Rough Edges
Chapter 23
Disobedience
<Phil Miller>
While I had a lot of office work to take care of in my relatively new position as supervisor of county roads, it often seemed to me I was on the road more than when I was a field supervisor. After checking over the paving work being supervised by Lewis Carlson, I headed back to Centralia to devote some time to the inevitable paperwork that is such a big part of a government employee’s life.
During the drive I thought about the alcoholics in my life—at least those I know of. There is Lewis Carlson and his son Marty, both of whom have come to grips with their disease and taken amazing steps in recovery. There is my brother Keegan, who seems to be a lost cause. I can only pray that he finds sobriety and sanity before his disease kills him. There is my father, of course, who has been in and out of recovery, but doesn’t seem to be able to connect to a sober life. And then there is Troy.
Yes, Troy, the big brother I worshipped as a kid and whom I still hold in such high regard. Troy, the big brother whom I love more than anybody in the world except for Larry. When Troy was a senior in high school, he revealed some things to me. He told me how at thirteen and fourteen he’d come home from school and sneak a couple of beers. I knew he did that because I often could smell the beer on his breath at night. It didn’t faze me because beer breath seemed to be a regular part of life in my family. He would sometimes go to keggers and get drunk with his buddies on weekends.
But Troy also told me how he found out about Alateen meetings from a friend at school and went in hopes of learning to deal with our father. One thing he learned was that his daily beers were a sign he was sick and would become as sick as dad. So, he talked to somebody in the group who took him to an AA meeting just before starting his sophomore year. I could see that he no longer drank at all with Keegan, or with me, or with friends, or alone.
It was at Alateen and then at AA that Troy started to learn the things he taught me, such as pausing before acting or saying anything. It was like he needed to tell me about living life to help it make sense to him. Troy’s bottom was not as low as the bottoms of Marty, or Keegan (who has yet to hit his bottom), or dad for that matter. He told me he has always been grateful he had the guidance from his Higher Power to turn his life around before it spun totally out of control.
“It was becoming pretty unmanageable whether you noticed it or not, bro,” he told me during his senior year. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since that first AA meeting I went to.” That holds true for him today as well.
Often, when I thought he was visiting his girlfriend or a buddy he was at an AA meeting. He told me he waited so long to tell me because he was afraid I’d look down on him. But he was worried about becoming just like our father and like Keegan, especially after learning how the disease runs in families, so he worked on his recovery. Troy still attends AA, saying he has to keep his insurance paid.
“My boys have never seen me drinking alcohol, let alone drunk. I want them to never see me under the influence, and I want my grandchildren to never see that in the future,” Troy told me recently. I am grateful to have Troy as my big brother. While I listened to much of what he had to say, and followed a lot of his guidance even as a young boy, I still had to do some experimenting of my own before completely buying in to what my brother was telling me.
Yes, I wondered if drinking alcohol would make me feel better when I got home on Sunday after a weekend at Larry’s house. It was the weekend after the incident with Mr. Rodman and my test.
As good as I felt with Larry that weekend, as soon as I was dropped off at my house I became depressed thinking of having to stay home for two days of suspension. Then I became even more depressed thinking of having to face Mr. Turdman once the suspension was over.
You would think that without my father at home there would be no beer. After all, Troy and Keegan were too young to buy any, and my mother didn’t drink beer—she was a pill head when she wanted to get a buzz. Yet, there always seemed to be beer in the fridge and it came from Keegan who found ways to get other kids to buy him beer and weed.
Troy once told me he wished he’d simply poured the beer out every time it appeared in the fridge. He said he thought about pouring it out and blaming it on mother, who may or may not have accepted the responsibility. But, he figured Keegan would just find a way to get more, so he left it alone. After all, a six pack only appeared once or twice a week. Keegan was more of a pothead than a beer drinker.
On Sunday night, I did what I often did and climbed into bed with Troy. As usual we were naked and as usual I cuddled up tightly to him.
“Tough week, huh bro?” Troy asked quietly as he stroked my bare back from my neck to my ass, with some ass squeezes added in.
“Mr. Turdman is an asshole,” I stated with a touch of vehemence.
“What do you plan on doing tomorrow?”
“Mom says I have to stay at home. She says she isn’t going to miss any more work than she has to.”
“If it wasn’t for football I’d stay with you.” Troy knew a kid had to be at least twelve to be kept at home alone.
“I know. You’re a special big brother.”
“Is Larry becoming a special friend like Andy was?”
“Andy still is a special friend. I mean I am going to visit him the Friday after turkey day.”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
“Kinda yes, and kinda no. I guess I’m glad I don’t hate him anymore.”
“Yeah, resentments can be real bummers.” Troy started kneading my ass cheeks. “They can take up way too much of a person’s time.”
“I guess.” I thought I knew what Troy was talking about, but like so much of his philosophizing at the time it took a while for the meaning to sink in.
“Remember that when you return to school, if you waste time and energy resenting Mr. Rodman you’ll accomplish nothing. Don’t let the man take up free space in your head.”
“I guess.” As you have no doubt figured out, Troy was more my father than my father ever was.
Troy continued kneading my ass cheeks as he changed the subject. “Pretty cool what mom told us.”
“Yeah, it was.” When my mother had dropped me off at Larry’s house, she and Larry’s mom talked while Larry and I zoomed off to his bedroom. Turns out my whole family and I got invited to Larry’s house for Thanksgiving Dinner. “I just hope Keegan doesn’t embarrass everybody.”
