The Crew Pt 05

All of our friends are feeling the changes. Their stories, like this one, are moving in different directions. A few new faces appear, and others move on...at least for now. This a fictional world, with fictional people. Any resemblance to anyone real...whatever that is...lies solely in the mind of the reader. As always, all characters should be assumed to be at least eighteen years old. And most are inclined to live clothing free as much as possible...or legal. Since this is part 5, I assume that you've read parts one through four. And if you have, then I'll also assume that you already know I write naked, am naked now, and believe that these stories are best when you read them naked. Enjoy.

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

I didn't see anybody but Pete for the rest of the week. He stopped by on Wednesday night to raid my mom's stash and tell me that Karla wouldn't be at Sal's going away party on Friday. In fact, she wouldn't be coming around much at all anymore. She was dumping him into the "friend zone". I could tell he was really upset. Pete's not one to open up a lot, even with coaxing and herb. We talked well into the late late night. At my "house" in The Barn, at the quarry, at my mom's kitchen table. We raided the fridges for beer and cold pot roast and smoked and talked some more. I took his keys around 2:00 AM. He could sleep on the futon. Bit by bit, I got the story.

Karla gave him the whole, well rehearsed talk. She wanted more than he was ready for. She could respect that they were in two different places and she really had no hard feelings about that and hoped they could still hang out sometime. But not right away. And maybe the band wasn't such great fit for now either. She didn't do well with awkward, you see. And she'd met this really nice guy, but he thought the whole all over skin thing with friends was kinda weird and twisted and wasn't cool with her hanging out with us like that but he was cool about it if she was alone with him. Maybe later he'd come around but for now...And yadda yadda yadda yadda. Bottom line? She wanted to fuck. Pete didn't. End of story. Also, now Bobbi and Scooter weren't speaking to her.

Sal and I only talked on the phone maybe three or four times. Mostly so he could run some ideas past me. Or when he needed to vent. He was still doing his own work at Rocky G's plus training the new guy...his mother's cousin's nephew's brother-in-law or something...to cover deliveries and such. "He may connected by blood somehow, but he's not family. He's a moron," Sal said in disgust one day. He gave the guy less than a month before Rocky fired him or killed him. I hoped he was kidding. On top of all this, he was helping Milo and Ziva pack up a truck with enough to get by for a couple of weeks to a month. They had a plan. Temporary. Survival. Just till they found some more permanent digs. They were bringing the specialty spices and oils and kitchen stuff (Greek people have their own way of cooking!), clothes, beds and bedding for them and him. Anything else, they'd pick up on the cheap at Goodwill or a garage sale.

As for Sal himself, he didn't need much so there wasn't much to pack. He'd bring up the good stuff later. For now, three pairs of jeans, three pairs of cargo shorts, six t-shirts, a couple of sweaters, and a black sport coat for anything dressy. He hardly ever wore underwear, but he packed some anyway. To sleep in. Just in case. He hadn't discussed the whole all over skin thing with Milo or Ziva. Footwear was even simple. Sandals, boots, or Chucks. Throw in a couple of books from my shelf, a little TV, and a boom box with CDs for tunes. Done. To start out, they'd be sharing a little apartment above the restaurant. Sal wasn't crazy about it, but it was free. And he could eat and drink at the restaurant and bar downstairs while he scoped out The City.

I talked to Bobbi twice and Scooter once. Both of them claimed to be swamped at work. Scooter was helping out in the office and doing little supply runs for one of her dad's construction projects. Bobbi was pulling extra hours and trading shifts at the diner so she could get off for Sal's party. Still, they both seemed a little distant. Like something was off. But then maybe it was just my imagination.

I was feeling a little off myself. That last night together...with Sal. And Bobbi and Scoot. I wondered. It did get crazy. Too crazy? Maybe I let it go too far. Maybe it freaked them out. Thinking back, it sorta freaks me out. Especially with Scooter. I mean, she's my cousin. I love her and all. And we've been tight and open and naked around each other for all of our lives. Played and teased. But...we've never...really...

I wouldn't. Couldn't. Maybe I...

Fuck!

She's my cousin!

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

I called ahead and arranged for a party of fifteen at Sal's favorite place (other than Rocky G's).

