Johnny Wraith Stories

Larry pulled up curbside at the far end of the street. He was in his dad's 1978 F150 Ford pickup, a real 460. He leaned into the horn three times and gave the signal.

"Beeeep! Beeeep! Beeeep!"

He quickly flipped a U-turn, "VRRRROOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!" and roared through the suburbs, not stopping until the local elementary school's parking lot, the other side of the neighborhood.  

I could hear all the noise from inside my parent's house.

Though I was 17 years old, I wasn't allowed to hang out with Larry, ever. So we had to secretly arrange our meetings. It may have had something to do with our getting drunk on whiskey when we were 15. Or all the pornographic magazines my father found stuffed between my mattress and box spring. Or the time we were caught with hookers, arrested, and detained at the Juvenile Center. Or the time we skipped school for the day and were suspended for a week...

I grabbed my basketball and baseball cap and headed out the front door. 

"Mom," I yelled up the stairs, "I'm going to go shoot some baskets at the school."

"Okay Johnny. Just be back before dark or you'll be grounded again."

"Bounce, bounce, bounce." I dribbled as fast as I could across the street, over the curb, onto a little dirt trail that ran through a thicket, into grove of trees, then onto a grassy field to a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence, and next a sprawling baseball field, was Pine Hill Elementary school's asphalt playground, its swing sets, monkey bars, 4-square stations, kickball diamonds. The school itself-the large, grey and square, 2-story brick building held over 500 kindergarten through 6^th grade students on school days. Yet today was Sunday, so all was quiet, and would be, until morning. On the far side past the playground, there was Larry, waiting in the parking lot, sitting high in his dad's truck with the big, V8. I knew he was smiling, though I couldn't see it. I could hear the idling engine 100s of yards away. "Dut dut dut dut, dut dut dut."

Was it September or October of 1985, in my home town, in Jefferson City, Missouri? So many years away; a lot of time has passed. I remember the leaves were changing, but not yet dropping to the ground. Everywhere you looked, the boughs of trees were reaching into the sky with stretching limbs the shades of red, orange, and brown. The grassy fields and sprawling suburb lawns, though still green, were just forming small patches of yellow and brown in preparation for winter. It wasn't quite cold enough to see my breath yet, but it was almost there. You could always smell the ever-dampened earth and the surrounding woods.

I still remember the outfit I was wearing: white Reebok court tennis shoes, faded Levis 501 button-fly jeans with a hole in one knee, and a thick, plaid flannel shirt I'd worn so many times I'd had to stitch leather patches over the frayed elbows to keep it from falling apart. I had a mullet too: short on top and the sides, but running all the way down my neck to curl up at the shoulders, greasy and dangling from the back, from beneath my reversed baseball cap. That hat was faded black. And on the front was a big, snarling panther, white fangs showing. Larry wore an identical cap. More than a year before, the very day he'd passed his driver's test, only days before the 4^th of July, we'd driven straight past the city limits to the largest fireworks tent in the county. Using money lifted from Larry's little brother's piggy bank, we purchased 10 packs of 144-count Black Cat bottle rockets. It was the 7-year-old's life savings, every penny of it, put to good use. Every 5 packs of 144 count bottle rockets you purchased entitled you to a prize. A free Black Cat hat. And from that day, whenever we got together, at least until this particular day, we wore our matching caps.

Those Black Cat baseball hats had a little, hard, round button, right on top of them, in the middle. Many caps are made with such buttons, though they often go unnoticed. That's why this story is titled HARD BUTTON. It has everything to do with that little, hard, round button, right on top.

I ran across the asphalt, dribbling fast, rushing right up to the basketball goal. I leapt straight in the air, stretched upward, and uncurled my fingers. The ball gently rolled over the rim. Dropping lightly, it stuck in the tight chain net and didn't fall through, as intended.   

Larry leaned on the horn, stuck his fist out the window, and flipped me the bird.

I ran to the truck and hopped in. We made fists and banged our knuckles together, hard. Larry turned his Black Cat cap backwards and shifted into reverse.

"Where we headed, Johnny?"

"Not sure. I only have $7 and 42 cents."

"I have a $20. Took it from Gramma's purse when I visited her at the home earlier."

"Shit. I wish I had a $20 like you. We could go down to Lafayette Street and get blow jobs."

"I had enough of that. Haven't you? Wasn't getting arrested the first time enough?"

"That was bad luck. Plus, we aren't adults yet. None of this shit goes on our permanent records."

"You have a point there."

"But hell, it looks like we need our cash for gas. You only have a quarter tank," I pointed.

 Larry looked down between his hands and through the wheel. He nodded. "You got that right. Let's go get some gas."