“I’ll watch him close on Thursday. He’ll have to work hard to get high or stoned or drunk. I think he’ll be okay.”
I put my hand around my big brother’s now hard cock and started to slowly jerk him off. That ended any conversation between us. I hadn’t been particularly horny when I went to bed with Troy, but his soothing talk and calming strokes lifted my spirits and soon I was hard and ready for action.
Troy pulled the covers off and we lay on our backs stroking each other. It had been a weird weekend with many opportunities to mess around, but the Wonkeys and I were more content with being kids, naked or not, than being horn dog tweens. I thought about giving Troy a blow job, but ended up being content with jerking him off.
The thing that made that night stand out, beyond Troy trying to help me get over my problems with Mr. Turdman, was him snaking his left middle finger under my ass, into my crack, and into my rectum. I adjusted my position to allow the surprise entry. I increased pace, jerking Troy ferociously as he masturbated my much smaller pubescent cock, while at the same time he finger fucked my ass.
I remember moaning and cooing and lifting my ass and spreading my legs and wanting Troy’s finger to stay inside of me forever. I also remember when that finger hit my virgin prostate. All I could do was squeak out a quick, “Oh shit,” as my body shivered and shook and my dick jumped and twitched and I had an intense dry cum.
My hand had stopped working on Troy as I came, but he patiently waited for me to recover from my own high and then finish him off. The only light that was on was the lamp on Troy’s nightstand. It was more than enough to enable me to see his first shot of cum fly through the air and hit him in the chin. The next one landed between his nipples, and the next one his developing six-pack.
“Nice job, bro,” Troy whispered as his breathing returned to normal.
“What did you do in my ass? Something totally freaky happened. It felt, like, totally amazing.”
“I hit your prostate. I’ll tell you more next time.” I wondered if that prostate, whatever it was, was the reason Perry and Jung liked getting their asses fucked. It certainly felt fucking good, I thought.
“Okay.” I trusted him to tell me because he always did what he said he would do.
Troy pulled me tightly against him. “When you close your eyes to sleep, forget about Mr. Rodman. Think about all of the good things in your life today. You’ll find out that things are way better than you think they are.”
I told him I would. I turned so I was facing Troy. He pulled the covers over us as I took in my big brother’s warmth and smells. I did what he told me to do. I thought about what was good in my life. I thought about Troy, and Larry, and Andy. I thought about the Wonkeys. I thought about mom saying I could turn out for basketball, which I thought was good even if I’d never played it before. I know Larry was excited that I decided to turn out. I still felt a little depressed and anxious regarding Mr. Rodman, but I fell asleep thinking that things weren’t nearly as bad as I often thought they were.
<Larry Sanders>
It seemed strange to not see Phil at school on Monday. It seemed even stranger to have Mr. Rodman treat the Wonkeys in his class with icy politeness. He acted professional at the same time he let us know that he did not approve of Daniel, Jung, Q, and me standing up for Phil. We were all certain there really wasn’t a great deal he could do to us, but the situation still made us feel uncomfortable. Looking back, I firmly believe he had been read the riot act by the school administration for his behavior towards Phil. I am sure he was operating on a short leash, but that didn’t stop him from finding subtle ways to let us know he was displeased with what we had done.
I called Phil after school. I told him how pleased I was that he was turning out for Mr. Zimmer’s Jubilee team. Practice would be on Tuesday and I reminded Phil that my dad and I would be picking him up at his house. Having Phil on our team made me feel even closer to him. I also let him know that Perry had boned up in PE and would be doing his thing at lunch the next day. Phil was sorry he would be missing the fun.
The best news was Phil getting a perfect score, including both bonus questions, on his Tuesday makeup test. There was no doubt now that Phil hadn’t cheated on his test the week before. It also made Mr. Rodman look even worse.
A couple of years ago I ran across Leland Rodman at a math teachers’ conference. He was balding, his hair gray, and he displayed a good-sized paunch. He had to be nearing retirement. I debated whether or not to introduce myself and decided not to. But when we ended up in the same study group at a seminar that afternoon, I had no choice but to give him my name. Besides, even if I said nothing, it was on my name tag.
“Larry Sanders,” Rodman said. “That name sounds vaguely familiar.”
“I had you for math in sixth grade at Valley View Elementary.”
Rodman thought for a moment, then gave me a somewhat sardonic grin. “Oh, you were in that class. The advanced math class with the little rebels who made me happy to apply to another school district.” I suspected the reason he moved had more to do with suggestions from the school administration than our acts of rebellion.
“That would be us,” I said.
“Nice to see you making something of yourself and your math education.”
I nodded in thanks.
“Damn, what was the name of the little ringleader? The one who created all of the trouble with his cheating. How he got away with it I’ll never figure out.”
“Phil,” I said. He made no mention of me being one of the students who backed up Phil and who was part of the silent treatment we would give the teacher whenever we felt he wasn’t treating Phil or the rest of us fairly.
“Oh, yeah, Phil. I’ll never forget the little hoodlum. I wonder whatever became of him. Probably serving life in prison for something or other.”
“He managed to get a master’s degree in highway engineering and is the superintendent of roads for Lewis County.”
“I never would have guessed he’d have the brains or the moxie to accomplish something like that. So you’ve kept in contact with him then I take it.”
“He is my partner,” I said matter-of-factly.
