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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Childhood / Youth
- Published: 07/17/2015
Mrs. Jugs, as she’s known in juvenile circles, fries Homer and son Horton cheeseburgers, and Horton complains about the crumbly buns.
"If you don't like it, don't eat it," she says.
"Then I guess I'll just get pizza," Horton says.
"And where're you gonna get the money?"
"From Mom the money bags," Horton says defiantly, leaning back in his chair with a grunt, his upper lip stained with milk. "Where else?"
"Keep talking like that, fella, and you'll be eating soap."
Mrs. Jugs is a nice mom, even so. She cooks the boys cheeseburgers and BLTs and drives them to catechism class in a big green car. But she goes a little nuts when Horton cranks up the radio.
Anyway, at ten p.m. that evening, after cheeseburgers and bedroom re-enactments of great moments in the NFL, Horton informs his mom that Homer and he are kind of bushed and want to go to bed, listen to the radio. Mrs. Jugs doesn’t question this, confirming she must be a bit oblivious, just the way Horton and Homer like their moms to be.
So there they are, clad only in their underwear in the dark in Horton's bed. An old black-box radio is set up in the headboard compartment of the bed, playing WKSM-FM in low tones between the pillows. The red stereo light glows in the dark. It’s cool that way.
Horton and Homer wait a while in bed, listening, whispering, planning. When Horton gives the word, they sit up on opposite sides of the bed and slide back into their jeans. Homer's feet touch the cool, varnished wooden floor.
Then, Horton expertly removes the screen from his bedroom window and they crawl out.
Horton and Homer take the long route to Michelle's trailer, down dark, tree‑glutted side streets, dodging a few headlights along the way. They reach Michelle's backyard, slinking under the clothesline, past the rose bushes along the side of the garage, to the trailer sitting in the driveway. One light glows in a square, curtained window, resembling the window of a confessional. They hear the girls and crouch next to a trailer tire, eavesdropping.
Horton finally raps on the window. All goes quiet inside, and movement ceases. Then the curtain slides open and the shadow of a head pops into the window.
"Homer? Horton? Is that you?"
A flurry of movement fills the trailer, causing it to jiggle around.
The boys make a clumsy entrance. Homer smells perfume mixed with sleeping bags and down-and-feather pillows. As usual, it’s a trick to meet eyes with Lolly Murphy, whose flushed, soft‑cheeked face and bright blonde cotton‑candy hair are like the sun at high noon, even in here, in the light of one small lamp. What a rush, though, to be crammed into a steamy trailer with Lolly Murphy, daughter of Hank and Cookie Murphy, realtors.
The back door to the house opens.
"It's my mom!" Michelle cries in a whisper, killing the light. "Quick, get under the blankets!"
The girls bury Homer and Horton beneath several layers of blankets and sleeping bags and then sit on top. Michelle's mother pokes her head inside and asks about the noise. If life as he knows it is over, Homer thinks, at least it ends with Lolly Murphy sitting on the small of his back.
Michelle is a born actor, though, able to carry on a natural enough conversation with the light out. Homer, meanwhile, is praying and meaning every word of it. It’s the price he has to pay, he tells himself, to be with Lolly in the dark.
But he’d prefer not to be a fanatic about it.
After the danger has passed, Homer finds himself right where he’d dreamed, all alone in a corner with Lolly. Horton has settled into another corner with Michelle. Homer can smell Lolly. He can feel her breathing. And how wonderful it is. They talk about things, barely, about what things Homer doesn’t know, nor does he care. He hears the muffled giggles of Horton and Michelle, and he imagines the most.
For a long time, Homer's hand lies a few inches from Lolly's. This fact is foremost in his mind. When by virtue of a transient but unadulterated subjugation of mind by heart Homer finally takes the plunge, the whole wait proves worth it, when she offers no resistance, when her hand miraculously accepts his, when their hands lightly lock, finger between finger. No way can he imagine a better feeling, holding Lolly's hand in a trailer in the dark.
They hold hands for a very long time, their bodies gradually slouching, slouching, until the moment seems right for Homer to slip an arm around Lolly's shoulders and actually touch bodies.
