Homeopathic Therapy

by

Josie

 

PART II: Searing Afternoon Heat

Chapter III

The return trip home had been unusually quiet one for the Patrick and his aunt. The course of events that day had been quite unexpected and thoroughly exhausting. Filled with twists and turns to consider and negotiate, not at all unlike the zigzagging course of the river road they followed home. Much like her nephew, Edith had much to think about as she puttered along in her old rickety Renault. Around one bend in the road she could see all the bright lights and the colorful life of Las Oasis far off on the Nevada side of the river out her windshield. Then around yet another bend there was still another view. One of scattered Oak and Saguaro Cactus and the quiet reserve of the country life that distinguished the vast Arizona landscape on this side of the river. The road wound back and forth much like her thoughts as they followed the course of the river, the only difference was at least she knew where the road was leading.

Patrick's thoughts were of a like nature, just as you would expect after his harrowing day. From the visit to the barber to his meeting Nicky, it all had so many unexpected twists and turns. He sat quietly, his thoughts swaying too and fro with the yaw of the car as they rounded each bend in the road. Around one bend he'd see the scattering of scraggly Ajo Oak struggling to grow in the parched desert and think of his own struggle to grow up big and strong. The promise had such a strong allure he wanted to persevere, but like the scraggly Oak he wondered if he could endure the forces that would have him give up. Then around another bend he'd see the lights of Las Oasis off in the distance across the boarder and think of Nicky. Once a scraggly boy like himself, he had endured the forces and though blemished by the painted face, showed that there was hope even for him.

They returned home a little later than expected, but still early enough to see her next door neighbor, Mrs. Crawford, still tending her garden. As she parked the car in the drive she stopped to wave to the kindly old woman, a woman still rather spry for her advanced years. She was untypical of the aged who lived in the retirement enclave. Most preferred to remain inside, out of the scorching heat, cloistered away much like Patrick and herself. Then again, that's why she chose to live here.

Tucked-away in a secluded little cul-de-sac it was quiet, small and the elderly, retired residents kept to themselves. No radios blaring, hot rods screeching or kids screaming. It was a reclusive desert paradise. That is except for the satellite dishes cluttering the landscape. Something Edith had never scribed to, nor tempted to bring into her house. Simply put, being part of the "aerial" nation was not what Edith Whipple was all about, and the solitude and the isolated suited her just find.

Exhausted from the long day they prepared a light meal before retiring to the family room to unwind as Patrick had become accustom. Set in her ways, Edith regimented the evening events with precision, seldom varied and precise as the tic-tock heartbeat of the great grandfather clock that stood beside the fireplace. They sat down to read or engage a craft promptly at six, a hot pot of tea served exactly at seven and preparation for bed always began at eight.

Those hours were a quiet time meant to help gather the inner resources after a hard days work. Where together they could share company, engage a craft or simply enjoy the solitude of the desert-scape framed in the picture window. Or if he chose, play the piano. A talent of his inherited from his mother and something he was very good at.

This night was expected to be no different with one slight exception. Knowing what a particularly difficult day it had been for her nephew she wanted to share a leisurely moment with him as he unwrapped the souvenir sent from Paris. Surely Barbara was right. It could only do a world of good for her to share these moments with him. So with a demonstrable showing of her shared excitement, she handed him the package and hugged him about the shoulders. With her head next to his and a smile to match, he quick as a wink unwrapped and then set the French magazine on his lap.

"Les Diex de la Soleil" was not entirely what either had expected, although from the look upon their faces it would have been hard to tell. Edith looked on with a smile frozen in place not wanting to be impolite. While Patrick smiled not wanting to show his disappointment as he continued to turn the pages. That is, until he got to the three page fold-out of Sgt. Rock posing in a majestic Front Double Bicep. And like all those posing in the "The Gods of the Sun" magazine, he was completely in the nude. As in barring anything other than a bullet bandoleer and a huge weapon – or two! There he paused as the big-as-life pages unfolded in his lap. Flushed red as a peony, his jaw went lax and the tremor of his hands would allow him to go no further.

As Edith saw it, it had to be that huge gun he carried in his hands. Not the Glock knife strapped to his thigh, not the snarled face shaded with black camouflage. Not even the burning village sitting in the background held more prominence than that awe-inspiring weapon now seen lax, at rest, dangling as if spent toward the ground.

"And thank goodness," Edith thought to herself, quick to see the humor in it all. If that mighty cannon of his had been raised threateningly upright, taut and erect like the head of a viper prepared to strike, she seriously doubted there'd be enough room on the page. Just the sight of that huge weapon caused a flush, and as she fanned herself with one hand, she squeezed him about the shoulders with the other, and offered in affirmation. "My, he certainly has a big gun, doesn't he?"

Undeniably, that 7.62mm 6 barrel revolving Mini-gun he carried was a very fierce weapon, more than a handful, or three! Then again, no more lethal than Edith's quick tongue! Both deadly in the wrong hands, and if not careful, will quickly make a mess of things if shot off without forethought. Especially if you're not quick enough to duck out of the way, something Patrick should have done, but failed to do. So now you're probably wondering why he didn't defensively duck-and-weave or just toss down the magazine and head out the door?

As to understanding the whys and the wherefores, well, that's the subject of this story. Relationships are complex by their nature and as for young Patrick Whipple, let's not be so quick to pass judgment, at least not yet. Or else you might draw the same unwarranted conclusions his aunt apparently had. And we wouldn't want that. Young Patrick, our young man in the mirror who doesn't like himself all that much and who blames himself for his failings, already has enough on his plate to deal with.

Keep in mind that much like ourselves, Patrick is not a finished product. He's just a few days short of eighteen after all, and like this story, Patrick may yet find a way to "measure up." Who knows, perhaps he's destined to become the next Muhammad Ali. A man who certainly knew how to duck-and-weave then toss it all out and head out the door – Then again, maybe not.

__

__

So the week passed with all the routine familiarity to which Patrick had become accustom. During the morning and after school hours he remained tied to his aunt's apron, and when not working beside her, he filled the house with the pure joy of his piano playing. By night however, things had changed - especially their after supper quiet time. In large part due to the new French magazine, but also due to his aunt's new affability, readily cozying up to him as never before.

Once again, it was an innocent gesture, least in her way of thinking. Like everything else with Edith Whipple, you got what you saw. She was an amazingly simple woman, decent and homey. A Mother Hubbard, if you will. But there was also a painstaking sense of diligence about the woman that stood in contrast to that classical storybook simplicity. In the one hand she was wistfully doting; in the other, strictly thorough. Thorough in an excessively vigilance way, this Mother Hubbard made sure her beloved pet was never without a bone.

Whether he was in the need of a warm hug now and again, or a new blouse, her pantry was stocked full in abundance. That also applied to his therapy. If it called for 'juicing up the bone,' or whatever, it was her pleasure to offer that too. Of course the juiced up bone she felt obliged to feed him was not altogether like buying him new clothes. As Ms. Stanton had suggested, that required a bit more intimacy as she embraced his interest, explored his needs. Something very much on her mind when she again sat with him to share his new French magazine. "See how his clean shaven body shows the value he placed on good hygiene . . . and," she inhaled deeply, "handsomely enhances his features."

Well, conjure up whatever images you may. Much like the Mona Lisa's smile, I know that not all of you will see this most unlikely picture I've painted in the same way. Some might see Edith's crooked smile as a sign of hedonism, while others might see a compassionate Mrs. Hubbard. But as the picture I've painted of her is not yet complete, there is no way for you or I to tell for sure.

Not so with Edith however. She knew exactly what was behind her smile as she cozily snuggled up, clutched him firmly and indulged his interest in those beautiful boys. She did so with earnest in her very thorough way. Like old Mrs. Hubbard of fairy tale fame she was decent and homey. Slightly more vigilant, but in her own way you could say she added just as nicely to the reading of that classic storybook rhyme. "As she reached for his bone, she heard the dog moan, so needing relief from the tension he was prone."

Okay, okay! I hear the squawking! There are limits and matters of civility that even I, Josie, must adhere to – and I apologize. I just thought it was important that we, together, explore the relevancy of his becoming the next Muhammad Ali. Remember? The possible future scenario for Patrick I outlined previously for you to consider? And if you should find that ducking and weaving is not his forte, then I thought I'd introduce another possibility for you to consider. One possibly more apt, but for that I'll let you decide. Like this one you might find headlining the morning papers:

"Dateline: June 15, 2007, River Bend, Arizona - Sixty-six year old Edith Whipple was a victim of assault today in her home. Mrs. Whipple shown here with her Boater-hat and a broomstick stuck up her ass is a long time resident of River Bend and member of the Ladies Auxiliary and Lady Pioneers. The assailant now in custody has been identified as seventeen year old Patrick Whipple, a nephew and impending graduate of Dobb's military academy. According to sources Mr. Whipple turned violent when the poor, defensive, frail old woman tried to help him overcome his addiction to a male nudist magazine. Mrs. Whipple was reported to have told authorities, "Good, you got him! Now lock the little turd up and throw away the key!"

Chapter IV

So went the week until it was again Sunday and time for his appointment with Barbara Stanton. They started out early enough to give rickety old Mr. Renault ample time to get there and time enough to indulge a favorite pastime of Edith's. To see and be seen out and about amongst the Sunday morning window shoppers on Bancroft Lane was a must for her. With her handsome nephew in hand, she proudly strolled along the walkway as if on display, then joined the stream of early morning shoppers entering the M.J. Grant department store.

"You're right, the light peach looks just lovely," the elderly saleswoman who inhabited the junior wear department that day offered in opinion. "Interlocking cotton knit, pretty detailed trim . . . perfect," the good lady beamed while holding up the short sleeve T-top to Patrick's shoulders to assess the fit. Of course, mindful of the sale's commission she was careful to disregard both the little lace bow on the neckline and Edith's unusual taste in boy's wear.

"It comes complete with matching shorts or Capri pants if you like . . ." She smiled and Edith nodded, though only listening with half an ear as yet another style outfit in size 10-12 petite had her eye at the moment.

She saw the garment on an adjoining rack, among the others found on this nebulous expanse between the boy's and girl's wear. That place where the mix of garments mattered only to those who cared to filter through the mish-mash of displays to make the distinction - something that wasn't on her mind at the moment. After all, he was a difficult boy to properly fit.

Given his unusual combination of girth and length she found the boy's sizes too short, the men's too wide and the selection slim to none. Whereas his cadet Blue trousers and shirts were custom tailored to fit, that was far too expensive a proposition for everyday wear. Especially when so many reasonable ready-made alternatives were available if you're willing to broaden your prospects. As a practical woman, that was something Edith had acquiesced to long ago. As for Patrick, well, the tops, shorts and stockings did fit comfortably there could be no denying that. Likewise, the smooth, light and airy fabrics conformed in all the right ways to all the right places. Not at all like the scratchy, stiff cadet Blues that irritated his sensitive skin and were so stifling in the heat. A joy he could live without, at least until he grew into the proper boy's sizes.

All the same, even had she bothered to look it was doubtful she'd have found anything as suitable on the "Tuff-boy" display. Leastwise, nothing as suitable as the French Terry-knit outfit in canary-yellow she had her eye on. With the matching pair of knee-high stockings, she thought the delightful "Angelina" top and matching flare-leg, drawstring shorts would coordinate nicely with her floral print dress and hand knit shawl - And so it did.

