The Crew Pt 04

I know the "part 4" should be a dead giveaway. But if it's not, this installment will make much more sense if you first read parts 1, 2, and 3. There are big changes afoot for Jamie, Scooter, Pete, Sal, family, friends, the Crew, and That Damn Band. Everybody is ficticious...some even doubly so (hint, hint), and everybody is eighteen or older. And yes, almost all the time, everybody is nude. So am I. I write naked. I'm naked right now. Really. So shouldn't you be too. The story really does read better that way. Go ahead. You know you want to. We can wait...

There. Doesn't that feel better. Now...enjoy!

***************

Scooter and Pete came by the next weekend. The band didn't have a gig. It rained all day Saturday, so we just hung out naked in the barn and talked and shot pool on the table I got when the local Elks' Club remodeled. (I also salvaged a dusty old Elk head they were going to throw out. Hung it over my fireplace. Hey. It's my "house". My mother had a fit when she saw Pete and I dragging it out of the van.)

I debated with myself about letting them read the story. It was the first one I'd written that wasn't all made up people and events. The first one about actual family. I mean, I've been writing journals for as long as I can remember, but that's different. Here was an actual story...a true one...and it was about us. Family.

They sat side by side and read it together. I could feel them thinking at me. In tandem. It's a twin thing they do. Neither said a thing, though they paused now and then to look over at me or at one another. Once they finished, Scooter closed the notebook and laid it on the big wooden spool that served as my coffee table. They were both smiling.

They loved it. I tried to tell them it was a first draft and that I was thinking of changing up names and places. I wondered if I should tone down the sexual stuff. Maybe leave out the descriptions of pubes and tits and climaxes and such. But no! They wanted it left just the way it was. Real and raw.

"That's why I like your stories," Scooter told me. "You just write what you think. Whatever you see and feel in your mind. When I read them, I can see it and feel it too. And this story...about us..." She hesitated. Looked down sheepishly. And Scooter doesn't usually do sheepish. "Honestly," she finally said, "I got wet reading it. I've never had a story make me wet before."

Pete rolled his eyes. "Too much information," he muttered.

"You should talk," she shot back looking right at his crotch. "You're more than half-way hard right now. Probably thinking about Karla's nipples."

"OK. Busted," he replied, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. "But Jamie, she's right. I wouldn't change a thing. I just wish I could write like you."

"Me too," Scoot agreed.

"But you shouldn't write like me," I told them. "You should write like you. Your thoughts. Your stories. You really should try it."

It was a conversation we'd had before and we spent the next hour or better talking and arguing about writing and creating. Finally, Pete let out a huge sigh. "Some day..." he said, "...I might try. Might! But no promises. I don't know what I'd write about, but I'll try. For now, though..." he held up my notebook for emphasis, "...I just want to see the next chapter or three."

"Me too," Scoot agreed.

I laughed. "The next chapters haven't happened yet. For any of us."

"Yet..." Scooter quietly said. She had this far away look and a strange pensive frown. Pete and I knew that look. We said nothing. The women in our family get that look when they know something but are trying to figure out what it is that they know. It doesn't happen often, but it happens. Frankly, it's a little creepy. I think that's why we all jumped when the phone rang.

***************

Some new chapters seem to write themselves quickly. And sometimes change happens quickly as well. I knew that the band, for example, wouldn't last. I'm a realist. Most bands don't. We were just a group of friends who jammed together and got pretty good at it. Had fun with it. But it wasn't our life goal. A lot of our gigs only paid enough to cover food and gas. Still...

Frank got the call that afternoon. Called me that night. He'd pretty much given up on hearing from the elite engineering school out in Boston but he had been on their waiting list and a last minute spot opened up. He could start mid-September. With major academic scholarship money.

I was still trying to wrap my head around Frank's news a week later when Sal showed up at the farm unannounced. Now that in and of itself wasn't unusual. He was long past needing to call ahead. What was unusual was the look on his face. And the fact that he barely cracked a smile when my mom ran over from her naked gardening and caught him in one of her typical boob smashing hugs. When she pulled away, she looked him in the face. Reached up and brushed a curl out of his eyes. "This looks serious," she said to him. "You're still wearing clothes. I'll let you boys talk. Have you eaten? You don't look like you've eaten. I'll make up some sandwiches." Without waiting for an answer, she turned and was gone.