Froggie's Wharf was owned by a friend of Sal's dad and was one of the best kept secrets along the north coast. It sat on the southwestern point of the bay where the mouth of the river widened out sharply. It looked like it had been there forever, it's raw wooden siding gray from weather and age. The inside looked much the same. Clean, but "rustic", and packed with mismatched tables and chairs. The sign by the door said the legal limit was 65 diners and guests. An actual wharf jutted out from the back deck into the bay. Boaters could tie off and come in to eat their choice of Cajun or Greek, steak, seafood, and fresh catch local walleye and perch. It has an eclectic menu with specials that change daily. A little of everything except chicken. Never chicken. Or burgers. There was dancing and live Zydeco music on weekends. Mostly rowdy locals and river folks. The Damn Band had even played there a couple times.

Friday night rolled up quickly and everybody expected was there. Sal. Me. My mom and dad. Rocky and Parni (Sal's mom). Sharon and Robb. Pete and Scooter. Bobbi. Izzy and Frank. Milo and Ziva. When we got there, three tables were already pushed together and waiting. Jimmy, the owner, smiled as he handed us off to our server. Rocky hung back and talked with him for just a bit. They kibbitzed and laughed and finally both nodded. A deal was struck. Jimmy agreed to let Rocky bring in a bottle of ouzo from Cyprus, pulled from his private collection. A second bottle discretely disappeared into Jimmy's office, with Jimmy.

As usual, Sal ordered The Special, a massive platter of vermicelli smothered in Skyline style Greek chili. Rumor had it the stuff in Cinncinnati was only a pale imitation. When it arrived, Parni, Sal's mom, insisted on tasting. She carefully raised a spoonful to her lips and appraised it, almost like she was sampling the current vintage of a supposedly fine wine. The server, a young woman of no more than twenty, told her in a hushed tone, "It's an old secret family recipe. Carefully guarded. Only the chef and the owner know all ingredients. Everyone loves it."

Parni lifted one eyebrow. "That's so cute, dear," she said to the girl, "But this is Jimmy's mother's recipe. I'd know it anywhere. She got it from her mother's cousin, my husband's grandmother. It's the same sauce she uses in her moussaka and pastitsio. And she's never used quite enough cinnamon. Or clove." That brought a bellowing laugh from Jimmy, who was watching from the bar.

We talked and laughed and ate and drank and toasted and ate and drank. Toward the end of the night, Rocky nodded toward the bar. Jimmy came over, pulled up a chair and joined us. He told us desert was on the house. At a wave of his hand, the server appeared carrying a tray with sixteen shot glasses. These were passed around and filled with ouzo. After the first shot, accompanied by the obligatory shouts of "OPA!", the kitchen doors flew open and out trooped four waiters bearing trays of flaming cheese. "OPA!" We went through two more orders of cheese and a round of baklava. We also managed to polish off both bottles of ouzo before the party finally broke up. Divided up among sixteen people, it really wasn't enough to do much damage.

Out in the parking lot, Izzy and Frank pulled Sal to the side. "We know we'll be seeing you soon, but got you something anyway," Izzy said.

"Yeah," Frank added. "It's no big deal really. Just a little something to remind you of home."

Izzy popped his trunk and pulled out a classic 32 oz Ballreich's Potato Chip Tin with a Christmas bow stuck to the lid. Handed it to a puzzled looking Sal. "Gee guys," he chuckled, "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything," Izzy told him. "Just open it."

Sal popped the lid off and looked inside, then looked up to brothers, then back to the tin. It was filled to the brim with pungent herb, a new glass pipe carefully nestled on top. "Is this...?" Sal stuttered.

Frank grinned. "Swamp weed. From the barn at our dad's place."

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

Sal smiled and nodded. Nothing more needed saying. We all knew about swamp weed. We all knew their dad, Jack. We all knew the story.

Jack was a devoted hippie naturalist from way back. He grew up on the river and knew the area. During college, he worked summers as a ranger's assistant with the forestry service and loved it. Then, right after graduation, he got drafted. Came back from Viet Nam real quiet and pensive. Not spooky explosive like some guys, but still. Spent as much time as possible out in the woods or marshes. Bouncing from job to job, mostly as a hunting and fishing guide. Almost nobody knew the wilds like he did.

