Transit

All Characters In This Story Are 18+ Years Old

Friday, December 21, 1962

Phil Maxon's cheaters were his only concession to approaching middle age. Thirty-eight years old, he had no graying hair, no early balding and could still toss a twenty-pound medicine ball hard enough to knock down his workout buddy at the Westport Athletic Club. Tom Parker had been a good sport about that and accepted Phil's sincere apology, but all the same, Phil had been secretly proud he had pushed the round leather missile with such force. Nor did he mind the new respectful looks he got from other men in the Club. The change was subtle, yet clear.

Phil pushed his half-lens Ben Franklin glasses more firmly onto his nose bridge, then unfolded his Wall Street Journal and scanned its front page. A sudden jostling reminded him he was not sitting alone on the train seat, but then, in a purple flash, he was! Peering past the Journal, with unaided vision over his spectacles' gold rims, he watched eighteen-year-old Patricia Maxon launch herself onto the facing empty settee.

Clamping its top edge firmly as she landed on her knees on the upholstered cushion, she flattened her front against the seat back. Although her thick plum-color mohair tweed coat was full-length and untailored in the back, it was was not sufficiently bulky to disguise her outthrust bottom's contours. Her outlined hemispheres merged softly into a tidy convex button atop the coat's spread center vent pleat. Meanwhile, her loose long chestnut hair cascaded over the collar and flowed between her thrown-back shoulders as she gazed intently down the car at an unknown target.

Phil crinkled his brow and stared. "How is it," he wondered, "that I've never noticed that perfect little ass?" Embarrassed and excited by his lascivious thought, he chased it away with a delicate cough, then said sharply, "Patricia! Calm down and sit down!" Patting the still warm formerly occupied space to his right, he softened his tone and added, "Here, please."

The teen immediately turned about and slipped obediently back onto the designated spot. She hated that she had been called down in public, but was grateful this end of the train car was nearly deserted. At least no one she knew had witnessed her humiliation.

Phil noticed the girl's upset moue and heard her accompanying little huff. Trying to restore their journey's disrupted equilibrium, he asked pleasantly, "So what on earth was that all about anyway, Trixie? What got you all het up all of a sudden?"

Pleased by the changed vocal tone, and more upon hearing her preferred nickname, Trixie emitted a relaxing sigh. The look in her stepfather's brown eyes further conveyed a true interest in her and her activity. Thus mollified, she reminded herself that this Christmas shopping trip to The City had been billed by him as a chance for them to 'bond more closely' as her final year in high school ended and she prepared to embark on more adult adventures. Sidling closer, until their hips actually touched, she replied, "Didn't you see that lady go by a minute ago? She was just huge!"

Phil clucked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly. Gently, he chided, "Darn it, Trixie, you know it's mean spirited to talk like that. And to go out of your way to stare. That's just not right. Many people are heavier than they should be, but we can't know why and it's wrong to..."

Trixie interrupted the lecture. "No, Uncle Phil! She wasn't fat, she was pregnant! She looked like she had a weather balloon in her coat! I've never seen anyone like that before. It was amazing!"

Half turning in her seat, Trixie unconsciously dug her fingernails through her stepdad's wool suit pants just above his right knee as she made eye contact and earnestly expressed her innocent awe. In that moment it was painfully important to her to be seen as neither mean nor rude. An anxious pant rose in her chest and threatened to explode. Impetuously, she stifled it with a hard loud kiss on his near cheek and asked, "You understand, don't you, Uncle Phil?"

Phil felt a pang in his gut. His head buzzed. His thigh throbbed. The wet imprint on his cheek steamed. He screamed in his mind, "No, I don't understand!"

Corralling Trixie's twisted torso in the crook of his right arm, Phil answered aloud, "Yes, honey, of course. I get it. It was unusual." His right hand naturally strayed upward and lightly brushed the closest hill. Immediately upon critical contact, Phil and Trixie both abruptly withdrew and squared themselves away on their cushions.

Trixie's breath caught in her throat as she settled back in her seat and stared straight ahead at nothing. Her heart pounded oddly and she had a queasy feeling in her tummy like she sometimes got when she was hungry. Confused because she was not hungry, she wondered if she was coming down with a cold, or the flu, or something. Thinking about it, and the fact that her monthly cycle was at its mid-point, she decided to chalk up her butterflies and tender nipples to hormones.

