Youre Always 17 Ch 01

You're Always 17 In Your Hometown, Chapter 1 of 2

In my never-ending quest to do things the hard way, I managed to turn a simple knee replacement into a five-day stay in the hospital, and a couple of weeks of drug-addled home rest, with physical therapy to break the monotony. No, I haven't forgotten about chapter ten of Sky Blue Eyes, Long Blonde Hair, but narcotics give me great imagination while robbing me of the ability to write coherently.

They didn't impact my ability to edit as much, so I pulled out a couple of older stories I like but never got around to publishing. My beta reader thought it was good enough after minimal editing, so here you go. Chapter 2 is ready, so there won't be a wait.

Now that I'm off the good stuff, I'm back on the saga of Annika and Erik, but it may be a week. Thanks for being patient.

****

My nineteenth birthday occurred two weeks before my high school graduation on Friday. Saturday morning at four am, I threw my duffle bag in the bed, fired up my old truck, gassed up downtown, and hit the highway north. I vowed to never come back, and I stuck to those vows for 10 years. What about my parents, family, kin, you ask? I had pretty much worn out my welcome in that little town, and I despised my parents almost as much as they detested me, so parting was hardly sweet sorrow.

If you give a shit, hang on and I fill you in on what happened during the next decade.

Eighty miles northwest of my hometown I bought a C-store burrito and caught US 83 to Junction. The drive through the southern Hill Country was a revelation to a Brush Rat like me, and Junction was a nice-looking little town straddling the North and South branches of the Llano River. Saw some cute girls floating on tubes, but I was a man on a mission. I bought some Cooper's BBQ and caught I-10 west toward Fort Stockton, Pecos, and my destination.

The mancamps started showing up as soon as I got into Reeves County and well before I got to the four-way stop near Orla, which took an hour to navigate due to the traffic from all four directions - even late at night. Orla consisted of mancamps, a post office, and a Pilot truck stop, where I slept in my pickup.

It was busier and noisier by dawn. After paying for a shower and changing clothes, I drove to meet my new employer. We had met at a skills development camp back when I thought I was a college football player in the making, but I quit growing at 6', 204, and my 4.6 forty time didn't impress coaches either. His son grew to 6'4" and had a rocket arm; he was on scholarship at a B12 school and considered the heir-apparent to the QB job.

Me? I took my talents to the oil field, where my real education began. Dad was the owner of a chicken-shit little construction company that did mostly dirt work, so that's where I started: running whatever equipment he needed me to run, fixing the damn things, and transporting them. From front loaders and backhoes I graduated to dump trucks, road graders, bull dozers, earth movers, Bobcats, Skid Steers, and fence post drivers.

River - yes, that's his given name - owned a smallish oil field services company that would do almost anything for money, so I was useful. I could operate anything on wheels or tracs that he could lease or buy cheaply enough at auction, and I could fix it if it broke. Often enough, he'd get a profitable job, then buy or lease the equipment and hire the workers, and then train us to do the job. I learned a lot in a hurry.

We all loved working for River, who spent most of his time hustling for new jobs, leaving Roberto in charge of the work crews. We didn't love Roberto nearly as much, but, looking back, he was a good boss for our motley crew. I was the token Gringo among six Mexicans, three Salvadoreans, four Venezuelans, a scattering of other central and south Americans, and "Americans of Mexican, Central American, or South American extraction" who made up the largest part of our crew.

They claimed to be native born, but did everyone have papers? Were they all here legally? I have no idea and don't give a shit. They were doing jobs no one else would do, in spite of the billboards on Interstates extolling "Free transportation to and from work, free housing, free meals, and paid health insurance!"

I do know a lot of them fastidiously avoided garnering attention from the law, meaning no driving impaired, no speeding, and no rude behavior when we took the rare trip to Odessa. That was quite a change for a renowned hellion like me, but I didn't want to get them in trouble, so I didn't.

I'll stop here and admit right now: I learned the meaning of 'work hard' from these

pendjos

! They could and would go from early to late, and work all night if they needed to, without the bitching and whining my dad's workers would put up whenever it was 'too hot, too windy, too cold, too wet.'