Rodman’s jaw dropped and he looked away, embarrassed. “I knew that class would come to no good,” he muttered. Once an asshole, always an asshole, I thought.
We got through the two-hour workshop with the same kind of collaboration we’d had when I was in his sixth grade class—that of silent cooperation, communicating only when necessary.
When I told Phil that story he ended up laughing so hard he was crying. He finally spit out the same thing I had been thinking. “Once an asshole, always an asshole,” he chuckled.
Our Tuesday basketball practice was a revelation. While Phil had never played the game, it wasn’t like he’d never had a basketball in his hand. He was a natural at ball-handling and quickly proved himself to be very coachable.
The biggest thing that impressed us was his defense. He played defense like a banshee. He quickly picked up proper footwork and started getting in our faces during drills. It was obvious which aspect of the game he liked best. Coach Zimmer noticed it too, praising Phil’s hustle at every opportunity.
We’d had a good team before, but even with the sound defensive fundamentals Coach Zimmer taught us, we tended to be soft at the defensive end of the floor at times. That wasn’t going to happen anymore, especially after an incident during a three-on-three drill.
“Would you ease off, Miller,” Nate Maxie complained after Phil cut him off from making a baseline drive to the basket.
“I thought I was supposed to stop you from scoring,” Phil said with an air of innocence.
“You’re supposed to stop people in games, not in practice. We’re your teammates.”
“We’re supposed to practice hard so we can play hard, is what Coach says.”
“That is so bogus.”
Both boys looked ready for a physical conflict as they stared each other down. I waited for Phil to lose his temper and maybe cut short his basketball career by flattening Nate. But before things could escalate, Coach Zimmer stepped in.
“Gentlemen, let’s get ourselves calmed down.” Nate and Phil glanced at the coach, but neither one backed off. They resumed staring at each other.
“Center circle,” Coach ordered. What that meant is that the team goes to center court and sits in a semi-circle while Coach Zimmer sits facing us. He always sat at our level when we had our pre- and post-practice meetings. This was the start of my third season playing for Coach Zimmer and it’s the first time I can remember him stopping practice for a meeting.
We all sat down, ready to have our ass chewed. Instead Coach Zimmer reminded us that last year we’d finished one game short of the league playoffs. “Part of our problem last year was us being too nice in practice.” We all nodded; we’d heard this mantra before. “We seem to have found somebody who doesn’t want to be nice in practice.”
Coach Zimmer looked each of us in the eye as we sat silently. Then he looked at Nate and said, “You don’t like him checking you out of the gym, Nate? Then get even with him.”
“How?” Nate asked tentatively. “If I fight him you’ll kick me off the team.”
“Who said anything about fighting? Maybe you might try checking him out of the gym. You might try dropping the anchor and getting into a defensive stance, use your feet, put your nose in his belly button, and don’t let him get by you. You might try playing hard and tough in practice, and it just might show up on the floor. You guys want to win a championship? Then quit being so nice to each other and practice to win.”
It took another couple of weeks, but in each of our practices we could see Phil’s influence take over the team. Even I had been a nice guy on defense in practice and it showed up in my game as well. But it soon got to where we took it as a personal insult to have the man we were checking beat us to the basket. We were moving from being a very good team to being an in-your-face, we-dare-you-beat-us team. Our game moved up to a whole new level, and Phil’s take-no-prisoners attitude had a lot to do with it.
The time from Phil’s suspension to Thanksgiving went by quickly. There were the first basketball practices, Perry doing his boner flashing for us in the lunchroom, and the big return of Phil to school on Wednesday. He was in a sulky mood when he boarded the bus that morning and none of the Wonkeys, including me, could cheer him up. Finally, I cornered him on the way to lunch.
“Hey, dude, lighten up,” I told him. “You won. You got your perfect test, you’re back in school, and it looks like you’re going to make the Jubilee basketball team.” I could tell after only one practice that there was no way he would be cut. “It looks like everything is going pretty good for you.”
“I hate Turdman,” was all he said.
“So? We all hate him. He’s an asshole. Don’t let him run your life. It’s just for one period, and you’re the smartest math dude in the class except maybe for Jung. It’s just you and him haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Don’t let him run your life,” he repeated. “You sound like Troy.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I don’t know. I guess so. I keep listening and doing what he says and he’s almost always right, which kind of pisses me off. Sometimes I wish he was my dad instead of my big brother. He’s sure better at being my dad than my fucking father is.” He gave my ass a quick and surprising squeeze. “Let’s go eat.”
As soon as Phil and I walked into the cafeteria and sat at our lunch table, the Wonkeys could tell Phil was finished with his sulk. He was joking and kidding and talking hoops with us until the end of lunch. Nobody mentioned math or Mr. Rodman until we all got up to head for the student foyer.
“Two more periods and it’s time to kick ass in Turdman’s class,” Phil told us. There was no doubt—Phil Miller was back.
When sixth period came around we settled into our desks in Mr. Rodman’s class. He continued to treat us all professionally, but coolly. He was even icier where Phil was concerned. He wouldn’t call on him even if nobody else had a hand up and never picked him to work problems on the board.
If Phil had had to deal with Rodman by himself I think he would have either quit or gone into full rebellion. But he had the Wonkeys backing him, even Perry and Ben, who weren’t in Rodman’s class. He also had other kids in class, like Don Yates, on his side. As we all got used to the new routine of how Rodman was going to run the class, we soon did some of our own silent rebellion. For example, it was not unusual for Phil to be the only student to have a hand raised as the rest of us intentionally kept ours down. The initial time that happened set the tone for how things were going to work.