Phil tipped his neck back against the seat's headrest and chastised himself, "What in hell are you thinking, Buddy? Your niece has been your stepdaughter for eleven years. Just because you never realized she's grown into a sexy babe doesn't change anything! Bobbie's home waiting for you and Becky's at the office. Don't be stupid!"

While he raged at himself, Trixie's turmoil continued unabated. The more she pursed her lips and tried to ignore her reactions to her Uncle's cheek, eyes and touch, the more her body parts conspired against her. Suddenly she was acutely aware that her vagina itched. She squeezed her thighs tight together to no avail. In fact, they just squished it wetly against her panties.

A blush rose from Trixie's collarbone to her ears. She reasoned, "Just because you bumped a boob against Uncle Phil's hand and liked it doesn't mean he's a boyfriend like BeeBee, or James! He's Dad's brother and Mom's husband, for gosh sakes!" The thought soothed her conscience, but remembering Barney Barnes recently pinching her titty beneath her bra only made her areolae ache more.

Hoping to distract herself from her clamoring internal tension, Trixie turned her head left and asked, "Tell me again, what are we going to do when we get to The City?"

Relieved to have a neutral topic, Phil smiled and replied, "The first thing we're going to do is hotfoot it to the new Philharmonic Hall at Lincoln Center to see if, a) there are tickets available, and b) if there are, will the timing allow us to hear the program and still get our presents." He risked an affectionate pat on his niece's left leg. Notwithstanding his earlier reaction, he needed to be able to treat her like a daughter as he always had.

Trixie did not flinch. Far from it, she drew in a deep breath and felt her queasiness evaporate. Involuntarily, she wiggled her bottom and again crunched her damp crotch. Phil, completely unaware of what was happening beneath the purple overcoat and lower clothing layers, continued, "Then we'll head to Bergdorf's for your mom's silk scarf. With that out of the way, we'll visit Macy's, Bloomingdale's, whatever other stores catch our eye, and Christmas shop ourselves silly, taking time for lunch and stuff, of course!"

Phil cocked his head and asked, "Is there anything else special you'd like to do?"

Trixie grinned. "You said something about ice skating and Delmonico's. Will we be able to do all of that in one day?"

Phil wrenched his lecherous mind away from Trixie's innocently open sensual beauty and swore at himself, "Jesus, man! Focus!" Patting her padded leg once more, he said evenly, "Maybe. Getting a table at Delmonico's might be dicey, but we can definitely try. Wollman Rink in Central Park should be no problem." He laughed, "I'm looking forward to it, even if I fall!"

Trixie laughed, too, then answered, "Don't worry, Uncle Phil. If you scrape your knee, I'll kiss it and make it all well!" Blushing again, she picked up the book she had brought along to read. It was difficult; the ink kept blurring while the text randomly seemed to jump around.

Phil was glad for the exit opportunity. He unfolded his Journal and cloaked his incipient erection with it as he flipped to the market report. Forty minutes later, detraining at Grand Central Terminal, he had all but forgotten his naughty thoughts and Trixie seemed not to have noticed anything untoward. Outside under a leaden sunless sky he hailed a taxi to the concert hall.

As they clambered into the Checker's backseat, the cabbie flipped the meter and announced, "Big front comin' in. Gonna snow to beat the band! I got two more hours on my shift. Hope I can get out to Canarsie before everything is socked in! You folks got a room? You may not be able to even train back to wherever..."

Trixie clung to her stepdad's arm and looked into his face with obvious concern. Phil reached across his chest, rubbed her outside shoulder and said to the driver, "I think we'll be alright. But thanks for the information." Ducking his head, he looked out the cab window to assess the weather for himself.

The Philharmonic Hall did have good seats available for their two-fifteen concert. As Phil paid for them he mentioned the cabbie's concern and was surprised to hear the vender say, "Sounds like good advice, mister. I know I'm glad today's program is a matinee. I live clear out in Great Neck!"

As he tucked the tickets into his inside coat pocket, Phil spotted a payphone. Steering his niece toward it, he said, "Maybe we should hedge our bet. How would you like to camp out at the Plaza Hotel overnight?"

"Oh my gosh! Really? Yeah!" Trixie scarcely believed her ears. "But what about Mom? She'll be alone."

Phil picked up the receiver as he spoke over his shoulder, "I think she'll be okay. We were going to be late getting home, anyway. She'll be glad to know we're safe if the storm is as bad as we just heard. Look up the Plaza in the Yellow Pages."

