“If you’re gonna hitch-hike to London then you need to make sure you have somewhere to stay before the sun sets…it’s a strange place after dark!” Mike was always full of good advice. I knew he was because of how many times I had ignored him, suffered the consequences and lived to tell the tale.
With these words fast becoming my mantra I was about to start the hunt for somewhere cheap to stay.
Why was I in London? I am not sure; I suppose I felt the pull of the bright lights, as do many country boys.
What did I hope to achieve? A new start, sex, excitement, a life!
How was I going to make that happen? I had heard that Buskers (street musicians) made heaps of money in London. I was a talented Trumpet player, and modest too!
So here I was, early afternoon on a street corner in London, trying to make 50 quid before it became time to go look for lodgings.
So far I had 5 pounds and some assorted change, most of which looked foreign currency to me…not the best of starts but I figured people would be more generous after lunch.
Things sort of improved; a couple of Korean girls with “Hello Kitty” backpacks and pom-poms on their heads gave me a box of small cakes, “Choco Pie” they were called, quite tasty too!
Financially though, I was still well short of my 50 pound target by the time the commuter rush started. People were in too much of a hurry to get home to want to throw change in my Trumpet case.
I ended up with 25 pounds, not heaps but hopefully enough get me a room for the night in the cheap end of town.
The sun was showing signs of weakness as gravity tugged it inexorably downwards, towards the horizon. It was time to find a bed.
I knew there was no point in looking for a room in the centre of the city as it would be prohibitively expensive.
Mike had recommended a part of town that was cheaper so I hopped on a 97 bus to Neil Street.
Neil Street looked like somewhere you could shoot a Zombie movie without any props or makeup…if things got worse after sundown then I really did need to get my arse into gear!
One feature of Neil Street was that it was comprised mainly of old, run-down hotels. Stone built, grimy, ill-maintained and with sweaty, fat dudes, watching cheap Televisions on reception duties.
The shadow were lengthening, I decided to risk a pound of my earnings on a big bag of fish and chips so I wouldn’t have to leave my room (assuming I found one) after sundown in search of a feed.
The first “hotel” I tried was full.
“Why would a nice lad like you want to stay here?” the sweaty receptionist asked.
“I need somewhere cheap to stay while I look for work.”
The receptionist looked at me as if I had just told him I was Elvis and had come to save the world. He spat into his wastepaper basket, took a long drag of his cigarette and laughed to himself.
“Good luck on both counts mate, but if you get desperate, I might have someone evicted or they might get stabbed later on, you could get a room then.” He laughed until his cigarette dumped ash on his belly.
I thanked him and left in a hurry.
I made my way down the street to continue my mission. Of the hotels I actually dared to set foot in, the story was the same.
The sun was just above the black silhouettes of the hotels. The air grew chilly, the light decided that discretion was the better part of valour where Neil Street was concerned and started to beat its retreat from the grimy man-made canyon between the hotels.
Lights came on in the street and passing buses, which accentuated the impending twilight. I had to find a room.
Scruffy people of indeterminate gender approached me, their hands out begging. “Spare a pound for a cup of tea guvnor?”
I ignored them all, unsure about what dangers a response might expose me to. I received some choice language for my efforts. “Ponce!” “Snob” “Ooh Mr-Lah de-dah, excuse me!”
I wanted to go to the toilet, I wanted to hide in a corner and I wanted scream…I also wanted a door between me and the rest of Neil Street.
The last hotel I tried offered a glimmer of hope.
“Try round the corner at the Mission House” said the unsavoury blob of lard behind the desk he waved in the general direction of Stoddard Avenue with a fork that had a chunk of Jellied Eel impaled on it.
“Ok” I tried to stem the panic in my voice. I wanted to curl up behind his desk and become invisible but I had to brave the twilight streets, hopefully for the last time.
The Mission was a 4 storey stone building that had once been a place for Sailors to stay when on shore leave as their ships were unloaded at Canary Warf. Latterly it had become the last-stop shop for people who needed to be off the streets by sundown. Not forgetting the people who were too depraved or sick for the “better” class of hotel in Neil Street.