The outfit was one of her favorites. Not too loud with the right touch of style, or so she believed as they made their way through the congested isles of disbelieving onlookers. Then again outside, where the glare of the onlookers was as intense as the blazing Arizona sun. No less so than when she asked her dashing young nephew to make use of his sunshade so the sun wouldn't damage his blanched skin or burn the top of his flattop head.

Edith thought it was a great way to spend the morning. Then when later that day they walked in to Ms. Stanton's clinic and saw Nicky, she was sure it was going to be a great way to spend the afternoon. Finding Nicky there wasn't altogether unexpected. Still, she feigned surprise to see that androgynous man-boy again, especially in view of Patrick. Still, what pleased the aunt did not seem to please the nephew.

Not two feet in the door he was already slouched over in melancholy and Ms. Stanton's screeching voice could be heard reverberating off the walls directing Nicky to fetch a corset. ". . . Oh, and Nicky, please find a pretty one this time."

Of course if Edith had in mind a delightful afternoon chat with Jane over a hot cup of tea sadly it was not to be. Jane had immediately cornered her to discuss a birthday gift she had in mind and wanted Edith to accompany her to the boutique to better coordinate their selection of gifts. Then without ado she wrapped her arm in hers and quickly ushered her outside to her waiting Karman-Ghia. "Don't worry Barbara," she called out over her shoulder before the door closed in their wake. "I'll have her back promptly at four."

Ms. Stanton rubbed her hands together, beamed a grin and quick as a blink undressed Patrick to conduct her cursory examination. Nicky returned in short order holding in his hands a white silk corset swathe with pink lace appliqué. Then holding up the silken finery for Patrick to see, he fluttered his long lashes, pursed his painted red lips and blow him a kiss, "Peach'esth, it's perfect for you."

It took all four arms and their combine strength to get him down from his 23" waist to a trim 20"; A Herculean feat given his 52kg (114 lb), 174cm (5'-7) wafer-thin frames. Not a lot there to pare down, but enough of a struggle to leave him gasping and nearly faint. He looked to be strangled in the white silk garment, and given the unlikely contrast with his flattop he looked every bit the curious creature. Squelched by the tightness and stiff as a board, he was a pigeon-toed, sissified mannequin from top to bottom, with two salient, pink plums offering up a proud academy salute, firm and erect.

"Nicky, quickly get a damp towel. The dear looks near faint."

____

Poor Mrs. Whipple, all she got for her struggle to squeeze her portly rear in the small seat of the Karman-Ghia was a run in her nylon hosiery and a bruise on the knee. It was a heroic effort, but it still took a helping hand from Jane to free a heel caught up in the stick-shift. The poor lady was in tatters and wishing she had not volunteered to come along. Jane, accustom to the inconveniences thought nothing of it as she helped to push a foot here, pull a leg there until the doors finally closed she was able to start out. She was very proud of "her" new car and all too willing to overlook the anguish written on Mrs. Whipple's face.

Well . . . the car wasn't exactly Jane's. Ms. Stanton had given it to Nicky to help him get to and from his job at the Puss n' Poodle club. A convertible, it was brand new and quite an eye-catching vehicle indeed. Custom painted cotton candy pink with white leather interior trimmed with a fluffy, synthetic pink fur, it was a chick-mobile in the truest sense of the word. An original valley-girl's dream machine, garish and prim, with its g-string hanging on the mirror and a one-of-a-kind perfume aerator attached to the A/C. Not the most sedate way to negotiate the quiet, tree lined streets of their small suburban community, but the perfect "gift" for the glitz and glitter across the river.

Well . . . that wasn't exactly true either. It wasn't a gift. Barbara said he could pay her back helping out at the club after hours. There was always an odd job or two, where a pretty boy could lend a hand, or whatever. Something Jane couldn't have been more than happy about, or so she said as she continued on talking. It was a one-sided discussion that began when they met up earlier at Barbara's house and continued on nonstop as they puttered down the lane. "After all, she needs all the help she can get. She's involved with so much I can hardly see how she makes it through the day."

Well . . . that was true. Although that wasn't something Edith Whipple knew a lot about, but with her politeness light on auto pilot she just smiled as Jane continued to rattle on. "With so much on her plate, you know, with her practice here and the club in Las Oasis. She's a very busy woman."

"I can imagine." Well . . . actually she couldn't! Fact is, it wasn't until quite recently Edith learned of Barbara's other enterprise. The woman she knew was a professional practitioner of homeopathy with a little practice squirreled away in her quiet suburban community, and she was beginning to realize what she really knew about her she could fit in her sewing thimble.

"Besides, Nicky so enjoys the job and the money! Good lord, do you know that besides this beautiful car he earns two hundred dollars a night . . . plus tips!" she intentional stressed the "plus tips" with an exaggerated tone, though she didn't have to. That kind of money was likely to capture anyone's attention. A staggering amount when you consider a house like Edith's cost less than twenty-thousand and earning fifty dollars a day was big money. It certainly was enough to have her ear. "My word, that's the most generous wage I've ever heard."

"Isn't it though? And the benefits . . . Why I'm so excited about it all. You know, not that long ago I could hardly sleep at night worrying about what was to become of him. Being left to raise a boy not too different from your Patrick, only worse, he was an aimless lout destine for who knows what. And just look now. What Barbara has done for him, and how she 'helped him find his rightful place in the world' is beyond anything I could have imagined."

"Find his rightful place in the world!" Jane was pushing all the right buttons, and her well chosen words sounded off like the winning payout on a slot machine. "Cha-ching!"

Edith had heard the sentiment expressed before. In Barbara's office; and though she hadn't given much thought to it then, it suddenly began to mean so much more. Of course, she had no reason to suspect the thought might have been intentionally planted. All she could see was the visions of her Patty driving down the street in his new pink Karman-Ghia his face glowing with pride in himself and his newly acquired affluence. A picture that also included her waving good-bye dressed ever so smartly in her expensive jewelry and posh cashmere.

They pulled up to the M'Lady Boutique, parking in front and close enough to the window display to see the latest in exquisite lingerie. It was a place that catered to the affluent and hardly affordable on Edith's meager budget. So imagine her surprise when Jane began pointing out a pair of gartered stockings of the finest Chantille lace as her idea of a gift - for her Patty! Beside the mannequin another wearing a shear, white silk baby-doll nightie and panty set lavishly trimmed with Flemish lace appliqué.

"That one," she pointed to as an ideal coordinate – the ideal gift for her to buy her nephew. Edith was breathless. The mental photo she had taken of her Patty driving down the lane in his shiny new car with a big smile was suddenly shattered when she realized they wanted him to wear a painted face for the picture! Something that not only came as a shock, it also piqued her pride. She wondered what Edith could possibly be thinking of her, or her nephew.

"Jane, I think you've got this all wrong," she ventured with a flush. "I'm proud to say my Patty is a young cadet and wants to join the army to serve his country with honor and dignity."

"Yes and my Nicky is a dancer. I hope you don't think any less of him, because I don't."

"Oh no, I didn't mean to imply . . ."

"I'm sure you didn't. It's just costuming after all, nothing more. No different than combat boots and helmet with camouflage netting. Certainly no different than what you wish to make of it. Barbara has taught me that we're all different, but equally perfect. Though I must admit the idea also seemed contrary to me at first, but where would my Nicky be if I hadn't listened to Barbara's advice? She knows what ails children and as it has proven out, no one could have been the wiser."

It was the mention of Barbara that caused Edith's retreat. Jane could see it written on her drawn face as she looked away to avert her gaze. With her fingers nervously fidgeting with a tissue in her hand, she looked as if a woman at war with herself. Inside, the battle raged between the two minds of the conflicted woman. Outside, she looked as if some dark hidden secret had just been exposed to the light of the bright Arizona sun. There was a lingering, silent pause, each waiting to see who would take the next critical step. It was an important moment and one Jane knew was going to have to work or - she had fun with the thought – they'd have to resort to Barbara's dastardly Plan B!

Leaning in close she took hold of Edith's hand, and without further delay went straight for the juggler. ". . . Besides, they'll look lovely with the pumps Barbara has bought for his birthday. You wouldn't want to disappoint now, would you?"

Jane kissed her softly on the cheek. Then after lingering a long moment she pulled away and smiled. "Come now, just for fun . . . It's an exciting new world out there and you'll not want to miss a minute of it."

Poor Edith, she felt as might an accomplice who kept the car running as her partner in crime fled with the money in hand from the bank. It was a blood-pumping, exhilarated guilty flutter that left Mrs. Longing reveling in the heat and Mrs. Pride nearly faint. And calling out above the maelstrom, Jane's resonate voice, "You wouldn't want to disappoint."

So not "wanting to disappoint," she lay down her armor, and her arms at the feet of Mrs. Longing. Then leaving her good sense to wilt in the hot desert sun, she reached for her purse and opened the door . . .

____

. . . Stepping out and closing the door behind, Nicky hurriedly left to retrieve a damp towel from the kitchen. Patrick was rendered rigid and immobile, fixed in place on wobbly knees by the corset. Barbara stood close by holding his hand to steady him awaiting Nicky's quick return. For a moment she was sure he was about to faint, but by the time Nicky had returned with a damp towel to press upon his forehead he had already regained enough of his composure to walk him toward the gymnast mat.

To say that the confining garment rid the poor boy of his slouching would have not have given the garment its due. The restricted mobility forced the subdued creature to have to walk with a mince and caused his hips and robust bottom to sway to accommodate the shortened stride. Like some iron-fisted gripe it robbed him of his breathe, and like an extension of her hand rendered the mummified boy defenseless.

All this was done with the utmost discretion of course. Ms. Stanton was the consummate professional after all and, to protect her good reputation, she told him she had his aunt's enthusiastic and wholehearted approval to ratchet up his program. "There'll be no nonsense from this moment on," she warned him, and if he thought her demands were too severe . . . well, he'd just have to, "soldier-up, dig deep for some of that Sgt. Rock grit and bear it."

This was a whole new Ms. Stanton. He could see that in the suspect glimmer in her eye when she tightened the lacing of the corset to the point of catastrophic failure. And along with that glazed look in her eyes she wore an enigmatic grin as she went about her heavy-handed ways. All far beyond even her usual level of insensitivity and seemingly quite calculated, as if part of a script she was yet to have him read.

But how could that script read any different? He had always been compliant to the nth degree. After all, he wanted to measure-up, and the determination it took to be somebody special was a man thing made of grit and bravado. He always dug deep for what it took to sustain and bear it. Even in the face of so little progress he never gave up trying, doing so with a relish, hoping one day he'd overcome the malaise that seemed to grow worse, not better by the day. If he could do more, he didn't know how.

Surely she could see that, yet instead of a sympathetic pat on the back she gave him an unsympathetic grin becoming more strident and heavy-handed by the day. Almost as if to break his will, but why? Just trying to count all the possible reasons caused his suspicions to grow exponentially, and as his suspicions grew so did his mistrust. Where once he believed in her and all she was doing, now he didn't.