While Trixie thumbed through the thick directory, Phil dialed home. Roberta Maxon picked up on the third ring. "Hi, Bobbie," he said softly. "We're here, but there seems to be a weather alert... Oh, you too?... It's snowing fat flakes right now and moving south?... Okay, then I'm glad I called. We're going to make an overnight of it and look at coming home tomorrow in the late afternoon... Yes, I'll call again after we are checked in... I'm going to try and book The Plaza. Make it a treat for Trixie, you know? But wherever we end up, I will definitely let you know so you won't worry... You have plenty of fuel for the furnace and wood for the fireplace, right? Good... Yes, you too. Stay cozy. I love you."

Trixie pulled on her uncle's sleeve and hopped up and down. "Tell her 'me too!' "

Phil caught Roberta just before she disconnected and said, "Trixie sends her love, too, babe. Bye." Then turning to the bouncing teen he said, "Dial the hotel, quick! If they have rooms, they'll be going fast, I bet." He stepped aside and dropped a dime into the coin slot as Trixie crowded her five-foot five-inch, hundred-and-eighteen pound frame into the phone booth.

" 'Stay cozy,' " Phil had advised his wife. The words echoed in his head as he felt his niece's body heat through their combined overcoats in the cramped box. He felt his cock react naturally, but inappropriately. He could barely move and dared not try. After several rings the hotel desk answered.

"Yes," Phil spoke into the phone. "My daughter and I need two connecting rooms for the night... yes, I know there's a bad storm coming, that's why I need the rooms... I see, you mean you only have larger suites left... Oh, yes? Well, uh, just a moment, please."

Covering the speaker, Phil reported to Trixie, "There's already only three rooms available that aren't big suites. And none of them are even on the same floor. You mind sharing a room with your old uncle?" He laughed nervously.

Trixie hesitated perceptibly, then said, " Umm, sure, that's okay, but we don't have, umm, toothbrushes... or, anything!" Her blurted concern had nothing to do with oral hygiene and everything to do with the new feelings her stepfather had engendered in her on the train.

Phil rubbed his jowl and added, "Or a razor, for that matter. I know. But, we're only roughing it for one night." He tried not to think about other challenges which, in the closed booth, pushed themselves forward to claim his imagination.

Trixie could not keep her bosom from heaving against her uncle's stomach as she emphatically spelled out her worry, "But, what about P.J.'s? We don't have any to sleep in!"

In full surrender to his id, Phil heard himself answer, "Don't fret, we'll just add those to our shopping list and then give them to each other as early presents." Back on the phone, he said, "You still there?... Good. OK, give us one of the remaining rooms with two beds. When's check-in?... After four p.m.? Perfect. The name is Phillip Maxon... M-A-X-O-N... Right. See you then, then. Thanks!"

As Phil hung up the phone Trixie dropped the directory on its bead chain and wrapped him in a tight hug. Crushing her cheek against his camelhair overcoat, she breathed, "You're good at fixing things, aren't you, Uncle Phil?"

Phil slid his hands from the teen's shoulders to her coat's rear vent pleat and back. As he luxuriated in her supple feel beneath the heavy wool, he smiled over her matching plum tam and stared through the booth's glass walls at weather-proofed strangers bustling about on their pre-holiday errands. Sighing, he replied, "I try, honey. I really do try."

At the Bergdorf Goodman accessories counter, Phil pointed to a vast colorful array of silk scarves and charged his niece with selecting one to suit her mother's fashion sense. "Don't look at the price tags, honey," he admonished. "Any of these will be fine. And, if you have trouble deciding on one, then pick two!" He chuckled while he squeezed her shoulder and added, "Take your time. I'll be back in a little bit."

Bedazzled by the beautifully laid out display, Trixie heard Phil's words without really noticing that he was leaving her. As he stepped away, he signaled a nearby clerk to follow him. At a discreet distance he whispered, "I need an evening party dress for my daughter over there, but I'm unsure of her size. Are you a good guesser at these things?"

The saleswoman smiled smugly and answered, "Sir, I've been doing this for seventeen years. No man I've met knows sizes when he shops, but every one of them leaves with garments that are perfect. Or, at least, are never returned!" Laughing lightly, she excused herself, returned to the scarves and engaged Trixie in a brief conversation. Moments later she was back with Phil.

Nodding back at Trixie, who was engrossed in her task, the clerk said succinctly, "Come with me. I have a couple of items in the Miss Bergdorf Collection which I think will fill the bill."

