Johnny Wraith Stories

In seeking the soul the flesh must fall away

Back to Stories

Crossing

Crossing
Johnny Wraith - Tue Jul 10, 2007 @ 10:47PM
Comments: 7
Last Comment: Mon Jul 23, 2007 @ 09:21PM

"You see? Here I am. An old man."

"How old are you now?"

"80-fucking-3!"

"You've still got your wits about you."

"But I'm 80-fucking-3!"

"You still match me drink for drink."

"But I'm 80-fucking-3!"

"I suppose that means you don't have a lot of time left."

"That's what I'm saying!"

"It isn't like you were cheated out of any time."

"I WAS CHEATED!"

"How so? You've already had almost 50 more years than me."

"I didn't do anything with my time. I've lost it. You've only lost a part of it, so don't fuck up like I did."

"You fucked up?"

"I fucked up big time."

"I thought you said you were cheated?"

"I was. God damn it, I CHEATED MYSELF! That's how I fucked up."

The bartender came over, leaned into and over the bar from the other side, smiled, and winked at us. Her name was Missy. One of her canines was missing, but her other teeth were still white and straight. She had nice tits. Like porcelain, full and ready to pop. They looked like D cups, but only because they were shoved up to her collarbone and out into the air by her tight corset. At best she had small Bs. And the best part of her was her ass. Heart-shaped and tight, almost too small, two cheeks like a pair of grapefruit on springs that ground together as she tiptoed about. Other than the corset, she only wore stiletto heels and g-string panties. Leroy and I always loved going to Gwendolyn's Bar and Grill. The serving girls dressed right. The recorded piano music didn't play too loud, so you could hear a conversation without a struggle. The place had ambiance. You could smoke cigars there too. If you stayed until close and had $1,000 to spend, Missy might take you to the back room. She'd sit you on a padded leather couch, pull off your shoes, socks, and pants, pour you a real cognac, put a real Cuban in your mouth and light it for you, caress you and massage your scalp, neck, hands and feet while spilling endearing words all over you. Then she'd give you the best blowjob of your life. No rubber, wet lips to the hilt and a sweet humming swallow without a gack. Rumor was Leroy and I were the only fellows Missy ever took to the back room, but who knows? And I never had any proof he'd been back there either, but that was what Leroy swore: he'd been back there, just like I had been. But we were the only ones, he insisted. And it wasn't a habit of mine, to go back there, at that price. In fact, I've only been to the back room 3 times, each time after Leroy had gotten drunk and started feeling generous enough to pay my $1,000 fare. Drunk on whiskey, at the end of a night of many we'd had there, you never knew when the old man just might beckon Missy to lean over the bar his way. He might whisper into her ear, she'd giggle, his hand would drop something into her upturned palm (he always said it was $1,000 cash), and then he'd hop off the barstool and hobble out of the place on his cane. When I tried to follow, he'd hold up his hand for me to stop.

"Stay here with Missy," he'd smile and wink. "I'll get a taxi."

I always wondered if his spending $3,000 on me before he died was his way of proving he was right about an argument we'd once had. He'd claimed that any woman would be a whore for the right price. I'd disagreed. We'd argued the point from 7:00 pm until midnight one night, there on the barstools, at the bar, over whiskey and beer, at Gwendolyn's. Maybe Leroy was right? But then why were the padded leather couch and the cognac and the cigars in the back room? There was a desk and computer back there too... It could have been a legitimate office after all? Maybe it doesn't matter. Yeah, it doesn't matter.

"You boys want another round?"

"Another Jack Shooter and a draft beer for me and the boy!"

"You got it!"

"Leroy?"

"Yeah?"

"How would you do it all differently if you had 50 years back?"

"I wouldn't change a thing."

"But what about your regrets?"

"I couldn't change a thing."

"Why not?"

"I never had the strength."

"Would you have banged more girls?"

"Yeah. I'd of started fucking them when I was 12 instead of 15."

"Would you have had more whiskey?"

"I would've choked on my puke and died by the 8th grade."

"I think I remember hearing that Mae West once said, ‘If I could do it all over again, I'd just do it sooner,' or something like that."

"That's just it, but it doesn't kill the pain."

"What pain?"

"The pain of just not doing."

"Doing what?"

"Remember how I used to play guitar?"

"Yeah."

"I haven't plucked a string in over 50 years."

"You used to travel with a band, right?"

"That's right."

"And you were even going to make a record, right?"

"Yeah, that's right. Then Bernie got shot. I met Janice... got married... had little Bobby..."

