a credit card—imagine that, a credit
card of his own—and we were on our way back to the stalled car.
“Don’t you need tools?” he
asked.
I liked it when he looked
at me… gave me substance.
I nodded to the back of the
Rambler. “Every tool I own’s back there.”
Once we reached his crippled
car, I dragged out my toolbox and went to work. For an hour I felt like the
king of the world. Roger the Handsome snapped to, handing me this tool or that
one on order. And he stood close, watching what I did, which gave me a dozen—a
hundred—satisfying glances at his buffed form… his buffed lower form.
That was the shortest hour of
my lifetime. Long before I was ready, the starter was in place, he fired the
engine, and it caught. Purring like it was rearing to go.
He got out of the Impala as I
slammed the hood. His broad smile turned my knees watery.
“You’ve got magic in your
fingers, Widge.” He did know my name. “What do I owe you?”
I held up my hands. “Nothing.”
“Aw, come on. It would have
cost me a fortune.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want your money, Roger.”
Jeez,
I feel for the guy. Have you ever worshiped someone from afar, especially as a
youth? It can be excruciating, can’t it? Well, Widge has his foot in the door
now. Let’s see next week if he can wedge something else in, as well.
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