"Dude," he said. "We gotta talk. I didn't want to do it over the phone."

"Fine, Bro," I answered. "Anything. Any time. You know that. Let's sit in the shade." I pointed to the picnic table. "You want a beer? I've got Rolling Rock."

"Sure," he said, finally grinning. "But I think I'd rather have a Rolling Rock." It was a running joke. I grabbed two from my dad's fridge in The Garage. By the time I got back he was naked.

"So...what's up?" I asked.

He took a deep pull on the beer and just looked at me for a moment. "Trouble Bro. Big trouble. I don't know how to say it without just sayin' it," he said. "It's my dad..." he sighed.

"What??? Did something happen to your dad?" Sal and his father were close and my heart was up in my throat.

"No...nothing like that. At least not yet..." he said grimly. "...but he is steering clear of my mom right now." He shook his head. "You know how my brother Milo's been looking to buy his own restaurant?"

"Yeah," I said, finally remembering to breathe.

"Well, he and Pop drove up to The City to check one out this week. Pop had heard about it through a friend of a friend who owed him a "favor". All quiet and on the down low. Turns out, the owner died suddenly and his kids hated the business, hated his business associates, and hated each other. They priced it to sell. That way they could pay off the old man's no longer so silent partners, split the rest of the money, and get on with their lives. My father and Milo looked it over. It's right downtown. Hot location. Milo loved it. They crunched some numbers. Pop agreed to front him the money. Family. No banks. Or silent "business associates". They made a cash offer. The kids' lawyer accepted on the spot."

"OK..." I said. "So..."

"So my brother's moving there to run it. It'll be the only authentic Greek place in town. They're even calling it Milo's. And they want me to move there and help get it going. They want me there next week."

"So you're moving...four hours away! Next week! With your brother! To run a new Greek restaurant. I don't get it." I drew a breath and tried to keep my frustration from showing.

At that point my mom put the sandwiches on the table, along with two more beers. Neither of us had noticed her coming and I wasn't sure how much she'd heard. It didn't matter. She didn't say anything. Just looked from one to the other of us, reached down and hugged Sal from behind, then turned and went back to the house. Sal smiled, seeming grateful for the distraction. We ate in silence. In Sal's case, almost reverence. I knew better than to intrude. My mom's sandwiches are epic.

When it seemed safe, I reopened our conversation. "So...seriously...why you? I mean, if you feel like you need to do this, you know I support it. But...you've said yourself that you don't want to be 'Rocky G'."

"Rocky G" was Sal's dad, and "Rocky G's" was the name of his family's near legendary restaurant. A thirty year landmark known to foodies nationwide. Originally kind of a dive bar catering to dock workers and teamsters, word got around about the food. It grew until they took over the building. Knocked out walls and tripled the seating. On weekends and game nights there were lines out the door and down the block. Still a rowdy crowd, but good naturedly rowdy. And home to the World's Greatest Greek Dog.

"I don't," he said. "It's just...Milo doesn't think he can really pull it off without me, and Pop agrees.

"Again, why? No offence, but you grew up your whole life around your dad's place. You're twenty-three years old. And you still can't cook."

"Don't need to. Pop told the staff at Rocky G's about it. Offered a fat bonus to volunteers. Milo's fiance Ziva was going anyway, and she's been second lead chef, right behind Mama. Two other line cooks volunteered. So they've got the food covered. They'll keep whatever staff can adjust to the changes. Front of house shouldn't be a problem other than learning the new menu. We'll have our own guy behind the bar, and quietly slip in a girl or two that we know we can trust. Just to make sure everybody stays honest."

"OK..." I said, still puzzling. "Sounds like a plan. And you'll be..."

"In charge of two things," he jumped in. "Muscle and music."

"Muscle, like bouncers?" That didn't sound like Sal.

"Muscle as in order everything we need and look intimidating when the delivery guys show up. See to it that everything's there and the price is right. I'll be the loading dock face of the operation."

"And?" I just let the question hang.

"OK, sure. It's a restaurant. With alcohol. Things can go sideways. I'll jump in if needed. But it shouldn't be needed. Not like that joint south of Jackson."

"And the music part?" I asked. Something still wasn't adding up.

He grinned. Big. "Dude There's a club. A side street walk down a flight below street level. Classic bar. We'll offer a short menu from Milo's upstairs. Already set up with a stage and dance floor. In house sound system. The works. And it's mine."