The first time we let Phil be the only one with a hand raised was about a week after he returned to class. Rodman ignored him and called on Brenda Wright, a smart and somewhat mousy girl. But, she’d gotten the word that on the fifth question Rodman asked, nobody but Phil would volunteer to answer. We all had confidence that Phil would know the answer to whatever the question was, and Phil had that same confidence in himself.
When Rodman ignored the lone raised hand and called on Brenda she simply pointed to Phil and said in her unassuming voice, “Excuse me, Mr. Rodman, but Phil has his hand up.” She then didn’t bother to answer the question.
He called on Rhonda Greer. She said the same thing. Rodman already knew what us co-conspirators would do if he called on one of us. I think he was surprised that two of his pet girls weretaking part in what was obviously a rebellion. He realized he had no choice but to call on Phil, who went to the board. He quickly and correctly worked out the problem. We had won yet another round in our little battle.
We were eleven and didn’t know much about the history of sit-ins. Yet in a sense we’d just staged a kind of sit-in in our refusal to participate in class when Phil was the only student with his hand raised. It didn’t take long for Rodman to call on Phil even when other hands were raised. We had received a lesson in the power of passive resistance.
As for Leland Rodman, he discovered that if he lost Brenda Wright and Rhonda Greer it meant he had lost the entire class. He was lucky we were the cream of the students in the sixth grade or he would have lost control of us entirely. As it was, the rest of the year consisted of an uneasy armistice between Rodman and the advanced math class.
My thoughts about the past were wandering all over the place during the day, mostly because they had to be focused on teaching my classes. There was no assembly for the team. That would be held on Thursday in order to allow time for planning. I had nothing to do with that phase of winning a championship, for which I was very grateful.
When I got home after school I took a stack of tests out of my briefcase. These were from my remedial math class. I was not really in the mood to correct them. Instead, my mind wandered back to sixth grade and Thanksgiving dinner with Phil’s family.
They arrived at one, which was right on time. Phil’s father was still in Korea, but I met Troy and Keegan for the first time. Phil had been worried that Keegan would find a way to get high before the dinner, but he seemed okay to me.
I saw him almost every day on the bus, but I never talked to him. He and Phil acted like they didn’t know each other when they boarded the bus. He was somewhat unfriendly when he came into the house, but Phil told me that was his usual state. My first impression of Keegan was not a good one. I don’t know if I felt that way because Phil prejudiced me against his brother or because his brother was a genuine jerk. I suspect it was the latter.
Keegan was skinny and pale, like he didn’t get enough to eat. I’d seen him stoned on the bus a couple of times, and I knew he was into the drug scene. His eyes had a dull look to them. He just didn’t look healthy.
I really liked Troy, however. He was a big fifteen-year-old with a solid build. He worked out almost every day as part of being a football player. He was friendly with a big smile and bright, shiny eyes. He didn’t treat me like a little kid at all but more like an equal.
We spent the afternoon playing games and eating. And then eating some more. I was glad Keegan showed a good appetite. He was even somewhat friendly during dinner. He was also surprisingly good at most of the games we played. Phil had told me that Keegan had shown athletic talent when he was little, but now he was more interested in hanging with the other stoners at school than participating in any kind of sports.
After dinner, Troy found a way to get the two of us alone for a few minutes.
“You’ve really been a great friend to Phil,” he told me. “Phil needed a friend badly.”
I blushed with embarrassment. Getting praised for being a friend to somebody I liked didn’t seem right to me. Phil was my friend because I liked him, not because I thought he needed a friend.
“He’s really getting to love basketball, even after two practices. I’m glad you got him involved on the team.”
“He’s really good on defense,” I said. “Nobody likes going against him.” Even then I could see that a lot of his love of basketball came from his being able to play the role of intimidator on defense.
“But he can’t shoot, right?”
“He’ll get better,” I said with a smile. It was true that Phil wasn’t a good shooter, but he did play tough defense and handled the ball well. He and I planned on getting to practice early to get some extra shooting in. While I was a good shooter, I knew practice would make me even better.
Even though Troy was acting a bit extra friendly in order to win me over, I liked him. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to put on the friend act, that I liked him just fine without it, but I was a little intimidated by the big teen, so I went with the flow. The next time I saw him he dumped the act and I ended up liking him even more.
My thoughts of the past were interrupted by Phil coming in from the garage. He gave me a sweet kiss on the lips and asked what I was cooking up for dinner.
“I was late coming home because of all the hoopla at school. Then I was going to start correcting these tests,” I told him, “but I ended up letting my mind wander.”
“Let me guess…those tests are from your remedial class.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you never like correcting their work.”
“They do okay. In fact they are doing rather well all things considered.”
“That would be because you’re a master teacher.” He thought for a moment. “As I recall the supply of leftovers is low. I know I am not in the mood for a frozen dinner, so what do you say we go to the Bear for pizza.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan to me. But I also worked out some after school, so I probably should take a quick shower.”
“I was going to say something after that kiss,” Phil grinned.
“Silence, peasant. I’ll be right back.”
I headed for the bathroom, grateful for how lucky I was to have had Phil in my life from the time I was a young boy. Most people don’t find their soulmate so early in life. I was one of the fortunate ones.