"Sorry about Bobby."

"Yeah, he's with Janice now. Never thought I'd outlive ‘em both. 'Specially the kid."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit."

"Yeah."

"But the worst of the SHIT. You know what it is?"

"No."

"Back when I was about your age, I started having the same dream over and over again, almost every night."

Missy came back with the shots of whiskey, cold beers to wash it down, a smile, and a wink. We tipped our little glasses together, "SALUD," and tilted our heads back with open necks. Missy giggled, turned, and was walking away by the time we were washing the sting out of our throats with cold beer. As we gulped, the corners of our eyes watched her springy little grapefruit ass exit the scene on high-heeled tiptoes. When our eyes met back up, we chuckled at catching one-another drooling over the girl's behind, and in so doing, we couldn't resist choking on the bottoms of our chilled mugs as we tried to swallow it all.

"Cough! Cough! Gack! Ahhhh!" We both finally exclaimed, smiles broad on our faces as we slammed the empty mugs down.

"CLANK! CLANK!"

Leroy let go of his handle and his face quickly went from jovial to grim. He slowly nodded his head, and in so doing he completely lost his grin. The corners of his mouth lost tension and sank. He looked down and paused. With drooping loose eyes he finally looked up and asked,

"Johnny?"

"Yeah Leroy?"

"About that damned dream."

"Tell me about it. I'm listening."

"Alright... There I am, sitting there at the railroad tracks in my '55 Chevy. You know. What do they call the place where you have to stop when the train comes, the arm comes down and the bell dings as you just sit there - as the train comes and passes by?"

"A railroad crossing?"

"Yeah, a railroad crossing... So, there I am, sitting in my '55 Chevy, at a railroad crossing. I'm in my first car. A black '55 Chevy. The arm just came down and I can hear the train coming, the whistling, the ‘Choo! Choo!' The bell is dinging. There is the clatter of the wheels against the tracks getting louder and louder. In my back seat is my guitar, just sitting there, in its case. I look for the train. It's still getting louder and louder. Then I look back at my guitar again - the case it's in - and it's just starting to gather dust. Each time I look for the train, and then I look in the back seat, there is my guitar, in its case, collecting more fucking dust. Finally, the train arrives and starts whizzing by. I don't know how long it's going to take for it to pass, but it seems an eternity. I start counting the cars, counting, counting... I get to 100, 200, 300... Then I get tired of counting. I lose count, look into the backseat again, and see my guitar case is dustier than ever before. I turn and face the passing train, start counting the cars again... lose interest... look into the back seat - for just a moment. There's always more dust! Once or twice I think of reaching into the backseat, unlatching the hooks, and snatching my guitar up out of its case and into the air. Just pop it open, pull out my guitar, take it into my arms and hands, play a song I once played to a howling crowd! But I never did. I always turned back to the train, once more, watched its cars pass by, again. And sometimes I started counting them, again... But sometimes I just stared ahead as the cars flashed by, as if I were hypnotized.

Leroy paused. Now his eyes were full with tears as he just stared into my face as if he were lost, in silence, but for the noise of the light piano music playing in the background.

I swallowed hard. "And?"

"Johnny. I just dreamed my last dream last night - of me at the crossing, last night, sitting there. Finally the red caboose arrived and whished past me at top speed. In the very back, hanging over the rail was the engineer. He was grinning big, showing his teeth, waving goodbye with one hand. He was holding my guitar in the other hand. The engineer was me, the old me. THE OLD ME that still had 50 years left to live!"

Comments: 7
Last Comment: Mon Jul 23, 2007 @ 09:21PM

Comments

1. Zuky Leigh - Sun Jul 15, 2007 @ 12:33PM

Johnny,

The fluidity and hidden meanings of your story are interpreted with intensity for me. Even with the tongue of your sexual appetite; which I will not touch on this time.

Perhaps your intention of the Crossing meant something different to you; with this piece I personally reflect upon the hidden magnitude of it. An actual railroad crossing symbolizes so many things, but one important secret that is usually never taken into account is the standstill for reflection; the patience to sit and wait for the freight trains to pass.

Each one of us, on many occasions, contemplate and ponder of what has happened in our lives; how we wasted time, failed to do things in the highest accomplishments, possessions lost - due to our own disasters, insecurities, failures and unpredictable mishaps.