Rain, shine, wind, or snow, we did what we were contracted to do, and River started getting bigger and better contracts. The better he did, the better he treated us.

Our camp was on the badlands between Orla and Mentone, and we could see the Guadalupe Peak and the Guadalupe Mountains in the distance. Unlike many, we had water, septic, and electricity, and slept in RVs River bought from FEMA or at auction. We had to clean them up and fix stuff, but they were comfortable, and we kept them clean.

We had a food allowance, but mostly we bought groceries or used the groceries River brought to prepare meals with an 'international flavor.' I learned a lot about cooking on an open fire, in a pit, or on a stove, and even more about using whatever you have available to make a delicious meal.

The Americans of whatever extraction tended to use their time off to go home or go raise hell; the rest of us stayed there. We all worked the maximum hours allowed for payroll, and as many off-the-books hours as we could, sometimes going 36-48 hours without sleep. Since River periodically brought us a pickup bed full of food and beer from Sam's, we didn't go much of anywhere or do much of anything, so my bank account grew from three-figures when I got there, to five, and then six.

My bank had an investment advisor; River told me to go see her and put my savings to work. I did, and then tried to seduce the good-looking little thing, but she was married for real. Still, she enjoyed my compliments and flirting, and promised me I'd be her first call if anything changed.

My

Espanol

was better than the

Ingles

of my central and south Amerin compatriots, so we spoke mostly Spanish and Tex-Mex when we were working, for safety. Away from work, they asked me to speak English to help them learn the language of what they hoped would become their new homeland.

From time to time after we completed a contract, River would bring us some beer and meat for the pit or grill, and we'd cook outside, listen to

musica

, play guitars and an

acordeon

(accordion), sing songs, tell stories, and talk about our dreams. Their dreams usually involved becoming citizens, bringing their families here, and living the American dream, on a very small scale.

Others - especially Gringos - came and went, because this isn't the life many Texans grew up craving. They worked until they had the money they wanted, or the work got too hard, and then left. Us migrants just kept living the good life, saving that money, and reading paper or online books when we had down time. I was perfectly content, and yes, I could see myself still doing this five years down the road.

Then came the day when I was free, laying around reading a book, and River showed up asking me to ride with him over to Carlsbad. On the way, he told me we were meeting with three ranch owners who needed oil spills cleaned up, and under New Mexico law, the oil companies and their insurance companies would be paying. He was as enthusiastic and excited about the prospects as I'd ever seen him, and he was an excitable guy.

"Bossman, look at me. You sure you want me talking to rich folk dressed like this, with a three-day stubble, long hair, and worn-out boots?"

"They've heard my line of bullshit; all you need to do is assure them we'll get the job done and do it right. You'll see what I mean when you meet them." That was my briefing; for the rest of the trip, we talked about football in general and his son in particular. He was having a good junior year.

When the meeting began, I was polite, apologized for my appearance, sat quietly listening, and spoke only when spoken to. My old man might be an abusive asshole, but he did teach me to respect my betters, and these three seemed to think that was the right idea.

We finally reached nut-cutting time, and they weren't sold that we could get it done. River looked at me, and I cut loose. "Sirs, we may be a rag-tag little bunch, but if you'll talk to anybody we've worked for, they will tell you we get the job done. We work hard, we work long, we respect your land, we leave gates the way we found them, and we ask for your weekly evaluation so we can do better.

"Mr. River there is the best boss around, and he gets us whatever we need to get the job done. We may not be experts in cleanups, yet, but we're experts in every element of the cleanup operation, and we'll be the best available option in New Mexico in a few weeks. That's how quickly we learn.

"Again, if you'd like, I can give you contact info for anyone we've worked for and I guarantee you they are going to say the same thing, even the ones where we didn't know how when we started."

Who knows? Maybe they were already sold, or maybe I pushed them over the edge, but we got the jobs, and my predictions came true - we became the best in NM. After that, River made me go with him more often, and he put me in charge of recruiting, hiring, and training workers as we got new contracts.

