Page 22 - Leather Blues

10 Jack Fritscher

He could have taken them one by one, but all of them
together were too much. One older boy with a light down
of bristle on his upper lip knocked Denny to the ground.
Another older boy named Russell, whom some of the boys
who knew more than Denny called Rustler the Hustler for
what he did downtown, kicked the fallen boy in the side of
the head. Stoney pulled out his Scout knife. He straddled
Denny’s ass.
Russell yanked out his cock and pissed hard on Denny’s
head. The piss splashed on Stoney’s hands as he slashed the
back of the new jacket.
Enraged, Denny pitched Stoney to the side and kicked
Russell in the left knee. The gang of boys ran off, but the
knife had torn through the jacket back and the piss had
soaked the lining. Alone, with dinnertime darkness coming
on, Denny walked slowly home.
His father took one look at him and cursing sent him
to his room. He fell across the bed. His wet head throbbed
from Russell’s booted dropkick. Hours seemed to pass over
the voices rising and falling in the kitchen below. Finally
his door opened. Light from the hall fell in an awkward
rectangle across his bed.
“Take off the jacket,” his father said. “It goes back to the
store.”
Denny pushed back into the bed, wearing the jacket; his
arms wrapped tight around the warm leather.
“Take it off.”
Lying in his leather, Denny glared back at the big man
silhouetted in the doorway just as always in the dream he
was silhouetted against the sun. For the first time in his life
he felt strong enough to resist. “No!” he said. He folded his
arms tighter around the jacket. He held the leather round
himself like nothing he had ever held in his life. He had
fought and bled in it. “No!” he said.
His father pulled at the jacket.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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