Sometime in late '69, he got a call from a guy in his old unit. Son of some banker in upstate New York. Turned out the banker's dad and couple partners had quietly bought up a huge chunk of the marsh, site unseen. Just over 3000 acres. Five square miles, more or less. Their plan was to hold it as a preserve, and a fat tax write-off. They wanted Jack to take them and couple rich clients out for the opening week of duck and goose season. Jack agreed, and before the week was over they "hired" him to act as caretaker over the whole preserve. They'd probably visit a time or three a year, on similar hunting or fishing trips. Other than that, they didn't want to be bothered with management. Jack would be a loose sort of a private ranger to keep an eye on things.

It turned out to be a sweet deal. Not much in cash pay, but he and his hippie girlfriend could stay free of charge in the old farm house on the property. Live off the land. Make babies. In addition, he ran a combination guide service/hunting and fishing charter/bait shop/canoe livery out of a primitive campground tucked in behind them on the swampy far eastern edge of the bay. Frank and Izzy were born out there in that house. Literally. So were their four younger brothers and sisters.

One random day, Jack was out cruising the circuitous maze of channels and tiny islands that dotted the denser parts of the marsh. Most were no more than a few square yards where the mud and vegetation rose above the shallow water. Some had scrub and trees. It was an area even most river folks avoided. It was easy to get lost if you didn't know it well. Jack knew it well. On a whim, he brought along a handful of seeds he'd been saving from some Mexican Gold that came his way. He scattered a few here and there on one of the tiny islands, just see what would happen. The plants got huge...six to seven feet high...so he did the same thing the next year.

Now he goes out every spring sowing clusters on three other scattered islands as well. Doesn't really bother to tend the plants. Just tosses out seeds and lets them come up wild. Only Frank and Izzy and him know where the islands are exactly. They hang and dry the plants in the loft of the ramshackle barn behind their house. They don't do it for money. Just for themselves, and to give away to close friends and family. Like other people give away holiday hams or meat and cheese baskets from Hickory Farms.

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

Sal put the lid back on the tin and hastily looked around at several clusters of people still talking in the parking lot. "Just keep that out of sight," Frank said. "Yeah," Izzy added. "It's not very potent. Not like Angie's. But that much might still attract some unwanted attention."

"Gotcha," Sal told them. "And thanks!" He discretely carried it over and slipped it into the trunk of his black Riviera, already packed with his stuff for the trip. "Milo won't look in there. We're leaving early and he's driving the truck tomorrow."

It takes forty-five minutes, at least, for our family to say good-bye after anything. More if leftovers are involved. I soon learned that Greek people are worse. Sal and his family left first, an hour later, heading off back to Toledo. After a lingering hug and a promise to call me after her shift on Monday, Bobbi left with Frank and Izzy for home, less than fifteen minutes away. Bobbi lived a mile up the road from them. Sharon and Robb, almost as close, took my parents, who were spending the night. That left Pete, Scooter and me standing in the empty parking lot.

Scooter slipped one arm each around Pete and me. We laughed as we did the Monkees-style leg over leg walk down to the wharf where the boat was tied up. Scooter played captain and got aboard first, while Pete and I undid the lines and cast off. We motored quietly up the river to where they still lived. When their parents built their new house in Vicksville, they kept the original two-bedroom "river shack", built up on stilts, that Scooter and Pete had grown up in. The initial plan was to use it as an office and boathouse for Robb's weekend charters. That lasted only until Pete and Scoot were old enough to move back in and make it their own. (About the same time I moved into The Barn.) I had earlier left my Bonneville parked in their driveway.

The night was clear and light from the stars and new moon danced over the ripples ahead and the waves from the minimal wake we stirred up behind. Full throttle and we could have made the trip in less than twenty minutes, but we weren't in that kind of hurry. We just took our time. Enjoying.

Here and there, an orb of golden or cutting white light came into view from the shore or out at the end of a dock. Kerosene or gas lanterns. Looking at first like floating balls of St. Elmo's fire in the distance, they created homish little pools of visibility for this or that neighbor out quietly night fishing. Best time, on the river, in summer, for landing a channel cat or a smallmouth bass.

None of us said much for most of the ride. The motor was quiet enough to still hear the night birds and frogs and crickets above its low drone. Occasionally, someone on shore would wave or call out a greeting, recognizing the twins or the boat, or just being friendly. Surprising to some, but not to real river folks, more than a few appeared to be wearing little or nothing, fishing, enjoying a midnight swim, or just sitting, soaking up the cool clear air and the breeze that kept the mosquitos at bay.