Obvious he would've liked to slap Ms. Stanton senseless and run off to a safe place. That is, if he could. Like everything else about his life these things were easier said than done. In truth, he could no more stand up to her than he could his aunt. His aunt had surrendered complete control to her without demur, and what voice he did have Ms. Stanton heard with just one ear. The other focused on what she was bent on doing whether he agreed or not. All seemingly designed to entrap him yet further, diminish him into a little prissy, like Nicky, that paragon of manliness.

Still, not all was without hope. As is the case in even the darkest tale there was always the possibility the villain might lose the upper hand or unwittingly expose a vulnerability. Until then, he'd just have stand by and let his suspicions grow and hatred fester as he considered ways to save himself from her clutches. A resolution he made to himself, though it certainly wasn't going to happen this day.

Nope! Today the master craftswoman and her young apprentice were determined to finish the assembly of their project in the works. All done forthright without hedging or subtlety, and began immediately the moment he began his floor exercises to firm up the flab on his chest and buttock. Exercise that only seemed to exacerbate instead of improve his condition. Punishing under any circumstance, but bound in that corset and with Nicky all over him like a tight pair of pants, he was in a constant state of swoon. The whole while they assessed, fit and hammered away from stem-to-stern on their version of the Queen Mary, and following his every move was that haunting, purrr-plexing grin, glowing pearly white against the darkened backdrop.

It was left to Nicky to pound home the finishing nail. Perched upon the white sheeted gurney head down, bottom up like a ship in dry-dock, Nicky was given the task of planting the new bowsprit – new, as in one step up the linear order! To make her point, she handed Nicky the post with all the ceremony of a sea captain inaugurating a new vessel then stepped aside to salute. But a ship he was not, at least not yet, and if they planned on turning this dingy into the Queen Mary it wouldn't come without a struggle, or so he'd try.

A new wise saying: Be careful what promises you make, even to yourself, because the expert deck hand can right a troublesome fitting. Not so much a broken heart, but then his heart wasn't what the heavy hand of Barbara Stanton sought to correct. A thorough job she did with it too. She had that wretched fitting shipshape and ready to do duty in less time than it took to say . . .

"You-whooo," that would be Jane, chirpy and buoyant as a Merry-andrew returning from shopping with Mrs. Whipple in tow. "What a lovely day."

"Ah-hu, it is indeed," that would be Barbara, miles away in her thoughts as she attaches the second liter bag of her special substance to the tubing.

"Oh look, Miss'esth Stanton, pretty gifts," that would be Nicky, sunny as a spring day as he fastidiously wiped his hands clean of the lubricant. "I already got my gift."

"Yes you do. You're giving the gift that just keeps giving," added Barbara, reaching up to pinch his cheek in passing. Then turning to face Edith, she smiled and motioned for her to come and stand beside her. "Almost done, Edith. In all, I think our little Musclemaniac has taken the lot rather well."

Edith joined Barbara and looked down at her nephew. She heaved a deep sigh, and then embraced his grateful smile as she wiped the glint of moisture from his lashes. Then without further ado, she reached up to turn the petcock.

Chapter V

Monday morning 9 a.m:

". . . Rogers, present sir! Cummings, present SIR! Donaldson, present sir! Whipple . . . Whipple?" Ssgt. Web put down the morning roll call and looked over the top of his glasses toward the empty seat that should have been occupied by Cadet Patrick Whipple. That would be S-s-g-t, as in Staff Sergeant, and Web, as in Patrick's disgruntled headmaster. Dressed smartly in his Dress Blues, the gray haired gentlemen looked quite distinguished with a long track of stripes and chevrons down the length of his sleeves, his shoes shining with a glassy luster and on his dress jacket all the medals from his distinguished service in three wars. Standing tall at the podium, he leered with a scowl as he studied his class of cadets. All sitting stiffly upright in their cadet blues, with hands folded on top of their desk and a blank look on their faces.

"Stewart!" He barked with the ferocity of a cornered Pit Bull. "Sir!" A tall, red headed boy in the front row smartly snapped to attention and shouted his response. "It says here Cadet Whipple signed in this morning. Where is he?"

"Sir, I don't know, Sir!"

"Check the head, quick time, boy!"

"Yes, SIR!" As young Cadet Stewart hurriedly replied, a pent up snicker rolled through the room, but quickly quieted when headmaster Web glared with a menace for signs of the culprits. The room was so quiet you could hear a cough down the hall as Ssgt. Web walked slowly up and down the isles to size up the matter. As he approached the rear of the class he heard a shuffling coming from inside the coatroom.

Although a subtle movement, it wasn't hard to pick up on any noise in a room absent any sound other that one owns breath. Knowing to look inside he opened the coatroom door, reached in to switch on the light and quickly scanned the long line of dress coats all neatly hung along the perimeter of the 8x10 room. "Sir," Cadet Steward shouted after again coming to attention upon his return. "Sir, I didn't find Cadet Whipple, Sir!"

The snickering again flared up and thinking he'd have to quickly get to the bottom of this, he reached in to switch off the light. Having a problem finding the switch with his hand, he looked in to locate it and saw what had been out of his field of vision until now. In the corner and next to the light switch was Cadet Whipple, buttoned inside his coat and hanging a foot off the ground from the coat hook. The poor boy looked a scarecrow with his shoulders pushed up around his ears and his arms trapped in the jacket sleeves hanging out straight.

"Damn it, boy!" Ssgt. Web growled as he hurried to unhook Patrick to let him down. "I can't take my eyes off you even for a second!" With Patrick again safely on his feet he noticed that other than the ¾ waist coat he had been buttoned into, he appeared to otherwise be without any clothes.

Well . . . not exactly. It seems that once the headmaster unbuttoned his coat he saw that he was not entirely without cover. Though not much besides a short, pleated white tennis skirt and what looked like a training bra. "DAMN . . . BOY! If you're not the most pathetic pansy I've ever seen," Ssgt. Web glared down at him with his fists resting on his hips and in a rather bad mood. "How'd you get into this, boy?"

Poor Patrick, now in tears, was beside himself and to ashamed to speak. "Stewart, tell me quick boy, what do you know about this!"

"Sir, I don't know anything, Sir!"

"Nothing, BOY?" Ssgt. Web gave him a menacing glare. "Sir, only what I've heard, Sir."

"What you've heard . . . hmmm, well . . . What is it boy?"

"Sir, yes sir," young Cadet Stewart replied, then lowering his voice to a barely audible mumble, "I heard some boys wanted to fag him, Sir."

"FAG HIM . . . who did?" Web barked out now entirely pissed off. "Sir, I can't say, Sir!"

"Can't say BOY?"

Sir, yes Sir, I'm bound by my word of honor, Sir!" The boy bravely replied, but fearing the worse, looked away to avoid his glare. "Word of honor my ass, BOY! Before I'm through you'll be willing to incriminate your grandmother. So where's his clothes?" he asked as he pulled up on the hem of the short skirt revealing a pair of shiny, white silk panties. "Holy, mother of . . ."

"Bathroom, Sir," the boy followed.

"Well go get them and be quick about it boy!"

"Can't Sir, they're in the toilet and someone has used the facility, Sir." The tittering turned to laughter. Ssgt. Web scowled in that direction then just shook his head. "Damn poor . . . damn, damn poor . . . Well, run off quick time boy and get Major Bushmire."

__

"Yes ma'am, they were his sister's clothes," replied Major Bushmire, his disgust painted on his face. Edith Whipple sat across from him dressed in a house dress and apron, her knitting still on her lap. Between them stood young Patrick still dressed in his heeler loafers and white knee socks that matched his lovely new skirt, bra and panty. "Leastwise that's the story the boy's are sticking too."

It had been a traumatic day for our young hero starting from the moment he boarded the bus. Living farthest from the school he was always the last to board and like always, they were all waiting for him. He took the seat behind the driver always left vacant while the other boys huddled together toward the rear. They wanted to sit as far away from the sissy as was humanly possible, except Jeffrey Morse, one of the bad guys at school and Patrick's worse fear. Today, Jeffery chose to sit in the seat immediately behind him.

Over the roar of the diesel the driver could hear little of the taunting, the laughter and ridicule. Or if he did, chose not to take notice. He seldom did. Not withstanding someone leaving their seat it was truly a teenage wasteland for the thirty minute ride - literally every man for him self. And if he wasn't motivated to do anything about the boys pelting Patrick with spitballs why would he show concerned when he saw a gym bag being passed up from the rear to Jeffrey? He paid it no more notice than the roar of laughter that followed when Jeff pulled out a pair of panties and set it in a pile on top of Patrick's flattop head.

Of course Patrick didn't respond, but he knew what was going on. Jeffrey's threat to fag him before the end of school had been going on for weeks, and as promised, today they had brought the panties they would make him wear. Patrick didn't want to look or react. That would be giving them what they wanted. Still, hiding his eyes was one thing, hiding the fear and the intimidation was another. He was visually shaking as Jeffrey dragged the panties over his head and the bus rocked from the laughter.

Upon arriving at school he tried to keep his distance from them, giving sufficient leeway before departing the bus. After everyone had disappeared into the building he followed to sign the morning register that was required of all the boys who arrived early by bus. Neither Jeffrey nor his cohorts were anywhere around by the time he was through, and believing himself lucky went to his classroom to take a seat to await the later arrivals. The path seemed clear and safe enough, but as he passed the coatroom, Jeffrey, Chris Myers and Martin Philips popped out, grabbed him and pushed him into the closet, closing the door behind.

There wasn't a lot of fight in him, though some of that might have been expected. After all Jeffrey and Martin were two of the biggest, roughest leathernecks in the school, both nearly as big as the formidable Ssgt. Web, and worse, the apple of his eye. Over the years he had been subject to untold bullying from them. And all he ever got in response when he got a knot on the head was, "Don't be a wimp, boy," or "Stop your damn sniffling and act like a man!"

Other than cry, he was too frightened to do anything else to save himself. There was nothing he could do at any extent, so when it was certain he wasn't going to escape his fate he volunteered to put the clothes on without their help. It was only the early arrival of Tim Olin that saved his butt. Hearing the scuffling in the closet he burst in on them catching Jeffrey literally with his pants down.

Seeing what was going on he quickly put a stop to it. Tim was one of the few boys in school who Jeffrey respected, not so much for his size as for his ranking on the boy's boxing team. He was also a good guy who on occasion stood up for Patrick. Though not because he was sympathetic, but because he had a solid sense of fair play. This time too, and fortunate for Patrick, he wasn't listening to any excuses. It wasn't that Jeff didn't try to explain it all away, looking rather foolish standing as he was with his pants gathered around his knees. "The little fag wants it. Look he even dressed himself."

"You're the only fag I see you damn prick. Want to fag someone try me and I'll see what we can do about stuffing that prick of yours up your ass." The threat wasn't taken lightly, and even though he was out numbered 3 to 1 the scramble from the coatroom was like an alarm sounding off in a firehouse. That is, except for Martin. Determined not to let the threat deter him, he managed to lag behind long enough to hang Patrick on the coat rack while nobody was watching.

__

". . . And you are sure you believe their story, Mr. Bushmire?" A shaken Mrs. Whipple asked, remaining starchy erect and unmoved throughout the exchange. Not that she disagreed with the good Major Bushmire, or would doubt his word. He was a straightforward man of unquestionable integrity, and like Barbara Stanton he was a man with a firm commanding hand. She liked that about him, but then he was a man, not a woman and somehow she just didn't feel inspired by the same sense of awe.