When one sits at a railroad crossing, with our habitual instinct, we are forced to halt our motion. You know what’s coming way before you visually see the train. Way before your foot touches the pedal to come to a complete stop. The machinery of the red and white striped horizontal arm called the ‘Boom Barrier’ – does not allow you to pass without danger. It’s this undeniable protection for you. Strangely, those that try to cross the railroad tracks while the lights are flashing and the big circular bell is annoyingly charming its chanting song, are taking a chance on their lives. Evading the true essence of the diversion which has been forcibly placed before them. We are completely aware of this underlying danger. So we stop and wait.

Some freight trains take a matter of a few long seconds to pass the humming engines of the impatient automobiles; eyes glued to the movement of the attached steel trains. For those who find it horrifyingly annoying to anxiously sit in their cars; will blast their radios – sometimes detach themselves from life, while their lit cigarette smoke escapes through the open cracks of the shimmying car windows. The eager onlookers lose all site; for some do not realize the motion of this gift. For me, I must say that when I allow myself to be tolerant to let an 80-car train pass by my vision; the transporting cargo offers a time of meditation. A place to introspect and take a deep breath, a heavy inhaled sigh; a standstill glance of one’s life at that moment. A private time of conscious contemplation, forcing ourselves to pause and pay gratitude. It’s almost hypnotic when we take the fragile seconds to listen to the rhythmical sound of the “klickety clack” repetitively beating in our ears, followed by the echoes of the banging bell. It’s soothing, to count the spray painted cars passing – trying not to miss count when they whiz by with excessive speed. And we all seem to feel a rush of released adrenaline when we finally spot the pulsating sight of the traditional red painted caboose. It’s almost a glorification of childhood; starting over with a youthful feeling of exuberance.

With your story of Leroy, he is at the tail end of the caboose. It has two meanings for me. One being his ripened age, and also the engineer; still orchestrating his life - still hope at the Crossing. Inevitably we are all in control of our lives. Reflection in one’s mind is an essence which is untouchable. We are in command of every moment; to some capacity. No matter what age we are, never give up; be the mastermind of your destiny and continually reflect. Plus with the color of red, it emanates passion and strength. The color of blood; of life.

That is what I see.

For some reason Johnny, this written piece made my life come to a better focus. But I must admit, it would not be a true Wraith story if you evaded sex altogether. My favorite thing about how you write is your technique of intertwining sex in all of your work. This is the wicked juice of your art.

Zuky

2. Johnny Wraith - Sat Jul 21, 2007 @ 04:11AM

Zuky,

Your comment is more powerful, thoughtful, and poignant than the story it critiques. I am grateful and offer my thanks for your attention. I can’t add to what you have said, or make anything clearer with regards to Crossing because you’ve said it so well. However, I will tell you you’ve gotten me thinking about the sex and symbolism in my writing. With both, I develop them unconsciously, or I just spew it out onto the paper, without any planning, as if describing a dream. Maybe it is like dream work you have offered me with your critique? Have you ever had a dream that deeply affected you but you weren’t sure exactly why? It wasn’t until you described the dream to someone that they told you what they thought the dream meant. Of course, dreams are full of symbolism, but the power of these symbols is that they are not planned, right? The symbols are dreamt, created spontaneously. I think what I’m trying to say is that writing (especially the symbolism in it) can be valid if it is not intentionally structured. Perhaps there are more possibilities with unstructured writing because it is more real than writing that is organized, intentional, and planned. Have you ever read from a historic text and felt it somehow had more dimensions, depth, and intricacy than a well-crafted fiction story? When I say this, I think of the recorded history surrounding the Roman emperors. How much amazing fiction has been derived from non-fiction? There is an incredible open-endedness to non-fiction that is not usually found in fiction. Perhaps this is because history is not planned. It just happens. It is spontaneous. The observers and players give history meaning after the fact. So, what am I saying? Am I asking whether writing can have more dimension, depth, and intricacy if it is simply allowed to happen and is not planned? I’m not sure of the answer, so I’ll continue writing both planned and unplanned stories. Maybe I’m just trying to justify my laziness by defending the stories I spew out without thinking ahead. Less time and energy is required and I can be drunk when I do it.

And speaking of spewing, what is the sex in my stories all about? I’m not sure of the answer here, but it is likely not that I put it in to turn my sordid tales into high art, or is it? Really, I don’t have an explanation. It just happens. Maybe it satisfies some fundamental need. In life, we humans interrupt our life stories with food, drink, sleep, and sex, though these base things have little to do with our daily work or art. But just saying this makes me feel contradicted. Perhaps our daily work or art has everything to do with sex, sleep, drink, and food. If these things were taken from me, perhaps I’d never write another word.