Entering the musty lobby I nearly tripped over a man, slumped on the floor, reeking of methylated spirits.
Behind the desk sat a skinny, sickly looking man who must have chain-smoked since he was eight years old and probably last had a bath around the same time.
“My name is Tim and I would like a room please.”
The man took his cigarette out of his mouth, coughed and hacked to the point I considered calling an ambulance, bashed himself in the chest like a one-handed Heimlich manoeuvre, drew in a deep breath and turned his attention to me.
“Rooms is five pound a night, in advance” he wheezed “Dorms is three quid and a bath is 50 pence, all in advance.” He collapsed in a coughing fit.
“You have a room?” I replied, bright with hope.
“Who the fuck wants to stay ‘ere?” he lit another cigarette from the one in his hand, his rheumy eyes fixed me with a stare that unnerved me.
“I’ll take it” Like I had a choice, it was dark outside and I was too scared to leave this haven of…relative safety I suppose you might call it…if you were deranged enough.
The skinny man took my money, tossed me a key and gave me directions to a room on the third floor.
As I trudged up the stairs a prostitute, well past her use-by date accosted me.
“Ooh, you like a nice young man, all alone are ya me darlin’ need some company do yer?”
She was a revolting specimen, how anyone could be desperate enough to pay to have sex with her was beyond my understanding.
She stroked my cheek and in a blast of halitosis set out her terms and conditions, “Blow job for a cup of tea and a pie, feel my tits for a beer while I pull yer todger and you can fuck me for a fiver…I don’t take it up the arse though.” I pushed past her nearly retching.
Some things you hear will forever echo and haunt you, no matter how long you live!
“Some people don’t know a good thing when they see one.” She sounded hurt, I felt sick.
Marching steadfastly down the murky corridor, dust, rotting carpets and an all-pervading smell of mildew I put on a brave face, told myself that this was just a first step. Tomorrow I would find a better busking spot and upgrade my lodgings.
Room 309, the warped and peeling door promised sanctuary, safety and privacy. I could fall apart once I was inside, away from those who might prey upon the vulnerable.
The key turned, the lock clicked, the door creaked open. I fumbled for the light switch, the lights came on, I got a 240 volt shock into the bargain.
A dim, almost liquid, orange light filled the room from the fly-specked 40 watt bulb. I took in my surroundings gulping in dismay.
The room was tiny, it was filthy. Not just a bit grubby but manifestly, irredeemably disgusting.
The waste bin overflowed with used condoms and tissues that were stained with a substance I cared not to identify. The floor was littered with takeaway wrappers and drifts of poop from rodents.
Wallpaper, hanging from the cracked and blown plaster walls hinted at a long forgotten period of semi-respectability and then there was the bed…
I am still having nightmares about the bed.
Have you ever seen one of those TV programmes about sanitation officers? Did you see the one where somebody had died in their bed and nobody noticed for a month?
I would rather have slept in that bed…with the corpse, than put any part of me on its mattress.
At least the cheap, plastic garden chair was non-porous, so presented less of a bio-hazard.
Sitting in the chair I put my head in my hands and wept. I wept with fatigue, disappointment and fear.
To my horror I woke up in the middle of the night, lying on the disgusting bed but what was worse were the screams of anguish from the corridor. A female was on the pointy end of a beating, she begged for mercy to no avail.
Thumps, thuds, curses and wails filled me with dread.
“You cunt, I’ll fuckin’ slit your throat from ear to ear you slag!” a male voice.
“It weren’t me, I never talk to no cops not never!” she pleaded with him.
There was an ominous silence, then I heard the man speak but couldn’t make out the words as he had spoken in a low tone, as if speaking in her ear.
“No!” it was a fear-laden hoarse whisper “no, not that, oh god no please!!! Not that!”
I couldn’t take any more.