"Yours???"

"Mine! I run the club. I book the bands. I pick the music. All of it."

"Way to bury the lead!" I told him, attempting a scowl. He just kept grinning. I knew I'd miss seeing that big goofy face on a regular basis. He's my best friend. But for that very reason, I couldn't help being excited for him. And I knew he felt the same way. No need to get maudlin about it.

"So that's it then," I said. "You leave in a week."

"Yeah. Have to. We need to find someplace to stay. Draw up a quick set of plans for any small changes we want. Not much. Just enough to make it our own. Hopefully only a couple of weeks of full shut-down, then a week to train or re-train staff. Soft open right after Memorial Day Weekend. Grand Opening the following Friday."

It took a bit before I realized I was just staring at him. I didn't really know what to say. "Ummm..." I said. "Uhhh...so six weeks. That's a fast track. Is...uh...is there anything I can do to help?"

His grin got bigger. "Actually..." he said, "...there is. If I want to do this right, there's gotta be live music for the Grand Opening. I was hoping you could help me pull it off. You know. One last gig together. All of us. The Crew. That Damn Band."

***************

Of course my mother heard it all. She snuck back out the side door after checking on my dad. She'd been out in the sweet corn patch quietly trimming and tending the "herbs" she discretely grew there among the corn stalks. Sal and I knew she was there. We heard her sniffle a couple times during our "private" conversation.

Sal was doing his best to stifle a laugh. "How long do you think she'll stay out there?" he asked, keeping his voice down to almost a whisper.

"I don't know," I softly replied, trying not to shoot beer out my nose. "Till she thinks it's safe to come out."

"Should we maybe wander out to the barn. Cut her a break?" he suggested, glancing over his shoulder.

"Naw," I told him. "Let her stew for a few."

We drank our beer in silence and pretended to watch clouds. Trying to keep straight faces. At some point we both knew she knew that we knew, but it was still fun pretending and winding her up. Finally, Sal couldn't take it any more. He let go a laugh you could have heard back by the quarry.

"It's OK, Angie," he called. "You can come out now. We love you."

She waited almost a full minute before emerging with a look of complete innocence, which she was able to maintain for just about forty seconds as she met Sal's gaze and he hers. Then they both came unzipped. When they finally calmed down, she caught him in a bear hug and held. "Oh, I'm gonna miss having you around so much. But I'm so excited for you too. You're staying for supper aren't you? Of course you are. And you better call the twins. They'll have a fit if they don't find out next. Maybe they'll want to come over. I'll make extra just in case. I love you!!!" She doubled down on the squeeze before letting go.

Then she turned her gaze on me. "You knew I was there the whole time? Don't smirk at me. Brat!" She couldn't hide the her own smirk as she spun and headed toward the kitchen door, her herb trimmings basket in hand.

Sal, bemused, watched her ass sway as she wandered off. "I love your mom's hugs," he said.

"You just love feeling her naked boobs squish against you," I kidded.

"That too," he laughed. "Who wouldn't? My mom's got a sister like that. Great hugs and not an inhibition in the world." He sighed and looked suddenly sad again. "Haven't seen her in a while. Mom doesn't say much about her anymore. My Pops thinks she's crazy. I don't know. Maybe she is. I guess she's kinda the black sheep of the family, but I like her. Liked her. She took off when I was still little. Heard she's some kind of journalist. I think she's somewhere in Indonesia. Or New Zealand. I don't know. Maybe Uruguay or Brazil. Hey, you got any more beer? Or maybe some herb..."

"Sure," I told him. I could tell he was trying to wrap his head around all that was happening. Mood swings. And he was rambling. Sal doesn't ramble.

I got him a beer and left him in my hammock. Then I slipped back inside and called Scooter and Pete's house, giving the barest minimum detail. Pete and Karla had already left for a concert in Cleveland, but Scoot said she was on her way. "Fair warning though. Stay off the roads. I'm driving Pete's van. He borrowed my Buick."

"OK. Why?"

"Do you really need to ask?" she giggled. "Karla. Boobs. Bench front seat."

Sal and I jammed for a bit, then wandered into the house and made a half-hearted offer to help with supper. We knew full well that my mom would throw us out of the kitchen, but it's the thought that counts. We hung out and talked with my dad and watched the last half of an old Tarzan movie on the Six O'Clock Big Show. At one point he asked if we'd ever read the original Tarzan books. I had. Sal hadn't.

