the man with the elevated hair

He stated or at least mumbled something to the fact he arrived the previous evening from Black Hills up somewhere in South Dakota. His face was young – somewhere between nineteen and twenty-five – yet weathered and lined from being subjected to a myriad of harsh elements. Obviously, a certain type who was comfortable in the shadier aspects of truck stop lavatories, musty locker rooms, and bed bug infested flop houses. He possessed razor sharp facial features from a thin, hooked nose to a well-defined chin. An almost faint splattering of light brown freckles lay across the nose and upper cheeks. It was his eyes, though…it was those light green eyes in thick, black lashes which caught my attention. He lay on his back sprawled across the sidewalk in musty clothes, puffing on a rollie, squinting in the early morning sun, big worker boots crossed out into the post dawn golden street. He scratched at the grey knit cap that covered a shaggy mop of straight raven hair.

“They both need one another, you know.” He continued in a whispered, raspy drawl. “It’s called 'inter-dependency'. And they both know it. Yeah…he does terrible things to Tom. Nasty, even sadistic things. But that’s fine, as long as that’s what Tom wants. Think about it. His actions. He’s always asking for it. It’s his partner’s job to fulfill that need and Jerry knows it.”

“Proof?” I asked, taking a sip of tepid coffee from a small styrofoam cup.

“Well, in the Tom and Jerry Show, they live with one another…”

His train of thought was interrupted by a stooped codger with gravity defying hair. His face was bright red and coarse; lined and covered in silver stubble. He was wearing double denim with a faded red checked shit. He spat. “I knew I’d catch up witcher stupid ass soon enough!”

The boy watched the old man as he approached, yet remained immobile. His dark, copper-colored face as stoic and unreadable as a plaster of Paris mask.

“Ya fergit it back at the camp, dincha?” The old man stopped, stood bow-legged in tattered faded jeans. “Give yer ass a place to camp and this how you repay me?”

“Yeah, Bob…I forgot it back at the camp.” He finally replied after a long pause.

“Well doncha think yer dumb injun ass should go back and git it?”

“Chill out with the old white devil shit, Bob. You want your tobacco, go get it yourself.” The young lad stated calmly. “I’m talking to this man.” He flashed a dirty finger toward me; then slipped his slender hand back into worn pants pocket.

“Who da fuck dis?” Bob spat, one eye squinting at me.

“I’m Lou. Who the fuck are you?” It came out calm with a hint of sing song.

“Watch out fer dis boy.” Bob said, motioning toward the nonchalant lad who sprawled out on the sidewalk. “He bad. He fill yer head fulla sweet promises, then lie to yer face. Kid got no scruples!”

“I like him already.” I smirked.

Bob harrumphed or made some sound equivalent and began his bow-legged shamble up toward his camp somewhere on the pine covered ridge. I stood there and silently watched as the little old man was out of hearing range, sucking on my smoke so nasty. I looked down toward the prone form of the Native boy.

“Fill my head full of sweet promises…what was that all about?” I asked coyly.

The youngster took a long puff of his rollie and blew an enormous plume casually into the azure sky. “Don’t be boring. Up until now, you were nothing like those other men I’d met on the road. All hard and brutal and masculine, until we get back to the camp, then they dissipate into a gooey, syrupy mess of uncontrolled faggoty-assed passion…cooing like enamored school girls; promising me the world if I remain by their side and keep them warm on those oh so sought after starry nights. You know exactly what Bob meant…so don’t disappoint me by becoming one of them. You indicated so much promise in being otherwise.”

“I apologize.” I said flatly. “I never been to this part of the country and don’t entirely grasp the queer lifestyle outside the mundane screeching faggot you see at clubs or a coffee chain.”

“Queer? Gay? Heh. Those outmoded constructs. Never favored to be pegged by either label…hell, what is the LGBT acronym up to now?” He chuckled, “LGBTQURTUVEEPD .v2?!”

“Right…right. So many unnecessary labels. You either suck dick or you don’t.”

He removed both wiry, brown hands from his pocket (both shiny over the dirt) and folded them across a lean, flannelled stomach. However, he sure as shit made me notice the throbbing jump in the crotch his dusty khakis. “Yup. You nailed it on the head there, mister. And speaking of head, I sure could go for some right now. Bob was too drunk last night to finish and passed out. He just wanted to lay by the fire and snuggle. His body felt like jerky and he smelled like expired ham”

I chuckled as my gaze scrutinized his prone torso. He noticed. The crotch of his pants jumped three more times. Somewhere in the distance was the faint sound of a rumbling locomotive being carried on the never ending breeze.

I took another long drag and croaked, “Well, I’d be happy to oblige, but I don’t know this town. Where can we go?”

He leisurely lifted himself off the sidewalk, brushing the dirt from his faded backside. “Follow me.” He casually slipped his hand down the front of his pants and adjusted his erection to a more clandestine position.

As we began our walk toward his secret location, down a lonely set of shadowy warehouses and boarded up red brick buildings, I passed a smoke to him, “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Elston. Elston Manygoats.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Nope. Manygoats is a proud and longstanding name in my tribe.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Elston Manygoats.”