For his part, Major Bushmire didn't like having his integrity in question. If he had known better he would have let Greta Buller accompany him as she had wanted. There wasn't much his school nurse couldn't handle. A retired WAC drill instructor, if she couldn't handle this hardheaded spinster no one could. All the same, he hadn't and now he was sitting on a keg of dynamite that presented as big a challenge as any on the field of battle, the loss of which would reflect badly on the school, the careers of several young men as well as his own.

For him it was a sacrifice of one for the betterment of many. Defeat was not an option, at least not for a gentleman of his persuasion. So he furrowed his bushy brows to show his displeasure with her. Then he peered in as if to say "lady, mind your place" while his bald, spit-shined head refracted the overhead light into the spectrum of red.

"I understand your concern over this, but I can't emphasize enough that these are solid your men, outstanding soldiers, all from very influential families. If it isn't the truth then I'm sure there would be severe legal consequences, courts, attorneys and lots of public attention with accusations of moral turpitude, or worse, charges of deviant homosexual behavior. Furthermore I must warn, you might not like the way the axe might fall," he spit out with terseness, as if to remind young Patrick of what was at stake.

"Of course, we shouldn't let that sway us from knowing the truth, but as he doesn't deny it, I'm afraid I have no choice but believe the boy's story true just as they stated. So unless Patrick says otherwise the story is that Chris Myers brought his sister's gym bag to school accidentally believing it to be his own. He only discovered this fact when putting the gym bag away in the coatroom and that's when Patrick unknown to anyone put the clothes on. Now, isn't that right Patrick? Isn't this story you and your fellow cadets told me?"

"Y-y-yes Sir," Patrick managed to mumble after taking some moments to reflect upon the carpet below his feet. All the same he already knew the answer he had to give. No mention of the "intended" fagging, no mention of being hung upon the clothes hook was the way it had to be, and he needn't bother lifting his tear spotted face as he drove in the finishing nail, "That's the truth of it, Sir."

"That's right, son. Now tell your aunt why you did it," Major Bushmire followed while prompting Patrick to respond with a slapped on the back. "Come now, you don't have to be shy. Be a big boy, there's no shame in wanting to dress in girl's clothes. Every boy goes through this one time or another. No harm whatsoever. Just tell her the truth and it'll all be done. I'm sure she'll be very understanding and supportive. She just needs to know the truth, so just repeat what you told me."

The words did not come easily. In fact it was down right gut-wrenching to have to spit out the contrived confession. It was like spitting out what remained of his manhood. All that Ms. Stanton had not yet stolen from him was now going to be finished off by the Major and his classmates, and there was nothing to be done about it. "I . . . ahm . . . I like pretty clothes."

"Well Patty . . . I'm sorry, I just didn't know," Edith paused, cause off-guard by the admission. She had wanted to believe his classmates were responsible for the mischief, but after her nephew's confession she didn't know what to think, or how she should react. She looked as if she was thinking very hard for a long minute, before her face went relax and the uncertainty in her eyes evaporated, replaced with an obliging nod and again, that guilty flutter in her stomach. "You should have told me, Patty."

"That's a good boy. Now that it's off your chest I'm sure you feel much better. I know your good friends at school will feel relieved as well. Ever so, I think it would be best if you remain at home for the remaining days of the school term. You can help your aunt about the house like a good boy . . . perhaps use the time to work things out," he hurried broke it off – and good riddance Patrick thought. However, after the major rose up from his chair Patrick quickly realized his relief was only short-lived. The Major still had one final nail in his hand he had yet to nail in his coffin.

"You know, modern thought on the matter is if you let him play out his fantasies instead of punishing him he may soon grow tired of it. Or so our school nurse assures me. She's a very knowledgeable source in these matters and an opinion I wholly trust. Just something you might like to think about Ma'am. In the meantime you can expect me to send his diploma to you in the mail," he finished his diatribe, happy to wipe his hands of the whole affair.

Along with Patrick's supposed admission to his cross-dressing tendencies the school was absolved of legal responsibility. It was done, but a clever man knows not to let such matters linger in the open for to long. There is always the chance it might not hold up to closer scrutiny. So not wanting to wait around to see his good work undone, he put on his hat in haste and didn't even wait to be escorted out the door.

__

After supper Edith put Patrick to bed early. Again, it had been a trying day for them both, and though she didn't want to show it, a bit overwhelming. After she was sure he was asleep, she sat in the family room in the dark with the phone on her lap. With so much on her mind she needn't to talk with someone and thought to call Barbara.

The buying spree at the boutique and all the things Jane had told her still reverberated in her thoughts. And now with all this cross-dressing business at school, she didn't know what to think. She supposed she should call to let Barbara know what had happened. She wanted nothing more then to share the burden to help relieve the worry, or just help clear up the muddle. Unfortunately it was also late and not wanting to disturb Barbara this late at night, Edith went to bed not knowing what she was going to do in the morning.

Edith had a short, intermittent rest and got up much earlier than expected when she received a phone call from Barbara. It was almost as if she willed it during the long night of restless sleep. Just the sound of her voice immediately eased the worry, but it did not come without a price. Along with the advocacy came the enigma that was Barbara Stanton. Listening to her was like sweet torture a masochist couldn't do without, and it began almost immediately with Barbara's first words. "Edith, I heard about what happened to Patty at school."

She offered no explanations as to how she could have possibly known about what had happened to Patrick. She didn't even bother to respond to her question about it. She just carried on, reassuring her she hadn't need to worry. That everything was quite normal and in accordance with "modern thought" - something Edith was hearing a lot these days.

Listening to her was almost like listening to the good Major Bushmire. From her way of thinking it all made sense. It was just a silly bit all boys go through and should be free to explore as a natural course. She also sounded excited for Patrick, believing he had come upon an important moment in his young life. "Think about it Edith, all this coming about on the week of his graduation, when it was still unclear as to what he was going to do after. I don't know if you believe in fate, but if this wasn't meant to be, I don't know what is."

"Fate!" - The usual refuge of the dishonest. In truth, this entire scenario had been carefully scripted by Barbara, Jane and their well-placed accomplice. But Edith didn't know that. Nor had she reason to suspect any wrong doing as she listened to Barbara plot a zigzag course from one point to another. She listened as if in a trance, following the meandering course almost as twisted as her logic until she posed a question that brought Edith out of her reverie. "Look on the sunny side, Edith. It's a great opportunity. His program has been lagging of late anyway, now he'll have time to put in extra work. No extra costs to you, so if you've no objections I'll be over in an hour to pick him up."

"Why certainly, but you needn't go out of your way. I can bring him in this afternoon."

"No need, Edith. I have to pick up Greta Buller anyway so it'll be easier for me."

"Greta Buller?" Edith echoed, uncertain as to why she should know the name.

"A friend of mine, Edith. She's a health practitioner who will be working with me this summer to help relieve my busy schedule. So if that's alright with you my love, I'll see you in an hour."

__

Edith scarcely had time to bath Patrick and prepare a light breakfast before Barbara's Mercedes pulled into the driveway followed by the knock upon the door. Removing her apron she hurried him along to meet Ms. Stanton, only stopping to quickly survey him to make sure every hair on his flattop head was in order. Dressed in his white cotton shorts and tank top, knee socks and heeled, buckle-strap loafers, she opened the door pleased with how smart he looked. However, she didn't gather as much from the pained look on Barbara's face. It was as if she expected to still see him dressed in skirt and bra.

"Morning Edith," chirped the buoyant Ms. Stanton as she entered and affectionately wrapping her arms around her waist. "Edith this is Greta Buller. Greta this is Edith Whipple and her nephew Patty. I think Patty and you have already met."

Indeed they had, and perhaps if he knew she would be standing at his door he would have found a way not to be. Greta was the school nurse affectionately called "The Bull" for her unsympathetic, bullying tact. Patrick had been in to see her often over the years and he was not a happy camper seeing her once again. It was like a punch in the gut that immediately had him looking up for his aunt's intervention with his pleading eyes, only she wasn't looking. She was too busy sizing up the Bull.

While Patrick knew her, Edith did not. Tall, lean and fifty-something, she looked quite formidable, almost manly given the figurative sense of the word. With her pug nose and thick brow she looked like a Pit Bull terrier, and dressed in a khaki green army dress she looked like one on a search and destroy mission. She didn't think much about the prospects of leaving her nephew in the hands of this woman, a health professional or not.

However, wrapped up like some captive prey in Barbara's arms, it was a bit difficult to speak her mind, especially after Barbara looked sternly into her eyes. "Rest assured, Edith. She's very authoritative and quite abreast on the issues. She's a longtime associate and confidante, and her skill has helped many a misfit boy find his rightful place in the world. All of them are now happy, vital and much sought after I can assure you."

After a promise to have him home before super, Edith watched them drive off with a teary-eyed Patrick squeezed between them. She tried to think of it as seeing him off to school. To be schooled in what she didn't know exactly, but she didn't want to dwell on that. No, she couldn't-wouldn't allow herself to believe wrong of Barbara Stanton, and too proud to admit it if she did.

Instead she chose to think of it as his being in Barbara's capable hands, believing she'd do only what's best for him. She went back in, but before closing the door she chose to take a final glimpse of the shiny new Mercedes before it disappeared round the bend. She looked back but suddenly found herself blinded by the high morning sun. Like a sudden, intense flash of a light in a darkened room, it momentarily obscured her vision of the car and washed away all remaining thoughts about her teary-eyed nephew. Only the thoughts and the vision foremost in her mind remained. Those that permeated her existence like the air she breathed – those images of Barbara's striking beauty and those thoughts of her arresting poise and grandeur. Then suffering those feelings too shameful to own and too prideful to admit she heaved a big sigh and closed the door.

__

Edith was looking out the kitchen window watching some sparrows feeding from the satellite disk in the Crawford's backyard. The thing was an eye sore, in total disrepair, dormant, and facing straight up toward the heavens to nowhere. It served only as a bird feed now, collecting sand and rain water after the occasional desert storm in its grotesque concave bowl. Although it hadn't always been so.

For many years it also served to support a clothesline and during the Holiday Season the Crawford's had made it a habit to decorate it with Christmas lights. She hated it and thought it had finally reached its demise when Christmas last old Mr. Crawford went up on a metal ladder to replace a bulb after a rare rainstorm. The cheap Chinese made fixtures had a defect that only came to light (no pun intended) when submerged in the pooled water. The shock sent him flying across the yard breaking his arm in the fall and permanently straightened what was left of his naturally curl hair. It also shorted out half the houses on the block and the home owners association quickly put the Kibosh to that. She hadn't seen him but once since the electrifying experience, but she could see that he carried off the new Einstein hair style well, due comeuppance she thought. Still the dish stood there eye sore that it was, serving as their bird feeder. Of course she wanted to see it physically brought down, often scheming on ways that might be done. But she was just an old woman after all, and her Patty, well . . .

__

". . . Why Patrick, I didn't know you could warble in such a lovely soprano," Barbara spat out in a rather vulgar voice. "A rather high soprano I might add."

"Sounds more like castrato if you ask me," Greta curtly followed.

"Hmmm," Barbara carried on with her play on words. "Well, not yet, but I know inside every toughie there's a caged tweetie just waiting to be set free."