I learned a lot over the next few years: about people, about working smart, and about money making money. Yeah, some of my petroleum-related investments were based on insider information, and, yes, I relied on River and some of the millionaires I had gotten close to for advice, and, yes, I took a few chances, but, bottom line, four years out of high school my personal holdings and investments came to $2.6m.

So I bought a tricked-out red pickup and picked up a gold-digger fiancée...

Oh hell no! I thought you knew me better than that by now! I did buy a piece of River's company, and I did finance our share of equipment for a new government incentive program for cleaning and reusing frack water, but mostly, I just kept on hustling, like my mentor.

It was his gorgeous wife who convinced me, during my second year, to quit taking online courses for my own elucidation (a rarely used word I learned in my studies) and get a degree. Katrina seemed too damn young and good looking to be my mom, but she treated me like one of hers, and she had a come-to-Jesus meeting with me when their son Abraham graduated from college.

He was only a year older than me, and the main theme was something along the lines of "You're too smart to be working for other people, letting them make the big money! No, I'm not talking about River, I'm talking about all those rich ranchers and businessmen you do the work for. Ask any of them: they'll all tell you that you need to get a degree and do something with your life!"

I didn't point out the obvious - that I was doing what her husband did and making a helluva lot more money than most college graduates - because I knew I could never win an argument with her. The thing was, though, the self-paced courses I had been taking were chosen to expand my education and my mind. I wasn't taking the required core courses or courses to earn a certificate of some kind - I took psychology, philosophy, history, government, computer programming, information management, technical writing, creative writing, physiology, geology, and courses like

3D Seismic Attributes to Identify Reservoir Characteristics

, and

Advanced Decision Making

from Petroskills Online - well, after all, I was working in the oil field.

It seemed that taking courses online rather than in a classroom meant as long as I had the money and got good grades, I could take whatever courses I chose. Hell, I even took a few pre-law courses, and did some readings in law as a result, like lawyers used to do to get their licenses.

Law wasn't as interesting as philosophy, but from studying it I learned to listen and read carefully and discern details. The law is fraught (like that one?) with distortions, meaning based on obscure interpretations rather than what it says, and run-on clauses and paragraphs that contradict.

But you already knew that, if you ever tried to read one of the legal agreements we must accept before we can proceed using the app we just downloaded, or the ones whose policy changed.

Anyway, back to Katrina. Somehow, it offended her that I was living single, free and easy, unencumbered by a romantic interest, and yet getting all the loving I was. Yeah, I didn't mention that did I?

No one can work 24/7 - 365, and there wasn't enough work if we could, so we did have some down time. Like I said, the

Norte Americanos

ran home every chance, or went to Odessa.

Mis compadres

had a few beer joints and dance halls they liked to frequent, out where

La Migra

doesn't usually go.

That wasn't my thing, going home sure as hell wasn't, and Odessa - nah, too many mean drunks. I got into more than a few tussles before I learned that winning the fight might result in shaking hands and drinking a beer together, or having to fight their friends too, or engage in a knife or gun fight.

Fuckers talk shit, try to bully you, force you to fight them, and then won't accept the outcome! Fuckin Bullies! After a particularly nasty beating by four guys, I turned the back room in the portable office that nobody used into a workout room and bought a subscription to an online self-defense program. That was one of my better investments, for several reasons, including learning a little self-discipline and how to deal with four bullies at the same time.

Lonely and horny, I started hanging out in small towns, like Carlsbad, Hobbs, and Kermit, where I struck gold, or at least a golden-hair woman with a high libido. Glenda was independently wealthy, having been widowed by a runaway truck that left her badly injured and barren. The eight-figure insurance settlement was being paid out per a structured settlement, so she never needed to work again.

Therefore, she bought a café "to keep herself occupied," and that's where I met her. She was ten years older than me but looked like the 5'1" 110-pound cheerleader she had been at Kermit High. She wasn't putting out for any of the local boys for several reasons, including that she, her parents, and her grandparents on both sides still lived in Kermit, and the good ole boys liked to get drunk and brag.