To be continued…
<Phil Miller>
While I had a lot of office work to take care of in my relatively new position as supervisor of county roads, it often seemed to me I was on the road more than when I was a field supervisor. After checking over the paving work being supervised by Lewis Carlson, I headed back to Centralia to devote some time to the inevitable paperwork that is such a big part of a government employee’s life.
During the drive I thought about the alcoholics in my life—at least those I know of. There is Lewis Carlson and his son Marty, both of whom have come to grips with their disease and taken amazing steps in recovery. There is my brother Keegan, who seems to be a lost cause. I can only pray that he finds sobriety and sanity before his disease kills him. There is my father, of course, who has been in and out of recovery, but doesn’t seem to be able to connect to a sober life. And then there is Troy.
Yes, Troy, the big brother I worshipped as a kid and whom I still hold in such high regard. Troy, the big brother whom I love more than anybody in the world except for Larry. When Troy was a senior in high school, he revealed some things to me. He told me how at thirteen and fourteen he’d come home from school and sneak a couple of beers. I knew he did that because I often could smell the beer on his breath at night. It didn’t faze me because beer breath seemed to be a regular part of life in my family. He would sometimes go to keggers and get drunk with his buddies on weekends.
But Troy also told me how he found out about Alateen meetings from a friend at school and went in hopes of learning to deal with our father. One thing he learned was that his daily beers were a sign he was sick and would become as sick as dad. So, he talked to somebody in the group who took him to an AA meeting just before starting his sophomore year. I could see that he no longer drank at all with Keegan, or with me, or with friends, or alone.
It was at Alateen and then at AA that Troy started to learn the things he taught me, such as pausing before acting or saying anything. It was like he needed to tell me about living life to help it make sense to him. Troy’s bottom was not as low as the bottoms of Marty, or Keegan (who has yet to hit his bottom), or dad for that matter. He told me he has always been grateful he had the guidance from his Higher Power to turn his life around before it spun totally out of control.
“It was becoming pretty unmanageable whether you noticed it or not, bro,” he told me during his senior year. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since that first AA meeting I went to.” That holds true for him today as well.
Often, when I thought he was visiting his girlfriend or a buddy he was at an AA meeting. He told me he waited so long to tell me because he was afraid I’d look down on him. But he was worried about becoming just like our father and like Keegan, especially after learning how the disease runs in families, so he worked on his recovery. Troy still attends AA, saying he has to keep his insurance paid.
“My boys have never seen me drinking alcohol, let alone drunk. I want them to never see me under the influence, and I want my grandchildren to never see that in the future,” Troy told me recently. I am grateful to have Troy as my big brother. While I listened to much of what he had to say, and followed a lot of his guidance even as a young boy, I still had to do some experimenting of my own before completely buying in to what my brother was telling me.
Yes, I wondered if drinking alcohol would make me feel better when I got home on Sunday after a weekend at Larry’s house. It was the weekend after the incident with Mr. Rodman and my test.
As good as I felt with Larry that weekend, as soon as I was dropped off at my house I became depressed thinking of having to stay home for two days of suspension. Then I became even more depressed thinking of having to face Mr. Turdman once the suspension was over.
You would think that without my father at home there would be no beer. After all, Troy and Keegan were too young to buy any, and my mother didn’t drink beer—she was a pill head when she wanted to get a buzz. Yet, there always seemed to be beer in the fridge and it came from Keegan who found ways to get other kids to buy him beer and weed.
Troy once told me he wished he’d simply poured the beer out every time it appeared in the fridge. He said he thought about pouring it out and blaming it on mother, who may or may not have accepted the responsibility. But, he figured Keegan would just find a way to get more, so he left it alone. After all, a six pack only appeared once or twice a week. Keegan was more of a pothead than a beer drinker.
On Sunday night, I did what I often did and climbed into bed with Troy. As usual we were naked and as usual I cuddled up tightly to him.
“Tough week, huh bro?” Troy asked quietly as he stroked my bare back from my neck to my ass, with some ass squeezes added in.
“Mr. Turdman is an asshole,” I stated with a touch of vehemence.
“What do you plan on doing tomorrow?”
“Mom says I have to stay at home. She says she isn’t going to miss any more work than she has to.”
“If it wasn’t for football I’d stay with you.” Troy knew a kid had to be at least twelve to be kept at home alone.
“I know. You’re a special big brother.”
“Is Larry becoming a special friend like Andy was?”
“Andy still is a special friend. I mean I am going to visit him the Friday after turkey day.”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
“Kinda yes, and kinda no. I guess I’m glad I don’t hate him anymore.”
“Yeah, resentments can be real bummers.” Troy started kneading my ass cheeks. “They can take up way too much of a person’s time.”
“I guess.” I thought I knew what Troy was talking about, but like so much of his philosophizing at the time it took a while for the meaning to sink in.
“Remember that when you return to school, if you waste time and energy resenting Mr. Rodman you’ll accomplish nothing. Don’t let the man take up free space in your head.”
“I guess.” As you have no doubt figured out, Troy was more my father than my father ever was.
Troy continued kneading my ass cheeks as he changed the subject. “Pretty cool what mom told us.”
“Yeah, it was.” When my mother had dropped me off at Larry’s house, she and Larry’s mom talked while Larry and I zoomed off to his bedroom. Turns out my whole family and I got invited to Larry’s house for Thanksgiving Dinner. “I just hope Keegan doesn’t embarrass everybody.”
