I was certain my queasy and debilitating feeling of frustration would end if I could only lick the trail of hair that descended, from Dusty's belly button, into the top of his jeans. One side of my brain told me to just do it, while, the other side told me I could destroy the friendship we'd enjoyed since starting kindergarten, thirteen years ago. I'd always felt a powerful attraction to Dusty Burton and had, always, to be close to him; and though he had never indicated that he felt the same about me, I hoped he had.
There could be no doubt his roguish, good looks had a great deal to do with the magnetic attraction I'd been concealing. His light brown, brush cut and piercing, blue eyes gave him the appearance of a ruffian and a troublemaker. Whenever there was a problem in the neighbourhood, It would be a foregone conclusion, on the part of all the grownups, that Dusty Burton was the instigator. Most hadn't bothered to really know him as I had. His constant, calculating grin and I-don't-give-a-shit attitude made him one of the most lovable characters you'd ever want to meet; and, in addition, he was a very amusing, practical joker.
The catalyst for the rebirth of my compulsion to eat out Dusty's butt hole had been Mr. Richardson. Had It not been for him, neither Dusty or I would've been under the car together. I was on my bike when I heard my name being called. "Terry! Terry Williamson, c'mon over here, son." He was pressure-washing his driveway. I waited till he'd stopped the noisy spray.
"Hi, Mr. Richardson, something I can do to help?" I asked. He motioned me to follow as he went into the garden, behind the house.
"I've got an old wreck I should've got rid of years ago," he said, "been takin' up good tomato-growing space, for 'bout thirty-five years now."
"It's not running, Mr Richardson?" I asked.
"Oh, heavens, no!" He said. "Can you believe it, boy, almost thirty-five years I've kept that automobile, sittin' on cinder blocks and covered with that tarp." He was incredulous that so much time had so quickly passed. "Yep, last time I drove her I was a fifty year-old."
"Wha' d'ya want me to do?" Something inside was telling me I wanted that car. "What kind is it, Mr. Richardson." I had a wonderful vision of a Mustang.
"A 1961 Pontiac," He said, proudly, as he pulled away the cover. "Yep, Terry, she's a Pontiac Parisienne. She was a mighty impressive car when she was in her prime." He wiped his misty eyes with a shirt sleeve. The awesome, canary-yellow convertible was way beyond kool. And no matter what, I had to have it.
"Wha' d' ya want done with it, Mr. Richardson?" I asked again.
"Well, son, tell ya what I'm prepared to do... Supposing, I was to offer you, say, a hundred bucks to get it out of here. You could get it over to the scrapyard, just over on Chambly Road. They'd likely give you at least fifty for the scrap value. I'm sure you'd make yourself a few bucks on the deal...what do ya think, Terry?"
"Oh, yeah, kool, ya can start plantin' yer tomatoes this afternoon," I told him. I was so excited I'd forgotten where I'd been going; and almost forgot my bike, too, in my rush to find Dusty.
Everything went surprising well. Dusty's dad had a twelve volt battery charger as well as a spray-paint compressor that would inflate tires. My parents never used our garage, so we'd have a place to work. Dusty borrowed his mom's car and pushed the Pontiac into our garage. While Mr. Richardson was suffering mixed emotions, Dusty and I were hyper with excitement. We had a convertible and a hundred bucks for repairs.
We added the necessary liquids to the battery and quick-charged it because we were so horny to see if the top would go down. Its joints complained bitterly until we did a little oiling. Afterwards, It performed admirably, seating itself, out of sight, behind the rear seat. Dusty scrutinized every square inch of its exterior while I sat behind the wheel, making wild squealing and screeching sounds as I swerved recklessly.
"Ter, it's incredible, there's not a ding anywhere...This mother-fucker looks like it just came out of the showroom!" Dusty shouted. Can you imagine what this baby'll be worth, once we get it running?"
"She's not for sale!" I shouted back at him.
"Have you got tools and crap around here?...Not a big deal if you don't. I'm sure my dad has anything we'd need. He practically lives at Tool Paradise." The next day we proceeded to get ourselves filthy. I was amazed at how much Dusty knew about engines. He'd have only to glance momentarily at an illustration in the Owners' Guide to assure himself everything was according to the book. "You know What, Ter, even the Owners' Guide, in this condition, is probably worth more than fifty bucks. I couldn't recall hearing Dusty talking financial matters since the days when he used to glom the neighbours' milk money from doorsteps, early ever morning,
By the way, Terry, I never told ya what happened to me, earlier today," Dusty said, all excited.
"What?" I asked.
"I was in Lachine on LaSalle boulevard an' you know how hot it was?"
