Lucky guy, you. Aren’t you glad you didn’t die?
Hen, I’m never going to die. I promised myself that on my death-bed. It’s just too wonderful to be alive.
You said it. I say, George, let’s fool them all and live forever, what?
Herbie got up to make the fire, then crawled back into bed and began chuckling and cooing.
What do we do now? I asked. Lie here till the bell rings?
Exactly, said Herbie.
I say, Hen, wait till you taste those corn muffins his mother makes. They melt in your mouth.
How do you like your eggs? said Herbie. Boiled, fried or scrambled?
Any old way, Herbie. Who gives a damn? Eggs are eggs. I can suck them raw too.
The bacon, Hen, that’s the thing. Thick as your thumb.
Thus the second day began, to be followed by a dozen more, all of the same tenor. As I said before, we were twenty-two or three at the time, and still in our adolescence. We had nothing on our minds but play. Each day it was a new game, full of hair-raising stunts. To take the lead, as George had put it, was as easy as drawing one’s breath. Between times we skipped rope, threw quoits, rolled marbles, played leap-frog. We even played tag. In the toilet, which was an outhouse, we kept a chess board on which a problem was always waiting for us. Often the three of us took a shit together. Strange conversations in that out-house! Always some fresh tidbit about George’s mother, what she had done for him, what a saint she was, and so on. Once he started to talk about God, how there must be one, since only God could have pulled him through. Herbie listened reverently—he worshipped George.
One day George drew me aside to tell me something confidential. We were to give Herbie the slip for an hour or so. There was a young country girl he wanted me to meet. We could find her down near the bridge, towards dark, with the right signal.
She looks twenty, though she’s only a kid, said George, as we hastened towards the spot. A virgin, of course, but a dirty little devil. You can’t get much more than a good feel, Hen. I’ve tried everything, but it’s no go.
Kitty was her name. It suited her. A plain-looking girl, but full of sap and curiosity. Hump for the monkeys.
Hello, says George, as we sidle up to her. How’s tricks? Want you to meet a friend of mine, from the city.
Her hand was tingling with warmth and desire. It seemed to me she was blushing, but it may have been simply the abundant health which was bursting through her cheeks.
Give him a hug and squeeze.
Kitty flung her arms about me and pressed her warm body tight to mine. In a moment her tongue was down my throat. She bit my lips, my ear lobes, my neck. I put my hand under her skirt and through the slit in her flannel drawers. No protest. She began to groan and murmur. Finally she had an orgasm.
How was it, Hen? What did I tell you?
We chatted a while to give Kitty a breathing spell, then George locked horns with her. It was cold and wet under the bridge, but the three of us were oh fire. Again George tried to get it in, but Kitty managed to wriggle away.
The most he could do was to put it between her legs, where she held it like a vise.
As we were walking back towards the road Kitty asked if she couldn’t visit us sometime—when we got back to the city. She had never been to New York.
Sure, said George, let Herbie bring you. He knows his way around.
But I won’t have any money, said Kitty. Don’t worry about that, said big-hearted George, we’ll take care of you.
Do you think your mother would trust you? I asked.
Kitty replied that her mother didn’t give a damn what she did. It’s the old man: he tries to work me to the bone.
Never mind, said George, leave it to me. In parting she lifted her dress, of her own accord, and invited us to give her a last good feel.
Maybe I won’t be so shy, she said, when I get to the city. Then, impulsively, she reached into our flies, took out our cocks, and kissed them—almost reverently. I’ll dream about you tonight, she whispered. She was almost on the point of tears.
See you tomorrow, said George, and we waved good-bye.
See what I mean, Hen? Boy, if you could get that you’d have something to remember.
My balls are aching.
Drink lots of milk and cream. That helps.
I think I’d rather jerk off.
That’s what you think now. Tomorrow you’ll be panting to see her. I know. She’s in my blood, the little bitch … Don’t let Herbie know about this, Hen. He’d be horrified. He’s just a kid compared to her. I think he’s in love with her.
