“[The art of the novel] happens because the storyteller’s own experience of men and things, whether for good or ill- not only what he has pass through himself, but even events which he has only witnessed or been told- has moved him to an emotion so passionate that he can no longer keep it shut up in his head.”
Saturday morning was spent sorting through my notes, transcribing some of my scribbles, when I wrote in haste, to more legible versions, and listening to the tapes I’d made during our visit. I categorized my notes, labeled them with source, date, time, and place for easier reference, and filed them in the small two-drawer filing cabinet I kept in the living room area of my camper. I had no desire to begin drafting any sort of narrative because I had no idea where it was heading. Instead, I decided I’d let the story tell itself as it unfolded and then begin to put it into some form.
After lunch, I worked on the story line and drafted an outline or plot development sequence for another romance novel I had in the back of my mind and wanted to write sometime in the future, after I finished the one I was currently working on and under a deadline to complete. I wasn’t certain how well this one might be received because my main protagonists were of different races. The female was white and the male was a multi-racial African-American. My cautionary attitude toward the acceptance of the story, although it would be indicative of the changing dynamics in our society, was based on the simple fact that racism is still alive and well in the good old U.S. of A., but perhaps not as severely consequential as when my parents or grandparents were young.
Further complicating the issue was my desire to cast the female as older than the male by several years and let her be the one attempting to seduce and conquer the younger male. She was going to get him in bed, maneuvering his “prodigious and stiff maleness” between her “velvety smooth thighs” and into her “waiting and accepting mound of desire” come hell or high water! To really complicate the whole damned thing, I wanted to set the romance in the 1890’s!
It was difficult to concentrate on my work and stay on topic because my thoughts kept wandering to Lee Fielding. He’d made no real overt advances toward me the night before, other than the comment in the bathroom and when I left saying he enjoyed my company, yet I couldn’t shake myself from him. I wondered, as I worked on the story outline, between Lee and I, who would be the aggressor; the top or the bottom or would we be versatile? I knew I wasn’t very aggressive and probably would be more than satisfied to bottom for him, but I’d never experienced that or “topping” either. I also had my doubts about Lee since he seemed so quiet, perhaps passive, and gave me no indication of being the one in a relationship who would take the initiative.
I set my materials aside finally and, noting the hour, realized it was “happy hour.” Instead of going downtown for a drink at “Danny’s” I fixed my own in a plastic glass and decided to take a walk around the campground. After my first sip of my Brandy Old-fashioned Sweet – a unique Wisconsin drink I believed- I stepped from my camper and surveyed the campground. If I remembered correctly, the manager said there about one hundred twenty-five campsites and, from my vantage point, it appeared they were all occupied.
There were popup tent campers, small and large motorized self-contained campers, motor homes, tow-behind camper trailers like mine, pick-up campers, and a few tents. People were laughing, wandering about visiting, and there were kids playing in the campground playground. Walking up and down the campsite access roads, people would wave and say “hi;” acknowledging me in a very friendly manner. Many of the campsites had homemade signs hanging either from their campers or from the post in front of the site with the site number on it. There were Randal’s, Sorenson’s, Fielding’s, only a couple of Iverson’s, and a scattering of other names I assumed were related somehow to the four. I also assumed all of these people were related, in one way or another, to Bill and Dan and part of the “extended family.”
Racially, there was a mixture of African-Americans, Asian-Americans, and Mexican-Americans or Latinos, but by far the vast majority of the people I could see were white. I also noticed a few couples consisting of male/male, female/female at a couple of campsites or strolling around, holding hands, visiting or greeting others. From my perspective, it had all appearances of one big happy family reunion. If they were all going to the reception Sunday, it was going to be one hell of a big party!
My drink needed replenishing so I started back toward my camper at the other end of the campground. As I walked along, smelling the campfire smoke drifting around through the air as people began planning and settling in for evening activities (most people think they need a campfire when camping- no matter what the temperature is). Happy sounds of people visiting and children playing echoed softly over the campground, causing me to think how comfortable this extended family of Bill and Dan’s appeared to be.
My thought process was interrupted, as I walked by a rather older motor home, by an older gentleman seated among a small mix of older and somewhat younger men, giving me a shout!
“Hey, young man, you’re glass looks empty! Come on over and have a seat!”
I turned, located the man who welcomed me so heartily, and walked toward the beckoning hand. “What the hell,” I thought to myself and joined them.
“What are you drinking?” a younger, light-colored African-American man asked and held out his hand for my empty glass.
“Brandy Old-fashioned Sweet.” I replied
“Coming right up!” he responded with a smile.
Lawn chairs were scooched around, an empty place appeared, and another chair was placed for me to sit in. I found myself seated next to the man who’d invited me to join them. Surveying the gathering, I decided they ranged from “elderly” to “middle-aged,” and a couple probably in their mid-to-upper thirties. As I watched them, it occurred to me I just might be in the midst of what could be referred to as “like brethren” or “birds of a feather, flock together” gathering for comfort, entertainment, and company.