We drove out of the suburbs at 50mph. The speed limit was 30.

"Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"If you had $20 on you, you'd really want to spend it all on a blow job?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't really care much for the head I got when we got those hookers."

"Why not?"

"My girl made me wear a rubber. Maybe that was it? Somehow, it wasn't even good as whacking off to a dirty magazine."

"Really? That sucks."

"Why? Yours didn't make you wear a rubber?"

"Nope."

"Shit. That's not fair. How come? Mine made me put one on."

"I don't know. Maybe my girl kind of liked me."

"Liked you? Why?"

"I know her."

"Know her!"

 "Yep, from school. That's why I picked her."

"What!"

"She's a freshman in my Spanish 101. Her locker's only 4 down from mine."

"You know her?"

"Name's Candice."

"And she's a hooker? A girl we go to school with?"

"Well," I shrugged, "at least part time. You were there."

"You knew her before she blew you?"

"Yep."

"God damn! You're telling me hookers go to school with us?"

"A few part time ones at least."

"She can't be more than 15!"

"I think she's 16. She got held back once, I think."

"How do you know so much about her?"

"Like I said, I know her because we talk at school."

"Even since she blew you?"

"Yeah. Now we talk even more than before. A few minutes between class, almost every day."

"Do you like her?"

"Yeah."

"How can you talk to a hooker?"

"She's easy to talk to. She's real."

"What do you mean by ‘real'?"

"Other girls our age seem to be acting like they're somebody else. Candice doesn't."

Larry stared out the windshield for a while, and then turned to me. "I think I know what you mean, Johnny."

"I was thinking about asking her out."

"But, you aren't going to ask her out, are you?"

"No."

"Because she's black?"

"No. Because she's a hooker."

"I wouldn't care if a girl was a hooker, as long as she didn't make me wear a rubber when she sucked me. But I couldn't go out with a black girl," explained Larry.

"Why not? Isn't that racist?"

"I don't know. My dad's a Teamster. He'd kick my ass."

"But there are black Teamsters. One of the black guys at the gym is a Teamster."

"I don't know Johnny. That's just the way my dad is. He don't like black people. He'd kick my ass. Probably kill me."

"I thought about saving up so I could ask Candice to the movies. Not as a girlfriend, but as something in-between a hooker and a girlfriend."

"Really? What do you mean by ‘in-between'?"

"I just think it would be nice to take a girl to the movies and I got to pick the movie - one with action in it. After the show we could drive to the park and talk for a while. She'd give me head without bothering with any kissing. I'd give her a $20 and drive her home. It would be perfect."

"You can have that with a girlfriend, can't you?"

"I don't think so. A girlfriend would probably bitch about seeing an action movie. And you wouldn't know for sure if she was going to suck your dick at the end of the night. She might go along with a bunch of kissing, but then, when your balls were blue, she might come up with some bullshit about waiting until the time was right, until prom or something. Or maybe she'd have religious issues about doing it, or even say it was too gross. Even worse, you might have to beg for an hour before she finally put her mouth on it, and then, you'd feel bad when she wouldn't talk to you at all on the drive home."

"You have a point. But what about talking to a girl, just being with one? It isn't all about getting head, is it?"

"Candice and I have great conversations. And she's a great girl to hang out with. Like I said, hookers are easier to talk to than other girls. Add the fact that if you have the money, you get exactly what you want..."

"Too bad we're poor. We'll usually have to settle for less. Real girlfriends," Larry sighed.

We arrived at the Sinclair station. Larry pulled up to a pump and killed the engine. "Just give me $5. I'll get the rest."

"Alright."

Larry waddled up to the window and handed over the money. As he walked, his left foot turned in and didn't move at the ankle. He'd been run over by a local Baptist minister when he was 12 years old, while crossing highway 55 on his bicycle, coming home from a visit to McDonalds. After sliding under the car for 1000ft, having half the skin and muscle torn off his back and buttocks, his left foot was left hanging from the ankle by a single artery. The poor bastard spent a year in the hospital, underwent dozens of surgeries, and was home schooled until 15. At 17, Larry was a freshman and a walking scar, but he got around as well as anyone. He just wasn't as graceful.

Larry returned, pumped in the gas, climbed back into the cab, and turned the key. "Johnny," he said, "I got a fucking great idea."

"Alright. Whatever the fuck it is, let's go for it!"

"WHOO HOO! You're going to love this surprise!"

We banged our knuckles together and sped down the town's main boulevard. Larry had a thing for passing cars in the fast lane, by swerving into the oncoming traffic lane and back again. If the speed limit was 45, he drove 70mph, sometimes 90. There were lots of near misses and thrills.  