What will we tell him when we get back?
Leave that to me.
And her old man—don’t you ever think of that?
You said it, Hen. If he ever caught us I think he’d cut our balls off.
That’s cheering.
You’ve got to take a chance, said George. Here in the country all the gals are dying for it. They’re much better than city tripe, you know that. They smell clean. Here, smell my fingers—ain’t that delicious?
Childish amusements … One of the funniest things was taking turns riding an old tricycle which had belonged to Herbie’s dead sister. To see George Marshall, a grown man, pushing the pedals of that ridiculous vehicle was a sight for sore eyes. His fanny was so big he had to be squeezed into the seat with might and main. Steering with one hand, he energetically rang a cow-bell with the other. Now and then a car stopped, thinking he was a cripple in trouble: George would allow the occupants to get out and escort him to the other side of the road, pretending that he was indeed a paralytic. Sometimes he would bum a cigarette or demand a few pennies. Always in a strong Irish brogue, as if he had just arrived from the old country.
One day I espied an old baby carriage in the barn. It struck me that it would be still funnier if we took George Marshall out for a walk in that. George didn’t give a shit. We got a bonnet with ribbons and a big horse blanket to cover him. But try as we would, we couldn’t get him into the carriage. So Herbie was elected. We dressed him up like a kewpie doll, stuck a clay pipe in his mouth, and started down the road. At the station we ran into an elderly spinster waiting for the train. As usual, George took the lead.
I say, Ma’am, touching his cap, but would you be tellin’ us where we might get a little nip? The boy’s almost frozen.
Dear me, said the spinster automatically. Then suddenly getting the drift of his words, she squeaked: What’s that you said, young man?
Again George touched his cap respectfully, pursing his lips and squinting like an old spaniel. Just a wee nip, that’s all. He’s nigh on to eleven but it’s a terrible thirst he has.
Herbie was sitting up now, puffing vigorously at the short clay pipe. He looked like a gnome.
At this point I felt like taking the lead myself. The spinster had a look of alarm which I didn’t like.
I beg pardon, Ma’am, said I, touching my cap, but the two of them are dotty. You know … I tapped my skull.
Dear me, dear me, she wheezed, how perfectly dreadful.
I do my best to keep them in good spirits. They’re quite a trial. Quite. Especially the little one. Would you like to hear him laugh?
Without giving her a chance to answer, I beckoned Herbie to go to it. Herbie’s laugh was really insane. He did it like a ventriloquist’s dummy, beginning with an innocent little smile which slowly broadened into a grin, then a chuckle and a cooing followed by a low gurgling, and finally a belly laugh which was irresistible. He could keep it up indefinitely.
With the pipe in one hand and the rattle which he waved frantically in the other, he was a picture out of a Swiss joke book. Every now and then he paused to hiccough violently, then leaned over the side of the carriage and spat. To make the situation still more ludicrous, George Marshall had taken to sneezing. Pulling out a large red handkerchief with huge holes in it, he vigorously blew his nose, then coughed, then sneezed some more.
The tantrums, I said, turning to the spinster. There’s no harm they be doing. Wonderful boys, the two of ‘em—except they be queer. Then, on the impulse, I added: Fact is, Ma’am, touching my cap reverently, we’re all screw-balls. You wouldn’t know where we might stop for the night, seein’ the condition we’re in? If only you had a drop of brandy—just a thimbleful. Not for meself, you understand, but for the little ones.
Herbie broke into a crying fit. He was so gleefully hysterical he didn’t know what he was doing. He waved the rattle so assiduously that suddenly he lurched too far and the carriage tipped over.
Goodness gracious, goodness gracious! wailed the spinster.
George quickly pulled Herbie loose. The latter now stood up, in his jacket and long pants, the bonnet still wreathed around his head. He clutched the rattle like a maniac. Goofy was no word for it.
Says George, touching his cap, No hurt,