“I’ll watch him close on Thursday. He’ll have to work hard to get high or stoned or drunk. I think he’ll be okay.”
I put my hand around my big brother’s now hard cock and started to slowly jerk him off. That ended any conversation between us. I hadn’t been particularly horny when I went to bed with Troy, but his soothing talk and calming strokes lifted my spirits and soon I was hard and ready for action.
Troy pulled the covers off and we lay on our backs stroking each other. It had been a weird weekend with many opportunities to mess around, but the Wonkeys and I were more content with being kids, naked or not, than being horn dog tweens. I thought about giving Troy a blow job, but ended up being content with jerking him off.
The thing that made that night stand out, beyond Troy trying to help me get over my problems with Mr. Turdman, was him snaking his left middle finger under my ass, into my crack, and into my rectum. I adjusted my position to allow the surprise entry. I increased pace, jerking Troy ferociously as he masturbated my much smaller pubescent cock, while at the same time he finger fucked my ass.
I remember moaning and cooing and lifting my ass and spreading my legs and wanting Troy’s finger to stay inside of me forever. I also remember when that finger hit my virgin prostate. All I could do was squeak out a quick, “Oh shit,” as my body shivered and shook and my dick jumped and twitched and I had an intense dry cum.
My hand had stopped working on Troy as I came, but he patiently waited for me to recover from my own high and then finish him off. The only light that was on was the lamp on Troy’s nightstand. It was more than enough to enable me to see his first shot of cum fly through the air and hit him in the chin. The next one landed between his nipples, and the next one his developing six-pack.
“Nice job, bro,” Troy whispered as his breathing returned to normal.
“What did you do in my ass? Something totally freaky happened. It felt, like, totally amazing.”
“I hit your prostate. I’ll tell you more next time.” I wondered if that prostate, whatever it was, was the reason Perry and Jung liked getting their asses fucked. It certainly felt fucking good, I thought.
“Okay.” I trusted him to tell me because he always did what he said he would do.
Troy pulled me tightly against him. “When you close your eyes to sleep, forget about Mr. Rodman. Think about all of the good things in your life today. You’ll find out that things are way better than you think they are.”
I told him I would. I turned so I was facing Troy. He pulled the covers over us as I took in my big brother’s warmth and smells. I did what he told me to do. I thought about what was good in my life. I thought about Troy, and Larry, and Andy. I thought about the Wonkeys. I thought about mom saying I could turn out for basketball, which I thought was good even if I’d never played it before. I know Larry was excited that I decided to turn out. I still felt a little depressed and anxious regarding Mr. Rodman, but I fell asleep thinking that things weren’t nearly as bad as I often thought they were.
<Larry Sanders>
It seemed strange to not see Phil at school on Monday. It seemed even stranger to have Mr. Rodman treat the Wonkeys in his class with icy politeness. He acted professional at the same time he let us know that he did not approve of Daniel, Jung, Q, and me standing up for Phil. We were all certain there really wasn’t a great deal he could do to us, but the situation still made us feel uncomfortable. Looking back, I firmly believe he had been read the riot act by the school administration for his behavior towards Phil. I am sure he was operating on a short leash, but that didn’t stop him from finding subtle ways to let us know he was displeased with what we had done.
I called Phil after school. I told him how pleased I was that he was turning out for Mr. Zimmer’s Jubilee team. Practice would be on Tuesday and I reminded Phil that my dad and I would be picking him up at his house. Having Phil on our team made me feel even closer to him. I also let him know that Perry had boned up in PE and would be doing his thing at lunch the next day. Phil was sorry he would be missing the fun.
The best news was Phil getting a perfect score, including both bonus questions, on his Tuesday makeup test. There was no doubt now that Phil hadn’t cheated on his test the week before. It also made Mr. Rodman look even worse.
A couple of years ago I ran across Leland Rodman at a math teachers’ conference. He was balding, his hair gray, and he displayed a good-sized paunch. He had to be nearing retirement. I debated whether or not to introduce myself and decided not to. But when we ended up in the same study group at a seminar that afternoon, I had no choice but to give him my name. Besides, even if I said nothing, it was on my name tag.
“Larry Sanders,” Rodman said. “That name sounds vaguely familiar.”
“I had you for math in sixth grade at Valley View Elementary.”
Rodman thought for a moment, then gave me a somewhat sardonic grin. “Oh, you were in that class. The advanced math class with the little rebels who made me happy to apply to another school district.” I suspected the reason he moved had more to do with suggestions from the school administration than our acts of rebellion.
“That would be us,” I said.
“Nice to see you making something of yourself and your math education.”
I nodded in thanks.
“Damn, what was the name of the little ringleader? The one who created all of the trouble with his cheating. How he got away with it I’ll never figure out.”
“Phil,” I said. He made no mention of me being one of the students who backed up Phil and who was part of the silent treatment we would give the teacher whenever we felt he wasn’t treating Phil or the rest of us fairly.
“Oh, yeah, Phil. I’ll never forget the little hoodlum. I wonder whatever became of him. Probably serving life in prison for something or other.”
“He managed to get a master’s degree in highway engineering and is the superintendent of roads for Lewis County.”
“I never would have guessed he’d have the brains or the moxie to accomplish something like that. So you’ve kept in contact with him then I take it.”
“He is my partner,” I said matter-of-factly.
