Rectory Road
[A/N this is not complete, I am digging holes and raising linen wherever it seems fit, so pardon the dust]

After 20 minutes of nodding introductions: "you are an adult, free to dismiss yourself, but we'd like you to stay and let us help you...", silent posturing, and her routine explanations of purpose etc., etc., I blurted out:
"I tried to get away, you know. We all do, don't we,  try to get away?" This silenced her for a second and she made some notes. I imagined her writing: 'Guilty, insecure, hostile, requires method X.' This line of thought entertained me and I turned away to shield whatever inappropriate signals of amusement I might be sending.

I was with Dr. Shirley Winston, "a giant in the psychiatry business," as my Dad, a renown physician himself, had put it. She had steady brown eyes and wore gray head to toe. Her hair rounded high above her head where the occasional sunlight from my one little window touched it. She sat upright in a wooden chair at a simple child's desk next to the bed I was on. 

Outside my 8th floor window was a fall tempest: sycamore leaves were careening upward in the winds, rusty metal grates were creaking and rattling over the windows.  I sat back and rested against the headboard wall.

"Go on, Frank, get away from what?" she asked, in a sweet, Rogerian way.

"Well, it was just crazy. I mean, first of all, he was an enormously fat man. At the time I thought he might have been close to fifty, but now I realize, because I have such a clear memory of him and I am old enough to know, that he was more like thirty. He was sweating and nervous and he had yards of loose fabric circling him: a light beige jacket, striped button down shirt, khaki pants, wingtips. His head was round and balding and he had fat red lips and I could see... " I paused to prevent myself from getting too impressionistic. 

"He drove me to some dark church parking lot. I remember it being covered by trees and not seeing the church proper, but knowing what it was because there was a little sign by the entrance saying 'Rectory Road', which I thought was pretty strange. I remember when he stopped the car. He was facing front, nodding a little, and I could see he was going over and over in his mind the preparations he'd spent a lifetime making for this moment. Somehow I knew he wouldn't be dangerous.  I remember he seemed sheepish and contrite, maybe a little out of control, like he was approaching an acolyte's wife after stealing from the tithing pan, all he had to do was return the money and he'd be forgiven and get a nice big hug. He so wanted forgiveness for all the thoughts..." I paused and the Dr. interjected.

"I'm impressed with your recollection. How were you feeling at that moment?"

"Honestly, once I sensed he was not dangerous, my thoughts returned to the whole reason I'd hitch-hiked to begin with. I really had to get home or face the wrath of my mother. Which is something very difficult for me to handle.  My father would probably have understood, even to the point of understanding this ridiculous interlude with this loser pervert. Really, all in all, I was a good child, not exceptional in any way, but not a problem child."

"Go on, Frank. Why were you so late getting home?" The Dr. was busy writing while she faced me.

"Well, I was at my girlfriend's place. It was the weekend of my 15th birthday. It was an unforgettable evening. She was my first. She had strawberry hair and freckles and when her lips pursed into a smile her eyes became little gleaming charms, sending shivers straight down to my rabid adolescent depths." The Dr. smiled and I thought I saw a glimpse of approval.  "I had taken a bus up to her house, but when I'd left the buses were not running any more. As you can imagine, she and I alone in her parent's shady bungalow, time just slipped right on by."


"He believed at that moment that he would have been happy, so happy, with a simple hug; all he wanted was to be offered some physical intimacy. Of course, I'm sure his fantasies had, every one of them, gone beyond simple physical intimacy. Simple physical intimacy isn't the stuff of...of..."

"Did you exchange any words with him?"

"Words?" I had to think for a minute. "Well, yes, but only after we'd been sitting for a moment. I wasn't sure how he'd react if I said anything or got angry or something.


"I could tell this by the way he repeatedly moved his swollen hand down to the seat between us. His car was one of those huge Catalinas or Eldorados or something and it had bench seats. It was a beautiful car, really. It was meticulously clean, except for the up and coming heap of cigarettes in the open ash tray. The interior was a dark red with black leather seats and chrome fixtures, rounded and gleaming like some art-deco sculpture. "

I think he was having his own spiritual moment, or maybe hoping the Lord would inspire my generosity or something. He was sweating and nervous, but I never got the feeling he was dangerous. He just wanted to touch me. He wanted to erase so many years of lonely fantasies. I was already so late getting home. That was all I could think of, my parents were going to kill me." I paused.

"You said you were hitch-hiking. Is this something you've done often?" another question. It took me back a bit. Hitch-hiking? That's what she wanted to talk about? Wasn't the fact that I was captive in a strange pederast's car a little more relevant to my situation?

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Short Story
writing Humbert
I like literary fiction and hysterical realism.
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I wish this weren't so cliche...