"Well now, ain't that a fact! The cockier the bird struts, the higher he sings. A bit of pretty primping always raises a tenor up the scale a step, or two. Then tart-up the brisket and the tail feathers and Wall-ah! You've got a sashaying, warbling tweetie that could raise the dead and heal the sick with a simple swish of the hips."

Barbara's sly grin mirrored Greta's as she watched the scene play out from the bathroom door, marveling as she applied her craft. No doubt she was in a league of her own. With Patrick bottom up and draped over her knee, she was diligently working the new blue – as in boy - appliance assuring a comfortable fit. And given the significance of this precedent setting event, Greta couldn't have been more pleased. Still, having to take into account the need for Patrick to catch his wind every now and again did make it a very measured process.

It was also a very emotional process. In fact, you could say Patrick was stuffed to the gills with just about every kind of feeling at the moment – and in more ways than one. Actually there were two, as in the two forces that seemed to be pushing and pulling on him at the same time. Pulled on by the feelings of guilt over his failing, believing he had only himself to blame for still not "measuring up." And pushed by his need to prove he was that "special boy" his aunt and Ms. Stanton believed him to be. This push and pull was a boy thing made of bravado and grit, and all pushed home by Greta's firm hand and pulled out by Ms. Stanton's cruel, nonstop cajoling.

The creation of Barbara's one-of-a-kind quality product was now in Greta's capable hands, and from an observers point of view it made for quite a show. Barbara thought this scene alone was worth the cost of admission and Greta's grin, well . . . priceless! All this and they still had the better part of the afternoon to go.

When all the preparations were finally done, Greta turned the petcock and looked up toward Barbara with a gleam in her eye that could have lit up a city block. "You know Eric has been saying he found it as easy as slicing a knife through butter."

"Is that right, Patty? You relaxed nicely for Eric but not for Greta?" What's that tell you, Greta?" She asked, her words spit out like venom from her smiling red lips. Patrick just shook his head as if somehow that could negate the lie. He would have liked to do more to express his outrage, but at the time anything more than a grunt a bit hard to come by.

"Dunno," Greta replied, "maybe I should pretend I'm Eric."

"Hum, that might be nice, better yet, Nicky!" laughed Barbara before turning to check the time . . .

__

. . . It was five o'clock when Edith set aside her knitting to finish preparations for dinner. The roast nearly done, she returned to her kitchen to turn down the heat when she heard Barbara's car turning in the driveway. She hurried out to greet them as Barbara escorted a decidedly different Patty than the boy she sent off in his smart boy clothes some hours before. Gone were the crisp new shorts and tank top.

In their stead he wore a pair of brief, skin-tight shorts and a ribbon-strap halter that exposed his midriff. Across the front of the halter it read "Puss E Willow" in sequins that refracted the myriad of colors in the sunlight. And between the large capitals "P" and "W," two discernible and no longer deniable peaks wobbling ever so slightly with each hip swaying, high-heeled step. That's high heels, as in pumps, white patient leather with narrow three inch heels. Though quite apt at walking on his toes, it was still a short, cautious, heel to toe stride that took a firm grasp of Barbara's hand to steady him as she walked him to the door.

Edith greeted him with a warm smile and a hug, her hand pressing his face to her bosom. Then after a long moment she pulled his face away and held him at arms length thinking she needed to have a better look at him. At least that's what she thought she needed just to make sure the sun wasn't playing tricks on her. After all, mirages were common place in this part of the world and it was a hot sun over head.

However, her second, closer look had proven the sun wasn't that hot. At least not hot enough to explain the scalding vision that loomed at arms length. His flattop, short on the sides and high and flat on top stood in stark contrast to his sumptuously sculptured face. With a hint of blusher on his cheeks, blue mascara and pink painted lips he composed quite an imaginative, though delightful work of fiction.

It was an interesting bit of work to say the least, but it was his clothes that truly tilted the composition to the extreme. Especially the crop top with its ribbon thin shoulder straps that hung just low enough to honorably cover the twin jut peaks. Further down the heels lifted and fluffed up his bottom like two plump, form-fit pillows. The shorts too were a bit of a meager peel, scarcely able to contain the ripe fruit beneath. Given the contour of their low, hip-hugging fit and the high upward arc of the leg-cut, the skimpy cover exposed a bit too much cheek by any standards. That is, unless . . . ahm, unless he just happened to be dressed to kill for some girlie-boy strip show at a Las Oasis City casino.

Like the ingredients that make up a pie offer little until combined, you had to see it on him to see how well it all worked together, especially those shorts and heels. Like lemon and meringue, a pretty pie topped with a small pearl in just one ear, and a hint of candy cane pink on his lips. The very same shade of pink lipstick that matched the pink smudge mark Patrick had left on the white lace covering Edith's bosom. "Sorry about that Edith," Barbara giggled, "I should have warned you. Don't worry I'll have that cleaned for you."

Poor Mrs. Whipple, the woman looked bound hand and foot and even to find the mechanism to respond seemed a labor. Tongue tied and shell-shocked, she flushed a beet red and behind the white of her rapt brown eyes the battle raged. The two sides of Mrs. Whipple were fighting it out, each vying to see who would fill in the void and the voice of the routed Mrs. Whipple. It was war, and when done, there would be blood on the tracks. And while there is nothing amusing about the chaos and disorder in a bloody fight-to-the-finish, quite frankly, the state of the battle that raged within Mrs. Whipple was so palpable you could almost "hear" her buckle and cringe.

In a scene that could have been plucked from the pages of a Marvel comic, "Kapow . . !" Mrs. Stubborn Pride took a left directly on the chin from Mrs. Wistfully Longing. "Ooomph!" grunted Mrs. Longing as Mrs. Pride fired back with a right to the solar plexus.

Of course, we already know what side of the fight Barbara was pulling for, and wanting to tilt the battlefield in her favor she thought the time right to bring out the heavy weaponry. "The lipstick goes well with his outfit, don't you think? I had it lying around and thought why not a bit of dress-up fun. You know, to indulge his fancy a little and add a bit of sweet flavor to the session. Given "Modern thought" and all, I thought it only best. I hope you don't mind," she feigned her patented wide-eyed 'innocent' pout before coming around behind her to again wrap her arms around her waist.

It was a glorious moment for Barbara and her satisfaction was written across the length of her smile. Then as she leaned in to whisper in Edith's ear, she could no longer mute the glee that bubbled up and took on a life of its own. "Like the name on the halter, Edith? I chose it just for him - after that pretty Willow of yours around back!"

"Kaboom . . !" she had Mrs. Pride doubled with the body shot.

Resting her head on Edith's shoulder she was eye to eye with Patrick and blew him a kiss. "Patty darling, why don't you run along to the car and get your lipstick from my purse. Oh, and some tissue, you can use a touch up."

Together they watched him gingerly waddle his way back toward the car, looking not unlike a young girl's first day on skates. "Hmmm, now that he's off and busy tidying up let's go see what we can do about that stain on your bodice?"

"Pow . . !" another right landed square on Mrs. Pride's jaw. Picking herself up off the floor (figuratively) she soon found herself in the bathroom, alone with Barbara, the door closed behind. "It'll be easier to clean if you take off the dress, Edith."

"Whap . . !" a follow-up left jab that had Mrs. Pride on the ropes. In a daze she tried to fight back, but no longer having the upper hand she soon found herself succumbing to Mrs. Longing and handed over her dress, only her undergarments remain.

"Oh my, but your undergarments look to be such a comfortable fit," she beams her radiant smile while fondling Edith's sagging, rotund globes. "I always have the most difficult time buying the right one, what with one breast larger than the other and all. It's not easy being a bit lopsided you know. Here . . ." she carries on as she continued to intimately caress the old woman, ". . . Let me show you."

"Wham! Pow! Ker-ploosh!" Mrs. Longing followed with a rapid fire combination of jabs that left Mrs. Pride reeling.

Breathless, Mrs. Pride could scarcely stand as the object of Mrs. Longing's desire stripped off all but her panties and asked her to have a closer look. "See the lines where the elastic binds and chafes here and here too . . . " Barbara purred between sultry pursed lips, her hands lifting up her heaving, massive breasts until her nipples fronted the old woman's face. "Please, give it a feel and let me know what you think."

"Zwapp . . !" went a right cross to the temple of Mrs. Pride. Staggered by the blow to the head Mrs. Pride's defenses where shot to hell, and with her vision still a bit hazy there was not a lot she could do. Sensing the victory close at hand Mrs. Longing went for the kill. She took hold of Mrs. Pride's hand and placed it on her breast so she could examine them more closely. Which Mrs. Pride did, to soothe the savage beast least she be pummeled again. "My panties too . . . I always pick the wrong size, or material, or whatever. Here sit down on the toilet and let me show you."

"Ka-Boing!!!" was all she remembered thinking when the knock out blow to the jaw finally came. With Mrs. Longing's clean shaven pubis posed inches from her face the world to her was cut off, the voice above only an echo careening down the empty halls once occupied by Mrs. Pride. "I know it looks smooth and satiny, but feel it . . . it's so hot to the touch. Can you soothe it for me please? Perhaps just a little moisture will do the trick . . . Oh! Yes, my little minx. Reach further, deeper . . . please, or Mommy will have to put you over her knee and give you the spanking you deserve . . . Oh! Ummm, that's it . . . don't stop . . . my pet, or . . . ummm . . . it's over Greta's knee … ahhh, or my kneeeee . . . ummm . . . right now, ahhh . . . to spaaan, ah . . . spaa-ank Greta's lil' pet . . .ummm . . . mummy's lil' girl . . . ummm . . . oooh! . . . you naugh-teeee lil'girl!"

__

As the interminable week wore on Mrs. Longing took charge as the victor and Mrs. Pride was no longer anywhere to be seen. Rightly or wrongly she now paid homage, while over at the Homeopathic center Greta applied her new shaping gadgetry and exercises to pry and prod, mold and form Patrick into an even more remarkable looking creature each and every day. Just as "modern thought" would have it. Whereas in the Whipple household bathroom, the shrieks and the moans and the growling at Mrs. Longing's stiletto heeled feet could be heard reverberating off the satellite dish in the Crawford's backyard.

__

Part III – The Cool of Night

Chapter VI

On Saturday, the day of Patrick's eighteenth birthday party Barbara came early to pick him up to give Greta and his aunt time to prepare for the party. The day had been long in preparation and short on the details given to Edith. All for a very good reason of course, because this was not to be just another day of sessions at her Homeopathic clinic. Nope, she had more important things to do now that he was ready, or almost so. Today it was a trip to the beauty pallor. A quaint little place across the street from the Puss n' Poodle, and afterward, it would be Patty's introduction to the club, all the lovelies and soon to be playmates.

After a brief stop at Ms. Stanton's for some pretty dress-up it was off to Las Oasis, "where the party never dies." It wasn't the first time Patrick had been there, though never had he driven down casino row. Even at this early hour the neon light façades and gigantic billboard signs glowed nearly as bright as the morning sun, overwhelming old and the young alike, and most of all young Patrick Whipple. Barbara could see it on his awestruck face as they drove past one club after another until coming to a stop in front of Rosie's Gurl's n'Curl's Salon. Across the street was the flashing neon façade that fronted Puss n' Poodle. One of the last of the old town lounges still standing as the giant casinos sprout up like wild flowers all around it.