Rodman’s jaw dropped and he looked away, embarrassed. “I knew that class would come to no good,” he muttered. Once an asshole, always an asshole, I thought.
We got through the two-hour workshop with the same kind of collaboration we’d had when I was in his sixth grade class—that of silent cooperation, communicating only when necessary.
When I told Phil that story he ended up laughing so hard he was crying. He finally spit out the same thing I had been thinking. “Once an asshole, always an asshole,” he chuckled.
Our Tuesday basketball practice was a revelation. While Phil had never played the game, it wasn’t like he’d never had a basketball in his hand. He was a natural at ball-handling and quickly proved himself to be very coachable.
The biggest thing that impressed us was his defense. He played defense like a banshee. He quickly picked up proper footwork and started getting in our faces during drills. It was obvious which aspect of the game he liked best. Coach Zimmer noticed it too, praising Phil’s hustle at every opportunity.
We’d had a good team before, but even with the sound defensive fundamentals Coach Zimmer taught us, we tended to be soft at the defensive end of the floor at times. That wasn’t going to happen anymore, especially after an incident during a three-on-three drill.
“Would you ease off, Miller,” Nate Maxie complained after Phil cut him off from making a baseline drive to the basket.
“I thought I was supposed to stop you from scoring,” Phil said with an air of innocence.
“You’re supposed to stop people in games, not in practice. We’re your teammates.”
“We’re supposed to practice hard so we can play hard, is what Coach says.”
“That is so bogus.”
Both boys looked ready for a physical conflict as they stared each other down. I waited for Phil to lose his temper and maybe cut short his basketball career by flattening Nate. But before things could escalate, Coach Zimmer stepped in.
“Gentlemen, let’s get ourselves calmed down.” Nate and Phil glanced at the coach, but neither one backed off. They resumed staring at each other.
“Center circle,” Coach ordered. What that meant is that the team goes to center court and sits in a semi-circle while Coach Zimmer sits facing us. He always sat at our level when we had our pre- and post-practice meetings. This was the start of my third season playing for Coach Zimmer and it’s the first time I can remember him stopping practice for a meeting.
We all sat down, ready to have our ass chewed. Instead Coach Zimmer reminded us that last year we’d finished one game short of the league playoffs. “Part of our problem last year was us being too nice in practice.” We all nodded; we’d heard this mantra before. “We seem to have found somebody who doesn’t want to be nice in practice.”
Coach Zimmer looked each of us in the eye as we sat silently. Then he looked at Nate and said, “You don’t like him checking you out of the gym, Nate? Then get even with him.”
“How?” Nate asked tentatively. “If I fight him you’ll kick me off the team.”
“Who said anything about fighting? Maybe you might try checking him out of the gym. You might try dropping the anchor and getting into a defensive stance, use your feet, put your nose in his belly button, and don’t let him get by you. You might try playing hard and tough in practice, and it just might show up on the floor. You guys want to win a championship? Then quit being so nice to each other and practice to win.”
It took another couple of weeks, but in each of our practices we could see Phil’s influence take over the team. Even I had been a nice guy on defense in practice and it showed up in my game as well. But it soon got to where we took it as a personal insult to have the man we were checking beat us to the basket. We were moving from being a very good team to being an in-your-face, we-dare-you-beat-us team. Our game moved up to a whole new level, and Phil’s take-no-prisoners attitude had a lot to do with it.
The time from Phil’s suspension to Thanksgiving went by quickly. There were the first basketball practices, Perry doing his boner flashing for us in the lunchroom, and the big return of Phil to school on Wednesday. He was in a sulky mood when he boarded the bus that morning and none of the Wonkeys, including me, could cheer him up. Finally, I cornered him on the way to lunch.
“Hey, dude, lighten up,” I told him. “You won. You got your perfect test, you’re back in school, and it looks like you’re going to make the Jubilee basketball team.” I could tell after only one practice that there was no way he would be cut. “It looks like everything is going pretty good for you.”
“I hate Turdman,” was all he said.
“So? We all hate him. He’s an asshole. Don’t let him run your life. It’s just for one period, and you’re the smartest math dude in the class except maybe for Jung. It’s just you and him haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Don’t let him run your life,” he repeated. “You sound like Troy.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I don’t know. I guess so. I keep listening and doing what he says and he’s almost always right, which kind of pisses me off. Sometimes I wish he was my dad instead of my big brother. He’s sure better at being my dad than my fucking father is.” He gave my ass a quick and surprising squeeze. “Let’s go eat.”
As soon as Phil and I walked into the cafeteria and sat at our lunch table, the Wonkeys could tell Phil was finished with his sulk. He was joking and kidding and talking hoops with us until the end of lunch. Nobody mentioned math or Mr. Rodman until we all got up to head for the student foyer.
“Two more periods and it’s time to kick ass in Turdman’s class,” Phil told us. There was no doubt—Phil Miller was back.
When sixth period came around we settled into our desks in Mr. Rodman’s class. He continued to treat us all professionally, but coolly. He was even icier where Phil was concerned. He wouldn’t call on him even if nobody else had a hand up and never picked him to work problems on the board.
If Phil had had to deal with Rodman by himself I think he would have either quit or gone into full rebellion. But he had the Wonkeys backing him, even Perry and Ben, who weren’t in Rodman’s class. He also had other kids in class, like Don Yates, on his side. As we all got used to the new routine of how Rodman was going to run the class, we soon did some of our own silent rebellion. For example, it was not unusual for Phil to be the only student to have a hand raised as the rest of us intentionally kept ours down. The initial time that happened set the tone for how things were going to work.