As they walked, Phil pressed his luck and asked, "Um, what about pajamas and nightgowns? What are girls buying these days? Especially the older teens like my daughter?"

The saleswoman laughed again and retorted, "Ha! That all depends on what their mothers and fathers will let them get away with! But, in the next section over, you will find everything from classic flannel pajama sets to elegant gowns and racier baby-dolls. Peignoirs, too. After I show you the dresses, you will know what sizes to look for in sleepwear."

The clerk stopped and examined her customer's face through narrowed eyes. "What the hell," she thought. "It's Christmas in New York, maybe he's a big spender!" Deciding to increase her up-sale opportunity, she inquired nonchalantly, "How about underwear and shoes? How's your girl fixed in those departments?" She smirked inwardly at her customer's obvious discomfort.

"No, uhm, yes, uhm, I mean, I don't know," Phil stammered before clarifying, "I mean, I think she's okay there. Her mother helps her with those things and, anyway, I was just looking for the dress." Realizing he had backtracked from his pajama position, he flushed and explained, "We just came into The City for a day trip, but the weather has us worried, so we're spending the night. That's why I wondered about... um, you know, a nightie or something she could wear..." His voice trailed to nothing and he spread his hands helplessly.

Rescuing flailing desperate fathers and father-figures from dilemmas exactly like this was something of a specialty for the salesclerk. Taking Phil by the elbow she guided him to his ultimate fate as she purred, "Don't give it another thought, sir. I'll have you set up in a jiffy. This will be the best Christmas a young woman like your daughter could possibly have. Trust me."

Not quite an hour later, Phil and Trixie left Bergdorf's toting two great shopping bags filled with a half-dozen gift wrapped boxes, only two of which contained scarves. "Look here," Phil said, "There's hours until check-in time, but we're practically around the corner from the hotel. Let's see if they won't put our packages in a closet while we go skating."

Trixie looked at her uncle's frosty breath and had second thoughts. "What about the storm? And the concert?"

"That's what I mean, honey," Phil argued gently. "Let's have a quick skate, and then get inside at the Philharmonic and warm up. Afterward, we'll cab it back to the Plaza. Forget Delmonico's for lunch, we'll grab a pretzel or something in The Park and save room for a nice dinner at the Palm Court." He tucked his free hand around the teen's waist and side-hugged her close. "It'll be kind of like a date... only you'll have to pretend you aren't with your fuddy-duddy old uncle!"

Trixie lifted her empty hand to Phil's face and tapped his lips with her gloved fingers. "Shush! You aren't a 'fuddy-duddy'. And didn't you say this shopping trip was a chance for us to 'bond'? Let's go!"

The temperature had dropped to the mid-twenties and snow was falling by the time they stowed their presents and crossed into Central Park to the Wollman Rink. People were already disappearing to hunker down. Though the skating concession was operating, very few patrons glided about on the ice. Stubbornly, Phil insisted they strap on blades and take at least one full turn, just to be able to say they had done so.

Trixie held her stepdad's hand, and no one fell, but after three complete orbits, they were too exhilarated to continue. Giddy with their accomplishment and chilled to the bone, they were only too happy to hail another taxi to Lincoln Center. Though the Hall was comfortably warm, new arrivals were leaving on their coats until they had acclimated. Lorin Maazel led the Orchestra completely through Mozart's Serenade Number Eight before the Maxons shed their overcoats, hats and gloves.

After the intermission, fortified with small biscuits and Coca-Cola, Trixie lounged in her seat and laid her head on Phil's shoulder. She was decidedly warm through and through. Unlike on the train, there was no confusion or ambiguity in her feelings; contentment reigned supreme. Closing a bare hand around Phil's wrist, she asked sotto voce, "What's this piece called?"

Phil's pulse raced under the slight pressure exerted by Trixie's soft warm fingers. Keeping his voice low, he answered, " 'Pictures At An Exhibition' by Moussorgsky." He overlaid his left hand on her covering right hand and held her more tightly to him. "Are you liking it?" She nodded silently into his biceps as she half-curled her body toward him in her seat. "Good. I'm glad," he whispered in the dark. Returning his attention to the symphony orchestra, he took care not to move or disturb her.

When the program ended Trixie and Phil bundled up once more and stepped into the New York winter. It was already pitch dark, even though it was not quite four-thirty in the afternoon. The sparkling stuck snow, combined with the street lamps' light, created an eerily contrasting dark ceiling when they looked up into the huge falling flakes. Their coats were white before they could climb into their cab for The Plaza.