"You should," he insisted. "Any banned book is worth reading, if just to find out for yourself what all the shoutin' and shootin's about. Burroughs was banned in his own home community, you know. Scandalous writing, they said. Some fool librarian just pulled all his books off the shelves. Couldn't have free citizens reading about a naked Tarzan and naked Jane cavorting around in the jungle. Let alone John Carter's adventures with Dejah Thoris and a bunch of other naked Martians."

"Heavens no," my mom laughed from the kitchen. "If God wanted people to run around nude, he would have made them that way."

"Right!" shouted Scooter from the porch. She and Bobbi had just arrived. "I don't know what you're discussing, but I'm in."

"Me too," giggled Bobbi. "And all I heard was 'naked Martians'."

Their traveling clothes hit the floor before the screen door opened. They both happily stepped in wearing nothing but skin just as Sal and I followed my dad...also nude...through the swinging french doors.

Bobbi's eyes got wide, then she smiled. She leaned into Scooter and whispered, "Have I mentioned I love this family?"

Dad immediately went to my mother, rapped her in a hug from behind, and kissed her neck while tweaking a nipple. She giggled and wiggled her ass against him before turning and gently pushing him off.

"You're feeling better tonight," she said.

"The nap helped," he replied, making his way to the pantry. "As will this." He held up a large blue glass pipe. Since starting a highly experimental series of treatments for a little understood form of leukemia, "medicinal herb" from my mom's sweet corn patch had made a major difference. The chemo effects were debilitating, and the doctors had said...off the record...that the still illegal plant showed great promise in treating pain and nausea. In my dad's case, it helped him be able to eat and still live a relatively normal life.

He loaded the pipe and then hit it. Passed it to Mom. She took it, looked at the rest of us, hit it and passed it on to me with a shrug and a half-smile. As it made its way around she said, mainly to Bobbi, "It really has been a godsend. And I grow enough that we don't mind sharing."

It was potent. The mellow began to set in before the pipe made it back to my dad. He relit it and hit it again and then passed it on to my mom while affectionately fondling her ass. She giggled again as she passed it to me, absently letting her free hand graze his thick cock. Then she caught herself when she saw us all watching. "Sorry," she said. "I should warn you. This has more of a kick than my last batch. Different strain. Waaaayyyy fewer inhibitions."

"Waaayyy fewer," my dad agreed smiling, letting his hand return to her ass.

"Should make for some interesting dinner...conversations," Scooter offered, letting her gaze slowly drift over each of the men in the room. None were erect, but all were in full on display hanging comfortably low and long and thick.

My dad cleared his throat. "Speaking of dinner conversation," he said, "to answer an earlier unspoken question, we were, and will be, discussing pulp fiction," he announced. "Specifically, Edgar Rice Burroughs. Wonderful stories. Delightful characters. Despicable politics."

He slowly looked Bobbi and Scooter over from head to toe with a wry appraising grin. Then he bowed.

"We are unexpectedly honored to have you grace our table, ladies," he told them. To Bobbi, he smiled first. "My Dear," he said, "You are undoubtedly stunningly naturally red. Delightful to meet you." Turning to Sal and I, he next made to introduce her. "Gentlemen, in the spirit of our friend E.R. Burroughs, I present to you Her Majesty Dejah Thoris, Red Martian Princess of Barsoom." Turning to Scooter, he nodded. "And this, her lovely companion, can only be the adventuress, Miss Jane Porter, of Baltimore." Both girls returned his smile and attempted, in tandem, a nude curtsy.

"And ladies," he continued, pulling me forward, "my friend here is Captain John Carter of Barsoom and Earth." With that, he handed me off to Bobbi. "And this," he said, offering Sal's hand to Scoot, "is the long lost John Clayton, Lord Greystoke of London, also known by his African Mangani name as Tarzan."

"And you sir?" Scooter inquired, batting her eyes and playing along with a game that she knew he loved.

"Sadly, dear lady, I came too late to find a place in Mr. Burroughs' own imaginings. For this evening, I will content myself to be one sometimes known as Lazarus Long, a lowly vagabond of the planets Earth, Secundus, Tertius and more."

"Lowly my ass," my mom said, quickly trying to get into character. "More like low down. And his given name's Woodrow. Woody to those who know why." She bumped his hip with hers and fixed a sardonic look on his cock for emphasis.