The first time we let Phil be the only one with a hand raised was about a week after he returned to class. Rodman ignored him and called on Brenda Wright, a smart and somewhat mousy girl. But, she’d gotten the word that on the fifth question Rodman asked, nobody but Phil would volunteer to answer. We all had confidence that Phil would know the answer to whatever the question was, and Phil had that same confidence in himself.
When Rodman ignored the lone raised hand and called on Brenda she simply pointed to Phil and said in her unassuming voice, “Excuse me, Mr. Rodman, but Phil has his hand up.” She then didn’t bother to answer the question.
He called on Rhonda Greer. She said the same thing. Rodman already knew what us co-conspirators would do if he called on one of us. I think he was surprised that two of his pet girls weretaking part in what was obviously a rebellion. He realized he had no choice but to call on Phil, who went to the board. He quickly and correctly worked out the problem. We had won yet another round in our little battle.
We were eleven and didn’t know much about the history of sit-ins. Yet in a sense we’d just staged a kind of sit-in in our refusal to participate in class when Phil was the only student with his hand raised. It didn’t take long for Rodman to call on Phil even when other hands were raised. We had received a lesson in the power of passive resistance.
As for Leland Rodman, he discovered that if he lost Brenda Wright and Rhonda Greer it meant he had lost the entire class. He was lucky we were the cream of the students in the sixth grade or he would have lost control of us entirely. As it was, the rest of the year consisted of an uneasy armistice between Rodman and the advanced math class.
My thoughts about the past were wandering all over the place during the day, mostly because they had to be focused on teaching my classes. There was no assembly for the team. That would be held on Thursday in order to allow time for planning. I had nothing to do with that phase of winning a championship, for which I was very grateful.
When I got home after school I took a stack of tests out of my briefcase. These were from my remedial math class. I was not really in the mood to correct them. Instead, my mind wandered back to sixth grade and Thanksgiving dinner with Phil’s family.
They arrived at one, which was right on time. Phil’s father was still in Korea, but I met Troy and Keegan for the first time. Phil had been worried that Keegan would find a way to get high before the dinner, but he seemed okay to me.
I saw him almost every day on the bus, but I never talked to him. He and Phil acted like they didn’t know each other when they boarded the bus. He was somewhat unfriendly when he came into the house, but Phil told me that was his usual state. My first impression of Keegan was not a good one. I don’t know if I felt that way because Phil prejudiced me against his brother or because his brother was a genuine jerk. I suspect it was the latter.
Keegan was skinny and pale, like he didn’t get enough to eat. I’d seen him stoned on the bus a couple of times, and I knew he was into the drug scene. His eyes had a dull look to them. He just didn’t look healthy.
I really liked Troy, however. He was a big fifteen-year-old with a solid build. He worked out almost every day as part of being a football player. He was friendly with a big smile and bright, shiny eyes. He didn’t treat me like a little kid at all but more like an equal.
We spent the afternoon playing games and eating. And then eating some more. I was glad Keegan showed a good appetite. He was even somewhat friendly during dinner. He was also surprisingly good at most of the games we played. Phil had told me that Keegan had shown athletic talent when he was little, but now he was more interested in hanging with the other stoners at school than participating in any kind of sports.
After dinner, Troy found a way to get the two of us alone for a few minutes.
“You’ve really been a great friend to Phil,” he told me. “Phil needed a friend badly.”
I blushed with embarrassment. Getting praised for being a friend to somebody I liked didn’t seem right to me. Phil was my friend because I liked him, not because I thought he needed a friend.
“He’s really getting to love basketball, even after two practices. I’m glad you got him involved on the team.”
“He’s really good on defense,” I said. “Nobody likes going against him.” Even then I could see that a lot of his love of basketball came from his being able to play the role of intimidator on defense.
“But he can’t shoot, right?”
“He’ll get better,” I said with a smile. It was true that Phil wasn’t a good shooter, but he did play tough defense and handled the ball well. He and I planned on getting to practice early to get some extra shooting in. While I was a good shooter, I knew practice would make me even better.
Even though Troy was acting a bit extra friendly in order to win me over, I liked him. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to put on the friend act, that I liked him just fine without it, but I was a little intimidated by the big teen, so I went with the flow. The next time I saw him he dumped the act and I ended up liking him even more.
My thoughts of the past were interrupted by Phil coming in from the garage. He gave me a sweet kiss on the lips and asked what I was cooking up for dinner.
“I was late coming home because of all the hoopla at school. Then I was going to start correcting these tests,” I told him, “but I ended up letting my mind wander.”
“Let me guess…those tests are from your remedial class.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you never like correcting their work.”
“They do okay. In fact they are doing rather well all things considered.”
“That would be because you’re a master teacher.” He thought for a moment. “As I recall the supply of leftovers is low. I know I am not in the mood for a frozen dinner, so what do you say we go to the Bear for pizza.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan to me. But I also worked out some after school, so I probably should take a quick shower.”
“I was going to say something after that kiss,” Phil grinned.
“Silence, peasant. I’ll be right back.”
I headed for the bathroom, grateful for how lucky I was to have had Phil in my life from the time I was a young boy. Most people don’t find their soulmate so early in life. I was one of the fortunate ones.
To be continued…