November 24, 2009
Fiction
Boilermaker
The preacher spoke soothing words in a low voice. A few solemn phrases about letting the family members have their time to say goodbye.
That’s the part Parker hadn’t been able to figure out: How the fuck was he supposed to say goodbye to someone who had never said hello? His father had spoken with his fists and with his belt. The man could say volumes with the flick of his thumb on his vintage lighter, a lighter now resting in Parker’s front pocket. Parker hadn’t used the Zippo yet. Not once. But he kept stroking the metal with the tips of his fingers.
He could picture the fat purple-tinged flame in his mind. Hear the click. See the way his father had looked with his cheeks indented, sucking hard on a Marlboro Red. Kicked back on the grass in front of his sagging bungalow. Wearing his everyday outfit of Levis, a t-shirt, brown leather belt.
Parker had his old man’s belt now, too. Worn brown leather, beat-up buckle, it fit around his waist snugger than it had around the old man’s. But he remembered being on the receiving end of the belt too many times. Or maybe not enough. Maybe he wouldn’t be such a fuck-up if his old man had taken him for a few more laps with the thing.
Tiff shut down that thought by resting one hand on his shoulder. He looked at her perky, nearly too-thin body in that black jersey dress, knew she’d be more comfortable buffing someone’s nails than standing around at this low-end funeral parlor. But she was trying. She’d hated his father with such a fierceness that simply the fact that she’d washed her birch-blonde hair and put on her favorite salmon lipstick was something Parker didn’t take for granted.
He felt someone watching him and turned to catch the glance of one of the pallbearers — pale blue watered-down eyes — recognized the man from warm evenings spent sitting on his father’s porch after work. Beer bottles and cigarettes. Horseshoes and lug wrenches. There were always men around his father’s house, and they were always fixing someone’s truck and bitching about someone’s boss or woman or both. That man — whatever the hell his name was — had to be as nearly old as Parker’s dad, but seemed younger.
Time hadn’t cut him down yet.
Parker grimaced as the man strode toward him, noticing his posture — rod straight, his expression calm, somber. This was the shit he hated the most. What was he supposed to say this guy? His mother had raised him for the better of his youth. But raised was an overstatement. He’d basically survived — living through constant turbulence as he’d shuttled back and forth. His dad’s home had been violent and his mom’s had been lonely — she was always out looking for one more chance.
“You’re Oz’s boy,” the man said, and Parker tried to stand up a little taller. He shook the man’s hand, noticing the shadow of blackness in his knuckles, some dirt there that would stay until his own grave, no matter how much he scrubbed. Parker could feel Tiffany watching him. She couldn’t wait to escape.
“Yes Sir, Mr. McFadden.” The name came back right then — fifteen years since he’d seen this man, but he could still picture him leaning on the back of a truck, smoking, grease in the creases of his jeans. He waited to see what the man would say — what everyone said: They took him too soon, or Sorry for your loss. What he said was, “Clint, not Mr. McFadden. Do you want to get a beer?”
And suddenly Parker really fucking wanted a beer.
He turned to Tiffany and handed her the keys. Set her free. She looked at him with wide-eyed relief, gave him a kiss on the cheek, didn’t say another word. She wanted out. Back to her friends and her pink princess phone and raspberry-flavored wine coolers. Away from the stench of the working class boys here in this room. Tiff was a hair dresser, but she did not like to hang out in the blue collar world. She had a Pomeranian. And she worked in a salon, she was quick to say — not a beauty parlor.
Back to Clint’s truck parked in the rear — which looked like it had to look. Creamsicle Orange. Rusted bumper. With an engine that ran like a dream. Clint drove them to an old man’s bar. Probably to his old man’s bar. Jukebox. Girl behind the counter with a beehive — no, not a girl. Someone who’d been a girl once upon a time long before Parker was born, and who never updated her look.
Two bottles of something cold and two shots with the beer — rear booth. No words. Not at first. Then, “Your father drank boilermakers.”