“What might your name be?” asked one of the elderly men.
“Chad Bentley,” I replied, taking a sip of my drink so kindly provided to me.
“Harold Conover,” my questioner said, introducing himself. “Catherine Sorenson was my mother. She married my dad, Dale. But,” he added inquisitively, “I didn’t catch whose offspring you might be.”
The group grew extremely quiet, anticipating my answer. It was like walking into a local bar in a small town when you’re a stranger; everyone stops what they are doing or saying and stares at you as you come in the door!
I held up my hand, laughing, “I’m not related to Sorenson’s, Iverson’s, Fielding’s, or Randal’s. I’m a friend of Bill and Dan’s. In fact, I’m here to do a story on them. I found it remarkable and wonderful as long as they two of them have been together and finally, after the U.S. Courts allowed it, they married and are celebrating it.”
Everyone in the group relaxed, smiled, and nodded approvingly. I was right, I was among friends!
The gentleman sitting next to me, the one who’d invited me to join them and apparently the leader of this little band, extended his hand to me, “Ross Randal; I’m Danny’s cousin and the youngest son of Henry and Agnes Randal- may they rest in peace. The rest of these gentlemen are mostly cousins and their partners or related in some other way to Billy or Danny or just plain damned good friends.”
He was about to say something else, when, with a sudden epiphany of recognition, one of the other men announced, “Hey, Doc; he’s the guy that saved young Robbie Fielding from a very nasty and unwanted butt-fucking the other night!”
So, it was Doctor Ross Randal! Was he a PhD type, a medical, a dentist, chiropractor, or divinity (which I doubted, but one never knows)?
“No shit!” someone mumbled in the group.
Doctor Randal smiled, looked me over a little more carefully, and appreciatively I thought saying, “As much as all of realize young Robbie has a very attractive and fuckable ass, it belongs to his boyfriend. We do sincerely appreciate you coming to his assistance.”
He frowned, adding, “Although, after seeing you, I hate to inform you you’re really not one hell of a lot bigger than him and just don’t seem to the muscular super-hero type!”
Someone else in the crowd chuckled, “Hell, Doc, he probably slips into a phone booth and jumps out wearing blue and red underwear before racing to the rescue, so ease up on the lad!”
“Besides,” he continued, “I’ll bet when he was in the eighth grade he didn’t race across the gym at school during girl’s physical education naked with his hard cock bouncing up and down and all of the girls screaming!”
“Oh my God!” came the response from several members of the group and one interjected, “I forgot all about that!”
I looked over at the speaker, he raised his hand in greeting, saying, “Pete Randal; I’m Bobby’s oldest,” before continuing, pointing a finger at Dr. Randal,
“Miss Johnson, the new girl’s physical education teacher that year, tried to grab you as you ran around the gym and when she did nab you by an arm, you turned around and poked that thick lance of yours against her belly, pushed a couple of times, and shit; she fainted, dead away!”
“What happened after that?” I asked incredulously.
“Well, that was about as close Doc ever got to stick it in some pussy, but he took off like a striped-ass ape for the locker room.”
Doc Randal grinned; “I hiked it back to the locker room, grabbed up my jeans, slipped them on, and tore up to the principal’s office on the next floor. When I stepped in the door, I gasped for help, claiming someone tried to molest me, and the gym teacher fainted.”
“Cripes, it was like diarrhea in nursing home, people were running all over the place! The principal, the secretary, and a young teacher who’d been in the office all ran after me as I headed for the gym. When we got there a couple of the girls had the teacher on her back and her feet propped up on the bleachers, hoping that would revive her. I offered to help but the young male teacher intervened and said he would. He lifted her legs higher and I never realized until then she didn’t wear any underpants under those loose, baggy gym shorts. The leg openings were big enough you could see her snatch. I looked at the male teacher and he saw it alright! He was starting to tent the front of his pants.”
“Did you get expelled?” I asked.
“Hell no! I was trying to explain to the principal while still not trying to look at the teacher ogling up the gym teacher’s shorts at her crotch, that I was minding my own business in the locker room taking a leak, when some stranger walked in, tore my clothes off of me, bent me over and was going molest me.”
Pete Randal added his two cents when he exclaimed, “Molest you hell, we all heard you said he was going to fuck you six ways to Sunday!”
“Maybe I did but I went on to say when the guy heard a noise, I broke loose and ran. The closest door for me to run through was the gym door. How was I to know there was a class in there?”
“About that time, Danny popped into the gym screaming somebody come help; some stranger is trying to molest my cousin, Ross! Everybody just kind of looked at him stupid like and the principal pointed to me, signaling Danny I was already there. Danny, loving cousin that he is, quickly came over, put his arms around me and asked if I was okay.”
“Oh, how sorry Danny was that he wasn’t able to find help. He said he went to the office and no one was there, so he ran back down here and the principal was already taking care of everything and how grateful my virginity was still intact. Of course he didn’t tell everyone he’d fucked that out of me when I was in fifth grade, before he met Billy.”