Though a relatively small façade compared to the two behemoth casino's it was sandwiched between it lacked nothing in terms of glitz and glitter. Standing beneath a fluorescent, cotton-candy pink canopy stood a doorman dressed in a black tuxedo. About the canopy a 20' tall neon sign that featured a trio of high kicking Can-Can girl's, ruffling their skirts then bending over to show their knickers before looping round to begin the sequence again. "Come along Pretty Patty, you've an appointment and we wouldn't want to keep Rosie waiting."

If you were looking to see the same Patrick we all have come to know and love sashay his way out of that Mercedes then I'm afraid you've sadly underestimated the power of Homeopathy and the skills of Barbara Stanton – one clever Marketeer. No matter what you might think of her, or her bastardization of an honorable profession, she can't be accused of not affecting results.

Oh, I hear the "hissing" and the "boo's." You're thinking I've giving credit where credit isn't due, that Barbara Stanton was just a shyster, a charlatan or worse, a criminal. And of course, you'd be right! There's no defense of the woman, but then there wasn't a just defense for Rasputin either yet we still admired his evil genius. After all, she was just a free market opportunist, in hyper-drive perhaps, but just someone taking advantage of her position in a marketplace where scruples and a conscious will get you trampled by the herd in a minute. It takes genius, evil or otherwise, to stay ahead of that ruthless pack, and that one-of-a-kind quality product she escorted to the front door of Rosie's salon was exactly the kind of innovative thinking that was going to keep her top of the class.

Well, you'd have to see him to understand why I am quick to give Barbara her due. She had done her job well. Perhaps not as she had promised him, but it wasn't a meager boy suffering a "lingering malaise" she escorted inside Rosie's sanctuary of girlie-dom. Wearing but a whiff of a skirt short enough to show a bit of white silk panty beneath, he looked very much like a saucily dressed teen aiming to tease the senses. You might even call him provocative when you take into account the clutch purse dangling from his wrist and the one pearl earring he now wore. Barbara's trademark! The mark of contrast between the finely clad young lady with the oddity of her mismatched, Vitalis laden hair.

Ah, but only if that was all there was to him. Because when you throw in gartered white lace stockings, 4" stiletto heels and a white silk blouse sheer enough to see the flower rosettes stitched into the fabric of his new bra, you have the picture of quite a healthy boy – or girl – or some androgynous creature in between. Or, if you prefer boy-girl, an apt name for a hybrid the likes of our dressed-to-kill blossom with jutting mounds and a flattop.

Suddenly the wiry, goose-neck boy didn't look quite so awkward or misfit, especially those spidery limbs now attractively encased in that gartered lace hosiery. In truth, while he might not have looked like Sgt. Rock he was just as exceptional. "Special" if you like, just as Barbara had said, and given his sultry appeal, a head turning gift to mankind as he walked in the door. Not that he looked out of place. The room styled in a French boudoir motif with lush burgundy-red velour and brass throughout, the fluff and the pomp was the perfect setting to find an aspiring queen of casino row - Just as it was the perfect setting to find the elegant creature who greeted them at the front desk.

Tall and sumptuous, he wore a red sequin, off the shoulder pencil dress that hugged his hips like honey on a spoon. While on top of his head he wore a beehive bouffant which he seemed prone to want to balance upright as if fearing it might fall off should he happen to look down. "Barbara, darling, how nice it is to see you, "Howard broadcasted with a deep, hoarse voice, ". . . and oh, my! You lucky girl! Who is this lovely thing you've escorting you?"

"Patty this is Howard, Howard, this is Pretty Patty," she smiled down at him warmly, as if to say. "Relax he's not going to bite."

"It's Patty's birthday, eighteen and all grown up. Is Rosie ready to begin his make-over?"

"Yes, of course. If you'll escort this lovely thing I'll get you situated and Madam Magnifique can begin to work her miracles."

Ten minutes later he sat back in the styling chair with his eyes closes, body taut and seemingly detached from himself while a cadre of specialty artisans working on every aspect of him. Curious amorphic creatures in fanciful dress and richly painted faces they scurried about like enchanted fairies in Geppetto's workshop to bring Barbara's puppet to life. The manicurist, pedicurist and cosmetologist giggled and fastidiously pampered and toyed with his nails and his face with practiced hands, while Ms. Rose was busy coloring the landing strip on top of his head a golden blond.

Barbara sat close by to watch the product of her innovative thinking take form, and the vamp that emerged three hours later was truly worth the wait. He was quite the beautiful boy, but all Barbara could see were the dollar signs in her eyes and the "cha-ching" of cash registers sounding off in her head. With his flattop and high arching brows now dyed a golden blond and his cheeks dusted with a tint of sweet scarlet, he made up a very contrary picture. Add in the extended lashes, the soft-violet mascara and lips painted the same luscious cherry-red that matched his extended ½ inch nails and you have everything Barbara had hoped for – and more! "My, my Rosie, that look is definitely him! Those glorious lashes, the brows, those lips, the hair . . . you've really outdone yourself this time. He's a definitely a man killer!"

Her words proved to be as true as they were prophetic starting the moment they walked outside into the mid-day traffic. Eyes were riveted on him as he approached and swiveled round backward as he passed. Then when crossing the street, brakes screeched, horns tooted and cars collided in a cascading fall of rear-end collisions as they sauntered effortlessly across the unmarked street toward the entrance of the Puss n' Poodle Club.

"Good afternoon Karl, busy?" She beamed her smile at the equally enthralled doorman. Dressed in a tuxedo with sunglasses, the dashing figure looked like a man who had seen it all, but a quick glance down at his protuberant trousers showed that he'd never seen anything quite like this.

Inside was a wonderland, a fairylike imaginary realm to excite the sense in a re-creation of the original Moulin Rouge. Centermost was the stage with its long vamp walk that also served as the counter of the bar. Fronting the stage and the long vamp walk was the lounge, its tables and chairs stretched across the parquet floor like plume feathers on a peacock. The crowd struggled to be heard over the pounding hard rock beat that reached dangerous decibels, while on stage the dancers were in the midst of the day's first number before a hardy and somewhat inebriated crowd of admirers lined up at the bar.

Obviously this wasn't the kind of setting we'd like to find our hapless young hero. With gilded ambiance and posh to the extreme, the place clearly catered to the lowest order of things. Just the kind of place you'd expect to find the scantily clad entertainers and raucous, raunchy, out-of-control drunks. No doubt that's how Patrick felt and if you looked closely you could see the tremor play across the bow of his candy-apple painted lips. Still, you must realize that eighteen was the age of consent in this fair state. The state certified brothels, the casinos, the strip clubs and yes, the wedding chapels were brim full of aspiring eighteen year olds looking to make there way in the world. All of them just as mortified as Patrick when they first walked in to a place like this, but then again, they were not seen as children anymore.

Barbara managed to squeeze her pet poppet and herself between some gentlemen sitting on bar stools nursing their cocktails and their torose slacks along the vamp walk. Darting between one outstretched claw or another, the dancing Puss's and the dancing Poodle's bumped and grind their way into the hearts of their admirers, then positioning themselves accordingly when proffered a tip. The Puss's wore the familiar micro crop-top, skyscraper 6" heels and a g-string. The Poodle's wore a leather collar, the heels and a g-string with an attached poodle's tail that dangling behind.

Of course the spot she had selected to squeeze in had been anything but random. Patrick could see that the moment he looked up to see Nicky "the poodle" wagging his tail. Beside him a she-he, a Puss aptly named "Galore" shook and shimmed his scarcely concealed boobs in Nicky's face. Nicky turned round and blew Patrick a kiss then thrust his hips out at the man sitting next to Barbara. Patrick was dumbfounded and petrified as Barbara leaned down to be heard over the riotous noise. Handing him a hundred dollar bill she nudged him to follow suit as the man stuffed a like amount into Nicky's micro g-string. That's micro, as in not even close to enough, and "Gee," as geepers! Where's the rest of it?

Moving in to face Patrick, he again placed his hands behind to grab hold of his bottom cheeks and then to each of the thunderous cords: ". . . gimme, gimme, gimme . . .," he pumped his hips, and on ". . . the honky tonk blues" – O-o-o-ooph! He thrust out in such an upfront way as to leave no doubt exactly where he expected Patty to tuck in the hundred.

 

Chapter VII

Until recently this had been a day young Patrick Whipple had long been waiting for. Since a small boy he had always seen this as the day he would smartly walk into the recruiter's office, proud of what he had become. Buffed and rugged as Sgt. Rock, he'd look eye to eye and shaking the hand of the man who'd have jumped through rings of fire to get him to sign on the dotted line. He had played upon the fabric of that dream until the threads wore bare, even now bringing it again to mind when he remembered it was his birthday. Something he had mercifully forgotten during the turbulent day. Only now did he shutter from the thought as they pulled into the driveway behind Edith's rickety old Renault.

It wasn't as though he hadn't been expecting the party. He knew it was being planned. What he hadn't expected was for Greta Buller to be there to complete the cast of characters. The prospects of having to face his aunt looking like Barbie incarnate was a gut retching thought in itself, but when you add in a dash of the bitter, caustic Greta and you've a toxic brew that had his stomach in knots and wanting to vomit. It was all a bit much to deal with, and expectedly, his wobbly knees and faltering spirit sounded his retreat into himself to protect what remained of his manhood.

The kitchen was decked out with streamers, balloons and party hats suited for a five year old. It seemed almost as bizarre as his Barbie impersonation, all going to prepare him for the worse. Out numbered and definitely out gunned by Greta's lethal hands, he lacked only the blindfold as he slumped and waited for his assassins to pull the trigger. Instead what he got was a warm embrace from his aunt. But what pleased him most was what put him at ease. Greta "The Bull" had an uncharacteristic smile on her face, and she uttered not a word.

Greta wasn't prone to such niceties. Built like an M-1 tank with a fearsome scowl affixed to her turret she wasn't one to do a lot of smiling, unless she was really pleased with herself - which was seldom. She always pushed the envelop and its method of delivery to the limit which it in itself never seemed good enough. Even after pummeling him to complete, unconditional surrender.

There was something different about his aunt too. Something about her smile that would slowly fade from her lips whenever Greta spoke to her. Speaking to her in that cold, calculated way he thought reserved for him alone. In a voice that would cause her to bow her head and take on a flush, not unlike what would happen to him. He had noticed it while sitting in the living room too, when Greta spoke as if to order, not ask his aunt to prepare a spot of tea. Something she scurried off and did without question in the same manner he did when she told him to play some songs on his piano.

All the while he played, Greta sat in his aunt's chair sipping her tea and chatting with Barbara about his musical talent. His aunt stood beside, eyes cast down and not saying a word. All out of character for her, but all that came to a stop when Nicky "the poodle" sauntered in.

Nicky, given the rare Saturday night off came dressed in a pair of white bell-bottom hip-huggers and a pink blouse. He had with him a single red rose to give to his "Peach'esth," and to the delight of the ladies, a pair of hungry red lips that left a snail's trail of lipstick smug that stretched from the tip of Patty's nose to the base of his neck. A moment later, the birthday boy was blowing out the eighteen candles on the three layer cake and smothered beneath a mound of gifts.