Parker nodded.
“He could put them away.” Parker fingered the lighter in his pocket. He could feel the belt around his waist. So when Clint touched the buckle under the table, he shivered.
He’d thought of giving the worn leather over to Tiffany. Of trying to explain in words what he needed from her. And yet, he couldn’t picture the look in her hazel eyes, couldn’t handle the look he knew he’d see there.
Clint took him home. Led him to a bedroom that only held a bed and a dresser. Told him to take off his suit coat. Hang it on the back of the door.
Parker couldn’t find the words — but he heard them in his head. “What are you doing? The fuck you think you’re doing?” As the man yanked open his father’s buckle and pulled the belt free. Parker’s eyes took a tour of the room — looking everywhere but at Clint. Helpless and unable to do what he knew he had to do.
Clint didn’t seem to mind. He wrenched down Parker’s slacks then pushed him over the mattress. When Parker flinched, tried to stand up, Clint got tough, gripping both of his wrists in one hand and holding him steady.
Fucking hell, man. Clint had thirty pounds on him and twenty years at least, had to be fifty-something. Yet there was undeniable power in his grip, and when Parker gave a test pull, he heard the low chuckle under Clint’s breath.
“You’ll hold still for this, boy. If you know what’s good for you.”
Parker turned his head away, bit his lip, felt the terror in his heart. But he stayed put as Clint whipped the tar out of him, licking him long and fast with that old leather belt, before kicking his legs apart. Parker crying for the first time in god knew how long. Not just tears streaking his face, but sobs — a sound he didn’t recognize, one he couldn’t remember ever having made before.
There’d been power in the way Clint held his wrists, but now there was just the mechanics of the act. Spit on his asshole, Clint’s cock pressing there. Parker couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe, but he did what Clint had told him.
He held still.
Parker knew he was going to get fucked, and yet he was unable to process the thought clearly. His eyes caught the open closet. He saw a pair of old workboots inside. Just one pair. Saw the everyday plaid shirts. The jeans folded neatly. Clint had been wearing his one good suit for the funeral. Like his dad had one good suit — the one he’d been married in–the one that the dragged out for every wedding and every funeral after, stretching out the fabric as the beer had built his gut.
Something turned over inside of Parker.
He could feel the head of Clint’s cock pressing forward, and then suddenly, he was filled. He shut his eyes. He’d never been fucked before, and the sensation was made his thoughts go gold and scarlet in his mind. Pictures flicking too fast to see anything but a blur. His dad’s fist around a beer bottle. Clint’s hand around a wrench. A childhood dipped in sepia tones and the sound of a skip on a phonographic record.
He felt himself getting closer, and he groaned when Clint reached under his body to wrap those thick fingers around his hard-on. Parker felt Clint release inside of him, and he swore when he came Jesus fucking Christ. He’d never come like that before. The power in it. The tears were still on his cheeks — he didn’t know where to look, what to do. Clint pulled back, helped him up. Took him to the shower. Stripped him down and washed him off with a gentleness that brought the tears up once more.
Cracked tiles on the wall. Hairline fracture in a mirror clouded with steam.
Afterwards, he dressed in silence. But he watched as Clint took his belt and hung the buckle from the hook on the back of the door. Parker knew he’d be back. And he knew that’s where the belt had hung before, that’s where the belt belonged.
• • •
According to the East Bay Literary Examiner, is “Erotica’s Own Superwoman.” She’s also been called a “literary siren” and a “Trollop with a Laptop.” Her work has appeared in over 100 anthologies, including Sex for America edited by Stephen Elliott, Purple Panties edited by Zane, and Best Women’s Erotica 2010 edited by Violet Blue. She is the editor of 50 erotic anthologies, including the upcoming Alison’s Wonderland (Harlequin, 2010), and the author of 25 naughty novels, including Melt With You (Cheek). Ms. Tyler serves up coffee and snark 24/7 at http://alisontyler.blogspot.com.