I was an outsider, she liked my sense of humor, my teasing and flirting, and as it turned out, my body, and I became the object of her carnal affections. I wasn't completely bereft of experience, having enjoyed the favors of a few hometown and area girls before I lit a shuck, and having sampled the offerings in Odessa a time or two before I learned better.

Glenda, though, had a master's degree in sex, and she took me as her trainee! To this day, I've never been with someone that liked sex - of every kind and in every position, including a few a contortionist wouldn't try - as much as she did! Anyway, through careful tutoring and mentoring and lots and lots of practice, she turned a selfish bastard into a woman pleasing SOB, even if I do say so myself!

She was so proud she even farmed me out a time or two, like sending a hive of bees from farm to farm to fertilize the crops. The first time it was her sister, who was putting up with a lazy, abusive asshole whom she married because he was the best fuck she'd ever had.

Cindy and I spent the weekend in Glenda's cabin on a mountaintop near Ruidoso. On Monday she hired an attorney, and the asshole with a (fake) bad back and worse temper was escorted off her property by a deputy sheriff on Tuesday.

The other time she offered me for breeding purposes almost created a firestorm, and ultimately led me to this place in time. It was simple enough: a 44-year-old divorcee who needed confidence after hubby ran off with his 22-year-old secretary, leaving Tilly with three teenagers to finish raising.

I listened, commiserated, held her, and let her cry for hours on end Friday. Saturday, I explored her sexy body, licked places she didn't know should be licked, and filled her holes with cum, repeatedly. Sunday morning she walked funny, but that afternoon we went at it again like horny eighteen-year-olds, and she was a contented and confident lady when I dropped her off.

It was all good until she told a friend, who turned out to be the wife of Tom Bean. Tom Bean and his brother Jerry owned twenty-eight sections of land in the Delaware Basin along the New Mexico border, and we had done a lot of work for them. We weren't close or anything, but we had a casual relationship based on our working relationship. Imagine my surprise when I get a voicemail asking me to dinner at Jerry's next Friday.

I called River, who laughed and replied, "Who the hell knows? Them boys are both loco, but my guess is any such invitation came from one or the other momma, so show up looking pretty with good manners. Might get us some more work down the road!"

I did the best I could with what I had to work with, and got blatantly checked out by both mommas, Doris and Diane, for my troubles. They were sisters married to brothers, and they were damn good looking dark haired, dark eyed beauties. Still, I wasn't about to mess up a good business relationship for a little married pussy, especially since I already had two eager learners and the Grand Mistress of Sex taking care of my needs.

I laughed, teased back, flirted, and teased some more, until their men showed up and invited me into the parlor for some single malt. I didn't know jack about whiskey when I joined them, but I'm a quick study. I picked up the parlance by listening to them go on about this single malt Scotch whiskey or that one, the best blended Scotch whiskeys, and their favorite Irish whiskeys. I felt like I was with some of those effeminate wine snobs, but I played along as best I could, mostly by nodding and agreeing with them.

The wives called us to the dining room, and I was seated in the middle of the long table across from a young woman/teenager. She maintained an aloof pose, but I politely nodded and said hello; she gave me a look of disdain in return. I told her my name and she dained to tell me hers was Shay Lynn. I asked her what she did, and she informed me she was a junior at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque, and a proud member of Chi Omega.

I couldn't decide if we were having a conversation or she was setting me up for something embarrassing, but I went along. WTF - when you don't give a shit anyway, why not? Her auburn hair, alabaster skin, and green eyes made it worth the risk, although I was wondering how she kept her skin that white out here in New Mexico, the sunny Land of Enchantment, where you didn't have to be Latino to have brown skin - like me.

"So tell me about your fellow OWLS. How many in your chapter, and what's your chapter name?" Okay, I've never attended college; doesn't mean I haven't tapped a few sorority girls!

I'm not gonna recount that conversation, or the one where I asked about her major and learned she was on her fourth major, but she was sure Interior Design was her calling! I am going to tell you that mommy, daddy, Auntie Doris, and Uncle Jerry were quite amused by her babbling, and also quite supportive of my (feigned) interest in Diane and Tom's daughter.