As beautifully wrapped as they were he couldn't bring himself to open them. With the pink ribbon and bows, and the fancy script "M'Lady" moniker printed on the boxes, it would have been tantamount to asking a man to pull the trigger himself! In his stead, Nicky took up the first box to open for him. Patrick slumped and fidgeted with his extended, ½" pink nails while Nicky hurriedly sought to see what was inside. He hadn't want to know, so his eyes just wandered about the room, his mind a blank until he fixed upon the framed picture hanging beside his piano.

It was his freshman year class picture. He always had mixed feeling about the picture of him standing front and center, the 12 members of his platoon standing in file alongside. All smartly dressed in their parade regalia, their bearing proud and dignified, save for one. That would be him. As it certainly wasn't the proudest or most dignified moment of his life he wondered why she left it to hang there after all these years. There were others after all, better ones, one for each of the following years of school. But for some reason she chose that one to hang even as offensive as it was. Then again, maybe that's why she did it. To remind him, so he wouldn't forget his place.

The picture was taken the first week of school about a month after he came to live with his aunt. At the time he was still pretty much a regular boy. You know, free to be himself, his aunt still scratching her head wondering what to make of him and his little problem of wetting the bed. That was also the time of year when class pictures were taken. He was new to his aunt and new to the academy, but not new enough to have already become the most bullied kid in school.

That's Martin Philips standing behind him. You remember him I'm sure, the boy in the coatroom next in line to fag him. He had it in for him pretty much since the git-go, and just moments before the shot was taken he had promised to pull down his pants right on 3-2-1-smile! Of course he believed him. He had already become the favorite target of his reticule and abuse, so why wouldn't he? Fact is, he was scared to death it was going to happen just as he said, and when the photographer counted 3-2-1 he peed himself. Soaking the entire front of his pants down to his socks before the man could say "Smile!"

Of course his aunt had to come to school to take him home, although she wasn't as angry as he would have expected. Still it seemed to have become a consummate moment for her and things were never the same afterward. From then on it was short pants instead of blue jeans and never again allowed to wander further away then the length of her apron string. Then along came Barbara Stanton to frame that picture, her suspect cures and questionable practices binding and sealing him in forever.

So there he was, left hanging on the wall seemingly forever. Front and center with tears in his eyes and sopping wet across the front of his pants and down the length of his leg. It was the most humiliating day of his life. A day that changed his life forever and still stained his memory as Nicky now held up a pair of expensive white lace stockings. "Oh look, new stockings and garters and a pantie that match'esth too."

He hadn't even to look away from the picture. From his perspective, the picture could be seen in the background next to Nicky standing in front of him. The new pair of stockings he held out was juxtaposed, with the snap-shot of life's worse moment on one side and Nicky's smiling face on the other. A four year stretch in time separated by the millimeters underscore just how far he had come. And as Nicky continued to show the intimate feminine apparel that would change the look of his outside, he could see from the picture he was the same feeble, sickly boy suffering a lingering malaise on the inside.

The silk nightie Mrs. Bottomly had bought couldn't have made it any clearer. Nor the pair of baby pink, point-toe patent pumps Ms. Stanton got for him. With their six inch stiletto heels and a jeweled star affixed on top, they were the very same heels he had seen worn by the "Puss" girls that afternoon. "Aren't they beautiful Patty?" Barbara spat out. "Size eight and perfect for your new job at the "Puss and Poodle."

"Oh, isn't that wonderful, Patty," Edith added, pointing out the obvious. "Barbara wants to hire you. Your own car, lots of new friends and a chance to become a man's man . . . oh, I'm so proud of you."

His aunt's words were like a punch in the gut, and a sobering blow at that. Enough to draw him out of his stupor and merge again into the world around him. Looking around he saw Mrs. Bottomly sitting beside his aunt holding up the nightie between them. Nicky now sat on Greta's lap playing some silly game with his pants gather around his knees and a pair of the new pink panties in his hand.

Barbara came around in front, lifted up his chin and stared into his eyes while she spoke in a tone as harsh as a shot of Kentucky rye. "Yes, you have all the makings of a great one. That is once you're learned to handle the tricks of the trade. And with Nicky's help you're going to learn to perform those tricks ably for your admiring clientele, making you one of the most sought after commodities in the trade."

"Oh my, look at the time," interjected Mrs. Bottomly. "Time does fly when you're having fun, but young boys do need their beauty rest and . . ."

". . . and Nicky still has to give his gift." Greta abruptly cut in, "By the look of things, I'd say the poor boy can hardly wait."

"Well . . ." Barbara smiled and winked in an "I gotcha" sort of way. "How does this sound. Patty can put on his new nightie and Nicky, you lucky duck, you can run along to bed, get everything nice and warm and comfy for Patty."

Nicky jumped off Greta's lap and dashed to Patrick's room flapping his arms and quacking with a lisp. As for poor Patrick . . . well, he retreated back into the solitude, his mind again blank, his gaze fixed upon that picture as the three self-serving, self-seeking parasitic harpy's did their worst.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Self-serving and parasitic," there, I said it! About time I did, right? All I can say is shame on me, and I apologize for not having done so before now. My silence was paramount to making myself an accomplice to the crime, or worse, excusing it in not coming to the defense of young Patrick. But that wasn't my intent. As the story teller I simply wanted to air out the issues so you the reader could come to your own determination as to the right and the wrong, not give short-shrift to an injustice. That's what it was after all, plain and simple. For their own gain these criminals, these self-serving parasites sucked the life blood of this hapless boy, his welfare nowhere to be seen.

Of course Patrick deserves our sympathy and our outrage, but you have to ask yourself why he didn't fight back. I mean any boy worth his weight in the genetic code would have fought like hell to save himself from having to wear that nightie, those panties and those outrageous heels. So why didn't he summon up the testosterone and fight back when outfitted like some ersatz bride on his wedding night? Why didn't he go kicking and screaming when they led him down the hall and to the bedroom where Nicky waited at the door?

Well, you might ask the same of a boy who unfortunately finds himself a victim of bullying time and time again, for no reason other than his manner and the clothes he wears. He cries out, but nobody listens. He tries to fight back, but can not win. Soon his anger toward the bullies turns inward, blaming himself for his failings. Correcting his clothes and his mannerisms to please them he soon becomes a bully himself. A class "A" bully, to prove his worth and garnish respect, to measure up as somebody special in the eyes of those he is tied – the bullies - his support mechanism, the only ear who would listen and without them he is isolated and alone.

Oh I can hear the complaints already. You're thinking, what kind of stretch is it to equate young Patrick's needless suffering to the plight of an ignorant bully. Okay, I've heard your point. Maybe it was a stretch. After all, we all have heartache, hardships and some of us carry around enough guilt to topple a mountain. But few of us go through life suffering the blame for our weaknesses, our fears, our failed state the way Patrick did. For him it was a form of disparagement that bred self-loathing. And let me assure you, one and all, self-loathing is a powerful motivator that could convince him to do most anything.

Simply put, the only war that need be fought was within himself, not in fisticuffs with Barbara Stanton. He needed to fight his way from beneath the guilt and the blame before he could see himself in some way other than the way Barbara Stanton defined him. Obviously nothing has as yet awakened him to that fact. So you'd have to wonder what, if anything would get him to see through the bars of his self-imposed prison. Was he to become the prima donna drag-queen of casino row just because he hated himself for his failed state and not measuring up?

Well, I'm writing this story and I can't even say with certainty what the future has in store for our young, hapless hero. What I can say is that it's never too late to find redemption.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Patty my darling," Barbara whispered in his ear, "tonight is your night. Nicky has a special gift to give to a special boy. Call it a welcoming gift, a christening of our new Puss girl, Puss-E-Willow!"

With the three harpy's lined up behind him, Barbara placed her hands on his shoulders and gently nudging him closer to Nicky standing at the bedroom door. Nicky stood smiling, at attention like a good soldier, and our hapless hero, lost in his reverie. His solitude spoke volumes as Barbara stepped back, Edith sighed, Jane smiled and Greta looked on with a wicked glint in her eyes. It was a bleak and sordid scene in which all hope finally seemed lost - though fortunately, not all.

When Nicky reached out a thought occurred to him. He thought about what was at stake in that life or death struggle between Sgt. Rock and that crocodile. Even in the face of impossible odds he didn't give up. With no less than his life in the balance he fought like the warrior he was, and would have done so to his dieing breath. Or so it read in the caption beneath and no doubt absolutely true. Was his circumstance any less dire? Wasn't it for him to fight to his dieing breath, to fight for himself like the warrior he always wanted to be?

Perhaps he should have taken to heart what Sgt. Rock had told him. In his written response to his fan letter, he wrote; "It isn't how big your muscles are that that make you a beautiful person. It's standing up for what is right regardless of the outcome that makes a person worth remembering."

That's the way Sgt. Rock defined himself. It wasn't his muscles, or his gun. It was having the grit to do the right thing regardless of the outcome that made him a superman. Odd that he had not been able to see it in that light before. It was one thing to want big muscles, but without the grit to do what's right all the muscles in the world were meaningless. And grit was one thing young Patrick Whipple had a ton of – thank you, Barbara Stanton!!!

The revelation shot through him like a bolt of lightening that broke him out of his reverie and spurred him to action. Refusing to go quietly like a lamb to slaughter, he turned quickly and ran in the only direction he could, toward the bathroom. Before anyone could react he ran in, slammed the door closed and locked it all in one lighting quick move. Behind the security of the door he listened to the pounding and the angry, vile threats, demanding he come out this instant.

He didn't come out of course, not even when Greta threatened to break down the door. Something she was quite prepared to do until Edith begged her not to do so. In time cooler heads prevailed and shortly after they drifted away. Then as the house grew quiet Patrick was left alone to think about what he had done. He could only hope that the point he had made would bring a halt to all this. At least he knew he did the right thing and was proud of himself as he kicked off those dreadful heels. But did he win the war or just a battle with worse yet to come?

Patrick didn't know, but he sure wasn't going to step out of the bathroom to find out. Not even after hearing Barbara slam the front door then drive off, followed shorted by Nicky and Jane. Instead, he put on his pink velour jump suit that was left hanging on the back of the door. Slipping it on over his nightie for warmth, he took out some towels from the cabinet and curled up on the floor to sleep.

The house was dead silent and the new morning sun had yet to cut through the cold when he woke up with a shiver. Patrick sat up and waited long enough until he was sure the coast was clear than cautiously opened the door. He peeked into his room and found his room dark and quiet. Then not finding his aunt in her room he went down the hall and into the family room where, stopped in his tracks, reality slammed into him with tidal wave force.

Greta sat at his aunt's chair waiting on him. Beside the chair stood his aunt, unstirred, her head slumped down. "Good morning pretty boy. Come in and sit down . . . Come now, do as I say or I may renege on my promise not to bite."

No match for Greta and not wanting a confrontation he sat across from her and waited quietly while his aunt went off to prepare breakfast. During the entire time she didn't take her eyes off him, although she said nothing. Even in the kitchen while she heartedly ate her ham and eggs and finished off his uneaten plate as well. Then when finished, she asked Edith for the keys to her car, telling her she was going home to change clothes and would be taking Patrick with her.

Patrick found it odd she would hand over the keys without question. She just lowered her eyes as Greta snatched the keys out of her hands. Then stood idly by as she grabbed him by the hand and hauled him away like so much chattel. Or, perhaps, like a lamb to slaughter. Edith didn't know, but then she wasn't asking either. It was as though she had given up, given in or joined the conspiracy, submissively surrendering in a manner no different than he had as Greta led him out the door.