His heart pounds so hard it hurts him. But it’s Heaven, anyway; in fact, it might as well be the consummation. Nothing larger comes to mind.
Until the kiss.
It ranks easily as the most daring maneuver of Homer's young life. It requires intense calculations and psyching out: ten minutes to position the body, fifteen to position the head and twenty to think about the target. Then, slowly, deferentially, his lips descend toward where he judges Lolly's to be--slowly, ever so carefully through the warm dark. His heart is so out of control that his face is a kamikazi. Closer, closer his lips approach, until he feels the light breaths coming from her nostrils, smells the light peppermint breaths, somewhere dark and deep down in some realm or consciousness heretofore unknown. He wonders, does she know what he’s about to do? Does she care?
Then, in the interminably dark, free-falling darkness, Homer's lips touch down on Lolly's, and the blood of his heart runs over. And in that moment, it’s just their lips touching and the blood running. And then, to prove to her that, yes, believe it or not, it's a kiss, Homer goes for the suction sound.
But her lips just sit there, dead. Inexplicably, they just sit there. And for a fraction of a millisecond Homer contemplates a repeat performance, but concludes he indeed has ventured too far into dangerous regions, and he pulls back, in shock.
On the way home, walking side by side down empty roads, in the windy darkness, Homer and Horton share their exploits, reliving moments, cracking jokes, comparing notes.
"You kissed her?" Homer says.
"Felt her too, bub."
Homer’s jealous, but fascinated, and a little admiring, too. Perhaps he’s covered some ground, anyway. The summer’s young.
Homer and Horton feel reckless and buoyant, so reckless and buoyant, in fact, they think nothing of attempting to waltz right back into Horton's house through the back door. But as Horton eases open the screen door, a light bursts on inside, followed by the thumping steps of Mrs. Jugs marching through the kitchen.
And the part Homer’s destined to remember for the rest of his natural life is the part where Horton dives into the briar bushes outside the door and leaves Homer standing there, face to face with a furious, sprig-haired Mrs. Jugs.
Sneaking Out(Don Wagberg)
Mrs. Jugs, as she’s known in juvenile circles, fries Homer and son Horton cheeseburgers, and Horton complains about the crumbly buns.
"If you don't like it, don't eat it," she says.
"Then I guess I'll just get pizza," Horton says.
"And where're you gonna get the money?"
"From Mom the money bags," Horton says defiantly, leaning back in his chair with a grunt, his upper lip stained with milk. "Where else?"
"Keep talking like that, fella, and you'll be eating soap."
Mrs. Jugs is a nice mom, even so. She cooks the boys cheeseburgers and BLTs and drives them to catechism class in a big green car. But she goes a little nuts when Horton cranks up the radio.
Anyway, at ten p.m. that evening, after cheeseburgers and bedroom re-enactments of great moments in the NFL, Horton informs his mom that Homer and he are kind of bushed and want to go to bed, listen to the radio. Mrs. Jugs doesn’t question this, confirming she must be a bit oblivious, just the way Horton and Homer like their moms to be.
So there they are, clad only in their underwear in the dark in Horton's bed. An old black-box radio is set up in the headboard compartment of the bed, playing WKSM-FM in low tones between the pillows. The red stereo light glows in the dark. It’s cool that way.
Horton and Homer wait a while in bed, listening, whispering, planning. When Horton gives the word, they sit up on opposite sides of the bed and slide back into their jeans. Homer's feet touch the cool, varnished wooden floor.
Then, Horton expertly removes the screen from his bedroom window and they crawl out.
Horton and Homer take the long route to Michelle's trailer, down dark, tree‑glutted side streets, dodging a few headlights along the way. They reach Michelle's backyard, slinking under the clothesline, past the rose bushes along the side of the garage, to the trailer sitting in the driveway. One light glows in a square, curtained window, resembling the window of a confessional. They hear the girls and crouch next to a trailer tire, eavesdropping.
Horton finally raps on the window. All goes quiet inside, and movement ceases. Then the curtain slides open and the shadow of a head pops into the window.