The three of us were down to nothing but skin ourselves by the time Scooter cut the engine and the boat glided silently toward the dock. Pete and I dropped the bumpers and stood, ready to jump when we got close enough. "Let me help. Here, toss me the bow line," a voice called out. A familiar voice.

"Thanks Marcie," Pete called back as he threw her the line.

"No problem," she said as she skillfully tossed a braking loop around the second bollard, pulling it taut and then playing it out at just the right rate to let us drift forward and closer while slowing to a perfect stop. The muscles in her abs, her trim, lithe legs and arms, and her tight little ass stood out in clean definition as she quickly worked. Like us, she was nude.

Pete then jumped out with the aft line and pulled us over, tying us off to a cleat on the dock while Marcie unlooped the bow line from the bollard and deftly secured us to the forward cleat. I checked and adjusted the bumpers while Scooter gathered our clothes. We scrambled off onto the dock together.

"Give us a little more slack on that aft line," Pete told me while he adjusted the front. I bent down and made the adjustments on my end.

Just as I was standing back up, still facing away, Marcie asked, "Hey Scooter, who's your friend with the cute butt?" Scooter laughed and started to answer, but I cut her off as I turned and said, "Hey Petey, who's your friend with the adorable little tits?"

"Jamie!!!", Marci squealed when she recognized me. Seconds later, she almost tackled me off the end of the dock. "I haven't seen you in...like...forever," she said, jumping up and wrapping her arms tightly around around my neck and planting a lingering kiss on my lips. For the record, she does adorable B-cup tits. They rise from her chest as sweet little fleshy swells, almost cone shaped, and hang there defying gravity. Perfectly proportioned for her long lean frame. Her pink nipples always get my attention in that they're not rounded off on their ends like most. Instead, the tips of hers are flat with a cute little dimple in the center of each. They stand straight out a quarter inch or so from matching, slightly puffed circles the size of a quarter. At that moment she didn't seem to mind that those nips were crushed to my chest, pulled tight by the death grip hug her arms still maintained around my neck. She also didn't seem to mind when my cock jumped a little and swelled against her thigh. I really could have sworn that she shifted her stance a bit to make sure that I felt her hairless cootch, as she called it, slide across my hip.

"Hi Marcie," I croaked. "Good to see you too, but...can't...breathe..."

"Oh, sorry," she giggled, letting go. "It's just been so long."

"Come up to the house and join us," Scooter offered. "We just got back from a party at Froggie's and we've got leftovers." That reminded me. I reached down into the boat and pulled up the shopping back.

"I'd love to, but I can't. Maurice and I have been fishing off the dock." She pointed to another dock about thirty yards up river where Maurice was seated, bathed in a pool of lantern light, sipping what I could only assume was a beer. "I just ran over here quick to lend a hand when I saw you pulling in, but I need to get back. He's out there alone and...well...you know Maurice. He's had more than a few tonight and I don't want him stumbling over the edge."

"Hi Maurice," we all yelled, waving in his direction.

Marcie lived with Maurice, her father, in a stilt house just up river from Pete and Scoot. She and the twins grew up together. In some ways, the four of us grew up together. Theirs was the next dock over. The nearest neighbor, and the only one within line of sight.

A tall, slender, gray haired naked man stood up and waved back, swaying. "Hi kids," he called back. He stumbled, gripped the back of the bench, and sat back down abruptly.

Marcie looked from me to him, then back to me. She pulled me into another hug and then planted another more lingering kiss on my lips. My cock jumped again. "Sorry," she said, looking down at it. She sighed. "Gotta go. Otherwise, it'll be him I have to fish out." She then turned and sprinted off in his direction. "You do have a cute butt though," she called over her shoulder. "You too, Petey..." she added.

Marcie had harbored a crush on Pete since she was old enough to have a crush. Then, during my fourth grade year when I lived with them, right after my dad's heart attack, she started crushing on me as well. She told Scooter that when she grew up she was going to marry us both. Even after we got older, she would come over any time I visited, which was often. And, like our family, she and Maurice were usually casually naked whenever they could be. Marcie was the first girl I ever kissed. Fourth grade. And in truth, it was her who kissed me. We never dated, but we did make out, lightly and friendly, a few times in high school. Smoking weed and drinking a stolen bottle Maurice's wine. Listening to music and trading Mogen David kisses. I think about her and those summer nights every time I hear "Suzanne" by Leonard Cohen. And we stayed light and friendly friends, as much as we could while living an hour and a half apart.