“Old Pinch-bottom, that’s what we called the principal behind his back, bought it all hook, line, and sinker. I was saved! They scoured the town hunting for this mysterious molester and finally concluded he was either a hobo from one of the trains or an itinerant river man from the tow boats that go up and down the river.”
With that the whole group of men started laughing. When it quieted down, Doc said happily, “It cost Danny the ten bucks he bet me that I wouldn’t strip naked and run through the girl’s gym class!”
This was more than I ever bargained for when I sat down and regretted not having my tape recorder or note pad with me. When my glass was empty, I allowed it to be refilled. This time I asked the African-American his name.
“Doctor James Wilson,” he replied. “I was a partner in Doctor Randal’s practice until he retired and now have another doctor assisting me.”
“You’re also my partner in life,” Doc said softly, “and a damned good and loving one. I couldn’t do any better, no matter what!”
Thanking Dr. Wilson, I also asked how long he’d been with Dr. Randal.
“I’ve been with him since I was sixteen,” he responded. “But that story is for another time. This weekend is all about Danny and Billy. I can tell you, however, if it hadn’t been for them and Ross, I wouldn’t be here today doing what I’m doing!”
Taking his hint, I dropped the subject.
“Danny and Billy were always close since the day they met. If you saw Bill, Danny wasn’t very far away,” mused Dr. Randal. “Danny pledged his love and protection to the little guy and meant it- every word in every way!”
He was with Danny the day he spotted Billy laying on the grass in the school yard while flying his kite. According to Ross, Danny fell head over heels in love with him right then and there!
“They were never far apart after that except when Danny got drafted,” he said sadly.
“That was a terrible time for Billy,” Pete continued. “Danny got drafted when the Korean War started. Billy was just finishing his senior year of high school and Danny was working on the farm, working full time at the ‘Riverside’, and doing some commercial fishing on the side. Billy was so worried Danny would have to go to Korea and get killed or wounded like Carl and Dave did.”
Danny wasn’t sent to Korea, but remained stateside. Bill wrote to him at least once a week or more often if he had the opportunity. The men all laughed when Pete relayed how Bill thought he had to be real careful what he wrote concerning his love for Danny because the letters were censored and he didn’t want anyone in the army to think Danny was queer.
Bill attended college in La Crosse while Danny was in the service. His grandfather Sorenson was bound and determined he was going to have a college education.
“He was one smart little shit,” added Ross, “and still is. He graduated at the top of his class in high school and Cum Laude from college.”
“Speaking of shit,” another cousin spoke up. “Remember the Halloween Billy and Danny were out trick or treating?”
“You mean more tricks than treats, don’t you?” Ross said laughingly.
Billy and Danny were on the prowl and when they went by Mr. Jacobs,’ a rather elderly gentleman, house and they decided to tip over the outhouse he had in the backyard. When they did, it fell over, door side down, and Mr. Jacobs, inside the outhouse, let out a terrible scream and started swearing the most unimaginable words! Billy and Danny never said a word, tiptoed away about a hundred yards, and sat quietly listening to Jacobs cuss out everyone or anyone within listening distance!
After about ten minutes, they walked over to the overturned outhouse and Danny shouted in if he was in there.
“Jacobs shouted back, who the hell you think it is, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?” Pete said. “Danny had the balls to tell him to hold on they’d get him out of there.”
Danny and Billy found a couple of two by fours and a wooden block to act as a fulcrum and they levered the outhouse over on its side, freeing the door. Billy opened the door and there laid Jacobs, pants down around his ankles, and smelling pretty ripe. Jacobs was madder than hell at whoever would do such a nasty thing to an old man just trying to do his business, but grateful Billy and Danny heard him and came to his rescue. When he extended his hand to shake theirs, both boys declined. He fished into his pants pockets, pulled out his billfold, and gave the boys five dollars for helping him.
“Danny took the money,” relayed Pete, ending the story, “but had the guts to turn and tell Mr. Jacobs he had shit on his cock and probably would want to clean it off before Mrs. Jacobs decided to go for a ride on it.”
By this time, it was getting late, I’d had enough to drink, and I was tired. It didn’t seem like this group was anywhere near giving up for the night, but I just had to go. I thanked them, as I bid them good night, for their company and the drinks and promised to see them at the reception on Sunday.Their stories only added more to the story of Danny Fielding and Billy Iverson, but were enjoyable to listen to. The first-hand knowledge these contemporaries of Bill and Dan had and the relaying of anecdotal information was invaluable, giving me a better and deeper insight into the lives of my protagonist. As enjoyable as this afternoon and evening was, could Sunday be any more so?
Thank you for reading “Fielding Boy” – Chapter Seven-“[The art of the novel] happens because the storyteller’s own experience of men and things, whether for good or ill- not only what he has pass through himself, but even events which he has only witnessed or been told- has moved him to an emotion so passionate that he can no longer keep it shut up in his head.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental or used in a fictional content.
The Literary works of Nicholas Hall are protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and are the property of the author.
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