"Homer? Horton? Is that you?"
A flurry of movement fills the trailer, causing it to jiggle around.
The boys make a clumsy entrance. Homer smells perfume mixed with sleeping bags and down-and-feather pillows. As usual, it’s a trick to meet eyes with Lolly Murphy, whose flushed, soft‑cheeked face and bright blonde cotton‑candy hair are like the sun at high noon, even in here, in the light of one small lamp. What a rush, though, to be crammed into a steamy trailer with Lolly Murphy, daughter of Hank and Cookie Murphy, realtors.
The back door to the house opens.
"It's my mom!" Michelle cries in a whisper, killing the light. "Quick, get under the blankets!"
The girls bury Homer and Horton beneath several layers of blankets and sleeping bags and then sit on top. Michelle's mother pokes her head inside and asks about the noise. If life as he knows it is over, Homer thinks, at least it ends with Lolly Murphy sitting on the small of his back.
Michelle is a born actor, though, able to carry on a natural enough conversation with the light out. Homer, meanwhile, is praying and meaning every word of it. It’s the price he has to pay, he tells himself, to be with Lolly in the dark.
But he’d prefer not to be a fanatic about it.
After the danger has passed, Homer finds himself right where he’d dreamed, all alone in a corner with Lolly. Horton has settled into another corner with Michelle. Homer can smell Lolly. He can feel her breathing. And how wonderful it is. They talk about things, barely, about what things Homer doesn’t know, nor does he care. He hears the muffled giggles of Horton and Michelle, and he imagines the most.
For a long time, Homer's hand lies a few inches from Lolly's. This fact is foremost in his mind. When by virtue of a transient but unadulterated subjugation of mind by heart Homer finally takes the plunge, the whole wait proves worth it, when she offers no resistance, when her hand miraculously accepts his, when their hands lightly lock, finger between finger. No way can he imagine a better feeling, holding Lolly's hand in a trailer in the dark.
They hold hands for a very long time, their bodies gradually slouching, slouching, until the moment seems right for Homer to slip an arm around Lolly's shoulders and actually touch bodies.
His heart pounds so hard it hurts him. But it’s Heaven, anyway; in fact, it might as well be the consummation. Nothing larger comes to mind.
Until the kiss.
It ranks easily as the most daring maneuver of Homer's young life. It requires intense calculations and psyching out: ten minutes to position the body, fifteen to position the head and twenty to think about the target. Then, slowly, deferentially, his lips descend toward where he judges Lolly's to be--slowly, ever so carefully through the warm dark. His heart is so out of control that his face is a kamikazi. Closer, closer his lips approach, until he feels the light breaths coming from her nostrils, smells the light peppermint breaths, somewhere dark and deep down in some realm or consciousness heretofore unknown. He wonders, does she know what he’s about to do? Does she care?
Then, in the interminably dark, free-falling darkness, Homer's lips touch down on Lolly's, and the blood of his heart runs over. And in that moment, it’s just their lips touching and the blood running. And then, to prove to her that, yes, believe it or not, it's a kiss, Homer goes for the suction sound.
But her lips just sit there, dead. Inexplicably, they just sit there. And for a fraction of a millisecond Homer contemplates a repeat performance, but concludes he indeed has ventured too far into dangerous regions, and he pulls back, in shock.
On the way home, walking side by side down empty roads, in the windy darkness, Homer and Horton share their exploits, reliving moments, cracking jokes, comparing notes.
"You kissed her?" Homer says.
"Felt her too, bub."
Homer’s jealous, but fascinated, and a little admiring, too. Perhaps he’s covered some ground, anyway. The summer’s young.
Homer and Horton feel reckless and buoyant, so reckless and buoyant, in fact, they think nothing of attempting to waltz right back into Horton's house through the back door. But as Horton eases open the screen door, a light bursts on inside, followed by the thumping steps of Mrs. Jugs marching through the kitchen.
And the part Homer’s destined to remember for the rest of his natural life is the part where Horton dives into the briar bushes outside the door and leaves Homer standing there, face to face with a furious, sprig-haired Mrs. Jugs.
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