Five minutes later it became obvious that she wasn't headed home. She was taking the route to Ms. Stanton's, pushing the rickety old Renault to its shaking, huffing, puffing limit as it raced down the road leaving a cloud of dust. When they came to a stop in front of the clinic a vapor cloud of boiling steam was gushing out from under the hood as the engine continued to sputter and grind as if in its death throws. The dieing car looked as Patrick felt as Greta hurried around to drag him from the car to meet his fate.

Like a fly ensnared in a Widow's web, no amount of struggle could free him now. And waiting to devour their prey was Greta, Jane, Nicky and Barbara, conspirators to a one, at the ready to consume what little reminded of the boy in him. All in it together, an evil plot from the start. As for why, you needn't ask. Because you already know there is only one thing that could compel someone to be so ruthless and cold-hearted without principle or conscious. Not love, not even hate is more compelling in this world of ours than greed for the almighty dollar.

Only profit could bring together under one roof such an odd assemblage of conspiratorial assassins, smiling and eagerly licking their chops over the prospects of capitalizing on his demise. Just as had been Nicky's fate before him, and hanging on the walls of Barbara's office the portraits of others before that. All no doubt to be found center stage at the Puss n' Poodle, or perhaps in some dark corner entertaining one of Barbara's well paying clients. Shameless in their surrender as they sit on some gentleman's lap just to earn himself a car and some pretty clothes while the claque of jackals raked in their lucrative profit.

A dastardly deed to be sure, and a vice they were about to thrust upon him with no one to save him but himself. The very same skin and bone, sissified self now in utter fright as Barbara approached grinning like a cat prepared to swallow his mousy self whole. In her hand the largest syringe in the case. The end of the line model, the one she had promised would come at the end of his recovery. She was using it like a pink, rubber baton, grasping it one hand and slapping her other, open palm with a menace. "Well . . . my pretty little puss, after Nicky has finished feeding the guppy, you can ask me politely to finish the job . . ." she paused, then held up the nozzle, ". . . and I'll see what I can do."

Patrick was beyond grief. Beyond response of any kind, save the tears that streamed down his terror stricken face. Quickly they striped him of his jumpsuit but chose to leave on the nightie, garter belt and stockings he wore beneath. Then as Greta held his hands in her iron tight grip, Barbara prettified his tear stained face while Jane retrieved yet another pair of high heeled pumps from the closet. "Okay Greta, he's pretty as a picture. Come, Patty, your belated birthday gift awaits you in the bathroom."

Nicky was already there, quite eager and quite ready. Greta sat down on the rim of the bathtub filled with perfumed bubbles then pulled Patrick's shoulders down until his head came to rest on her lap. With his high heeled rear jetting up obscenely behind and his head pinned down like a butterfly to a mat, Barbara took up beside him. Everyone and everything at the ready she motioned to Nicky to step up behind our hapless hero. Which he hurriedly did wearing a most wicked grin as his stepmother Jane shouted her smutty encouragement from the doorway. Only then did Barbara Stanton lean in to whisper in his ear, "No more hiding in the cloak room closet for you. It's time the little fairy queen step out and find his rightful place in the world."

Patrick sobbed a mournful cry as he felt Nicky's thumbs spread his cheeks. But when he felt the heat of his advance something inside him broke. His aunt might have given up, given in or joined the conspiracy, but he had not. His heart was broke, but as yet, not his will. So he dug down deep for some of that hard earned grit and, "S-n-a-p!" . . . went his self-loathing. "Cr-r-a-a-ck!" . . . went his hobbled spirit.

"Scr-r-e-e-ch" went the sound of bending bars, the bars that held him imprisoned!

I don't know. Call it a reflexive survival thing of some sort. Kind of like what one would do if a bomb when off in the room you were in. The concussion and the blast blow everything to smithereens, but somehow you find yourself alive amidst the rubble. Dazed and confused, you're not even thinking, probably not even conscious. You're just in shock. Ears ringing, the dimmest of light illuminates your awareness, and you reach out to see what remains of you. And that's what he did.

He reached out with his fist clenched. With a force coming from a source he had never felt before, he broke free of her grasp and swung. It was as if in slow motion and the involuntary reflex seemed to click by frame by frame as the fist landed square on Greta's jaw . . . "Ka-Pow!" The follow through pushed the twisted, shattered jaw off its moorings and sent her flying back into the tub of water with a splash.

The momentum carried him whirling in a smooth pivot around on the point of his 6" stiletto heel, the sweep of his right leg aimed waist high toward Barbara's midsection. The high heeled kick that followed plunged into her gut . . . "Thwack" . . . doubling her over then flying back, her head slamming against the wall. "Splat!" With Greta moaning and stewing in the hot water, and Barbara sitting on the floor still trying to figure out what day of the week it was, young Patrick Whipple rushed past the squealing Nicky, pushed aside the cursing Jane and ran out of the bathroom – free of his prison! Yahoooooo! In an instant, Patrick had fought for, and won his redemption like the young man he had become.

Spotting his jump suit pants he grabbed them on the way out the front door, slowing down only for a moment to step into the velour pants with a hop, skip and jump as he continued to run down the sidewalk. His pants up, he turned on the after-jets and ran, his pink stiletto heels clutched in his hand. He didn't know where he was going, or wait to see if anyone followed. He just ran, his face laden with tears, all logic, all reason lost to him. Rounding a corner, he ran down a street before rounding another, running on and rounding corners until out of breath. Forced to stop running as much from bewilderment as exhaustion, he sat on a curb and sobbed uncontrollably.

He had no idea how long he had been running, where he was or what he was going to do. All he knew was he couldn't go back to face all that again. He was lost to himself, so deep in despair that he hadn't noticed a car pull up.

"Hell-l-l-o-o-o-there," rang out a girl's sing-song voice, followed by a gleeful, throaty cackle that brought him back in touch with the world around him.

Looking up he saw what looked like a mobile billboard. Well, not exactly a billboard. More like a mosaic of chimerical, rainbow-colored flowers with pedals that looked like liquid teardrop that stretched out to transform themselves into the most exotic imagery. The whole of it conforming to the shape of the Volkswagen bus, and hanging out the passenger window a girl, wearing a flower in her fiery red hair, small purple sunglasses and smile as big as a quarter moon. "Need a ride?"

The side door slid open and a young barefoot man wearing red silk balloon pants, a tall, Persian style rabbit fur hat and Indian beads stepped out. "Far-out man, like it looks as if could use a friend!" Though it didn't seem possible, the young man with the tall hat beamed a big, toothy smile even bigger than the girl's as he reached out to offer him a hand.

Patrick could scarcely believe any of this. He had never seen anything like this before. Not the car not the people, not even his own eyes. It was as if he had either gone mad or mistakenly fallen into some other-worldly realm where everything was curiously unreal. His first impulse was to believe the whole thing some sort of joke and the pranksters looking for yet another way to humiliate him. He felt certain none of this could possibly be real. All the same, when he looked again at the girl's big, earthy smile, then again into the eyes of the strange young man, he saw something that said it was quite real indeed. "Why don't yah come along, we're going to a parade."

"A parade . . ." braved Patrick as he blotting the moisture off his long, fluttering lashes, "where?"

"San Francisco," the girl again cackled in a gravelly, good-natured way. "It's a people's parade man, and the whole world is there waiting for us."

"I can't . . . ahm-aaah, ahmmm, not dressed . . ."

"Everything's cool man, like it's come as you are. Everybody is welcome. You can be whatever you want, or just be," he happily said as his bare feet danced to the sound of his own words. "Come on man, come join the parade!"

These people were different, that he knew with certainty. Crazy, perhaps, but then he looked down upon himself wondering what he must look like to them. With his face painted like a Las Oasis showgirl and wearing a nightie, he knew he looked no less the Madhatter - A boy with perky tits and a flattop running to or from something in a world turned upside down on its head. In every sense, they were just like him, only happy - And if this was crazy, then this is where he belonged. Knowing he couldn't go back there was only one way to go - forward, to join a parade!

So he planted a smile on his showgirl painted face and accepted the young man's hand. Stepping through the sliding side door Patrick sat in the back beside another young man playing a guitar. He wore tattered blue jeans, a Mexican serape and like the driver, a head of electrified hair and big bushy mustache. "I'm Nick," the young man said as he continued to strum the cords.

The young man in the rabbit fur hat stepped in, sliding the door closed behind. Then with a smile as bright as the rainbow of colors inside the mini-bus the boy sat down beside him, leaving Patrick sandwiched between an excess of hair. "I'm David," he beamed. "That's Nicky pick'in the guitar. That bushy mongrel upfront is Captain James, and the beautiful Texas rose is Janis."

Patrick lit up when he heard the word "captain." Looking forward, he spotted the army fatigue jacket he was wearing with sergeant stripes on the sleeve. Then as if the big bushy outcrop of hair was somehow masked from his sight, blindly blurted out, "Are you a captain . . . an army captain?"

Captain James had just taken a bite of an apple and, turning round, reached back to hand Patrick the half-eaten apple before answering. "Ah, yah, like in the peoples army, and I play a mean bass too."

Nick ran his fingers through a frenzied sequence of loud, mismatched cords on his unplugged electric guitar, and above the ruckus, Janis's coarse, throaty cackle sang out in wondrous laughter. A moment later Captain James put the bus into gear and they started out. As the guitar played and the little engines hummed, Janis pulled a flower from her hair to hand to him. "If you're going to San Francisco, my man, yah got'ta wear a flower in your hair . . ."

Then as the bus drove off, Nick played his guitar, Dave beat a rhythm on his knees with his hands and Janis sang. Patrick looked out the window as they headed back the way from which he came. Rounding one corner than another until they came to an intersection where he saw Barbara's Mercedes across the way waiting for the light to turn. He saw Greta, Jane and Nicky sitting alongside looking up one street and down another, obviously looking for him.

Then when the light turned green and the Mercedes sped past, he followed it as it faded down the way then turned round to look again at his travel companions, soldiers in a people's army. Long haired, flower wearing hero's to a one, sincere and genuine and caring enough to want to share his company. They went about their way without apology, guilt or blame, placing no demands on him or even each other. They just gave expecting nothing in return. There was no hate, just love; no "I" or "me," just "we" and "us" together, sharing an apple and a song he didn't even know the words to, but it didn't matter. He was free to sing, to be himself and nobody ridiculed, cajoled or laughed at him. Nick just laughed with him, Dave just pat him on the back and Janis just sang, ". . . freedoms just another word for nothing left to lose . . ."

What a birthday present. Eighteen, free and Patrick Whipple finally came to be.

End – Part I

 

 

Homeopathic Therapy

Part VIII: "If You're Going to San Francisco . . ."

Lyrics: "Brown Sugar," The Rolling Stones, RMG Music LLD, copyright, 1968.

"Lola," The Kinks, Birmingham Music, LLD, copyright, 1966.

 

Acknowledgment: I would like to gratefully acknowledge Robyn Smith for her editorial support, guidance and infinite wisdom, all dispensed with a heart as large as her talent. Bless you, Robyn. You truly are a clear voice in a deafening world.

  

  

  

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