"Wait! Stop here at Esser's! That black dude out front will buy for us. Name's Clarence."

"I spent all my money on gas."

"I got it. $2.37 will get us 3 King Cobras! One for each of us."

Larry slammed on the breaks, "SCREEEEECCCCHHHH!" We slid sideways to a stop. Cars locked their tires and skidded, honked their horns. He gave it some gas.

"VRRROOOOOOOMMM!"

"BANG! BUMP!"

Up over the curb we bounced, into the Esser's Liquors parking lot. We had to make a rough entry because we'd slid past the turn-in.  

"Whatcha boyees need?" asked Clarence through the window.

"3 Cobras. We each get one."

"Awrighty, jest pull on up ‘hind the place. I take care of us."

I handed over the cash and coin. Clarence cupped it all in his dirty, fingerless gloves. We drove to the back, into a trash-filled alleyway, got out, and waited. Clarence joined us in no time, hugging 120 ounces of pure cold liquid gold, all wrapped up in three brown paper sacks.  

We twisted off the caps, let out a cheer, and clanked our bottles together. We put it away so hard and fast that each of us had to stop and choke a few times. But a few good pats to the back quickly cleared the way for more.   

Leaving empty bottles behind, Larry and hopped back in the truck with less than the grace we'd arrived with, but grace had been well traded for laughs. Away we roared, back onto the boulevard. To say goodbye to Clarence, Larry laid into the horn, and I waved and hollered out the window.

And we roared down Lafayette Street, not stopping for a single hooker stepping up to the curb and trying to flag us down. Besides, I didn't see Candice, and we were out of cash. But we were at least full of malt liquor, had a full tank of gas, and matching Black Cat baseball hats.

Larry spun around a corner, then another, and finally came to a stop at the top of a steep hill.

"Dut dut dut dut, dut dut dut."

For about a quarter mile, the street sloped down at roughly a 6% grade. At the bottom it made a sharp ‘U', and steeply rose for about 100 yards, until meeting a big, round bump in the road.

We sat there idling, looking down over the course, through the big, square windshield, wide-eyed.

"Dut dut dut dut, dut dut dut."

Larry pointed. "THERE! THIS IS IT JOHNNY!"

"What?" I asked to make sure.

"Don't you see it?"

"Not sure. What?"

"We're going to haul ass down the hill and jump the truck!" He kept pointing. "Just hit the bump head-on, and we go flying!"

"That's what I was afraid of."

"You chicken?"

"No," I lied. "Let's fucking do it."

"Alright. We'll go slow at first. Mike Tilburg says you can't do more than 40 over the bump."

Larry narrowed his eyes and his grip on the wheel turned his knuckles white. I swallowed hard and grasped the steel dash with both hands.

"Dut dut dut dut, dut dut dut."

"1... 2... 3... GO!"

And we descended.

"VRRRROOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!"

We hit the bottom at about 45, then shot up the ramp.  

"THUNK! THUNK!" We hit the bump.

The massive F150 left the ground, and we could hear the engine scream as the wheels spun in the air. "EEeeeee RReeeee RReeeee!"

"SLAM! BANG! BAM! SLAM! BANG! BAM!" We came down hard, crashing steel into steel, bouncing wildly on springs and rubber.

"BAM! BAM!" went our heads, straight into the truck's hard steel top.

"OUCH! GOD DAMN!" I yelled.

"FUCK!" screamed Larry.

The dust cleared. Sitting sideways in the road, with engine idling, Larry and I had tears in our eyes. Our Black Cat caps were off and we were both holding the tops of our heads in our hands.

"Fuck!" I cried.

"God damn that hurt!" yelled Larry.

After writhing in our seats, cursing, and rubbing our heads for a few minutes, Larry finally looked over at me with his wet eyes. He held up his Black Cat hat and pointed straight at the hard button on top.

"Johnny. It wasn't hitting our heads on the top of the truck that hurt so bad. It was this damned hard, little button on top."

I felt the top of my head carefully. "OH SHIT! It made a little dent right on the top of my head!"

Larry quickly felt the top of his head and gasped. "FUCK! The same thing happened to me!"

"We weren't wearing our seatbelts!"

"Yeah!"

The next time we hit the jump at 70, but were wearing our seat belts. We didn't knock our heads on the hard, steel top, but we sure lost our hats when the truck flipped and rolled more than a dozen times. We came to a stop upside down. We were laughing hysterically, just hanging there in our seatbelts.

The police drove me home with minor bruises.

Larry likewise made it home with minor contusions, though his father knocked out his front teeth just as he walked through the door.