Johnny

3. Chris - Sun Jul 22, 2007 @ 10:42AM

I love reading gratuitous, self-gratifying sex. However, if that’s all it is, I can just head over to fuckingmachines.com and look at the pictures and stories there. Here I wonder if objectifying and whore-ifying this woman doesn’t detract from the poignancy and symbolism of the railroad crossing, the theme of regret and doing it over, and from the MC too a little. Like the old guy’s buying him 1000-buck-a-pop BJs feels shoehorned in for prurient reasons. But the ending imagery of him seeing his younger self on the back of the train was quite powerful, yet in a way I find hard to pin down. It almost has an alternate reality feel for me. The image goes a long way.

I’ve also finally figured out what bothers me about your dialogue. It’s so back and forth. It’s like they’re playing ping pong. Do people talk this way? Maybe it’s just me that rambles on too much, or listens (or doesn’t listen) too long. But in my experience, one person does most if not all the talking, and tends to speak at length. Sometimes descript pauses can beef up back-and-forth dialogue so it doesn’t rattle along so. Just something to think about. Not trying to mess with your style.

4. Ronald - Mon Jul 23, 2007 @ 06:12AM

Johnny, you ask the question, "what is the sex in my stories all about?" as if you are surprized that it creeps into the story, all by itself, while you aren't watching. Having known you as long as I have, it's really the other way around: the story creeps into the sex, all by itself, while you aren't watching. There's nothing wrong with that, as it adds to the verisimilitude of the story, without becoming a distraction.

What I find very interesting, and worthy of note, is how often the sex involves the exchange of money, and even more significantly, the size of the sum involved, which is, by the way, usually much more than the average person would pay for the act involved.

Let us be honest: regardless of her sexual talent, Missy is not a thousand dollar sucker. But I do give her props for being able to spot one.

5. Trent Stevens - Mon Jul 23, 2007 @ 01:48PM

Hey Johnny – the real writer on your site is from comment 2. That gal knows what she’s talking about. Read her few other comments trailed on your site. Damn man she understands your point. All the other views are short and unresponsive; a comment for the sake of a few words. Keep on rolling with your sex though, that’s what your readers honestly look for.

For most of us men, the train usually goes by in the blink of an eye. Too many hookers and whores in our mundane lives. Then we find ourselves with our pants down loaded with a bottle of booze. Can’t find women to stay with us, because our breath stinks with vulgarity, bad habits and cheap talk. We are still standing alone as the train shoots by, wondering what happened to our business-planned world. We hit 50 and we are no where. I certainly have a shit-load of money and gorgeous women, but basically I am empty. I own a few small companies, but even though I got on the train early in life, it’s taken me no where emotionally. Women certainly can make our life more enriched, by allowing us to endure the pain that revolves around our fucked up world with their sexual bodies. But they never understand us. Very few do. We don’t even understand ourselves. And our train rolls on, and men are still grabbing for that tart waving her ass and flashing her tits at us.

Trent

6. Trent Stevens - Mon Jul 23, 2007 @ 02:16PM

Johnny – no offense against your work – it’s great stuff and you deserve an audience. Especially women, because they attract the men to your site. You are a fantastic writer, only above I intended to comment on the person’s remarks in comment 1 (one). She’s got you there. And I have noticed that you relate to what she writes about. Gotta tell you, Zuky is most likely a guy in disguise, most likely gay. I don’t mean that with disrespect, but I read the other stuff that this particular your viewer wrote. Women just don’t think like that about sex. Especially in the piece regarding The Old Masturbator. You know what I mean.
But none the less, keep on writing.

Trent

7. Johnny Wraith - Mon Jul 23, 2007 @ 09:21PM

I am always grateful for all the comments I receive. The praise keeps me motivated to write and the criticism always instructs me, makes me a better writer.

Chris, after reading your ping-pong comment, my eyes have been opened to a structural flaw that often appears in my dialogue. My writing will be forever improved.

Ronald, I can’t begin to thank you for all the guidance, wisdom, and sagacity you have offered me throughout the last decade. Boy, do we know the hookers, and they are not always cheap. You taught me how to wipe my ass.

Trent, you state it just how it is. How true it is that the world can be in the palms of our hands yet still the train clicks clacks right on by. I wonder if we all end up empty, in the end, no matter what we have achieved. Have you read any Schopenhauer?

Post a Comment


powered by : Doodlekit Online Free Website Builder : developed by : Doodlebit™ Website Company