Grabbing my trumpet case I bounded out of bed, whipped open the door and smacked a large male form over the head with it as he bent down over the struggling form of the woman in distress.
The man crumpled to the floor, out cold.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” the woman yelled at me from the floor, her face a pulped mess.
“He was hurting you” hers wasn’t the sort of response I was expecting.
“Don’t you hit my boyfriend you cunt!” she threw a bottle at my head which missed me and smashed on the door next to mine.
The door opened, an angry man in an Army greatcoat, wearing a black bobble hat looked at the three of us each in turn.
“Who’s this fucking ponce?” he glared at me “think you’re something special do ya sunshine?”
“No, I thought he was going to kill her” my voice trembled, my knees started shaking.
“What the fuck has it got to do with you Mr fuckin’ smarty pants?” the man was in the corridor and I could see other doors opening.
“You need a lesson in manners you ponce!” he advanced towards me with no good intentions. As I backed away with hands raised in supplication, I was grabbed from behind by the woman, who by this time was back on her feet.
The man advanced towards me as doors all down the corridor started to open, the occupants of the rooms spilling out into the corridor yelling obscenities.
A flash of a knife blade, I knew this was bad.
Hoping the woman was still a bit dazed I stamped hard on her instep and jabbed my elbow into her ribs whilst giving her backwards head-butt into the bargain.
This gave me a small window of escape, I took the opportunity to turn and run for the stairs. Behind me the commotion increased but I dare not turn and look, I ran down the stairs three at a time, passing the prostitute again as she returned from her nightly excursion into the underbelly of London’s sexual depravity.
“In a hurry love?” in my current state I felt like she was a kind and loving beacon in a bad, bad place. Bounding past her, the contents of the third level of hell at my back I headed out into the mean streets.
I was hoping to outrun the mob but my laces came undone on my left shoe, tripping me up and sending me sprawling on the pavement.
“Get the cunt, string the ponce up!” they were closing fast.
I kicked my left shoe off, setting off running again with an awkward, lopsided gait. Hanging a left onto Neil Street I saw a police car.
“Help me, help!!” yelling in the window did no good, they just seemed to write me off as some random weirdo.
The mob rounded the corner, I was doomed but an idea struck me, I kicked the mirror off the side door of the police car yelling “Fuck the pigs!” as I did so.
With the boarding house mob about to surround me a policeman leapt out of the car, slammed me to the ground and arrested me in full view of my would-be assailants who cheered and whooped.
Handcuffed and unceremoniously dumped into the back of the police car I began to relax a little.
As we drove down the ramp into the underground entrance of the brightly lit police station I began to feel safe once more.
As the cell door clanged shut and the keys rattled in the lock I lay back and stared at the ceiling. Exhaling a long breath I closed my eyes, resolving to leave London as soon after my court appearance as was possible.
East, West, Home’s best….
It started as a conversation on Facebook with someone I considered a friend but had never met in real life, as so often happens these days.
“Oh I don’t know about Twitter, doesn’t it turn you gay and make all your pets die?” I had been avoiding “Tweeting” for like, ever.
Yasmin replied “No silly, of course it won’t…you have to get into the 21st Century of you want to get famous for being famous”.
“Hmmmm, if you say it’s Ok then I’ll open an account…but God help you if you’re lying to me…I still haven’t got over what happened when my ex-girlfriend made me open a Tumblr account.”
“Oh yes, LOL, I saw those pics…must say…you look good in a dress” I could feel her smirk right across seven times zones and a hemisphere.
“Fuck you ;-0” I used the emoticon to make sure she knew it was “jokes”.
“Fuck you too, now get tweeting!”
“Lol, I gotta go, the dogs are scratching at the door” They really were, my three Red Setters were house trained but I had to keep up my end of the Pavlovian transaction.
I signed off from facebook and let the dogs out into the cool evening air. Somewhere in the bush at the front of the house an Owl was hooting, the occasional unseen and unidentified large furry thing crashed around amongst the trees and bushes off to the left of the house.
Scamp, Tramp and Champ raced about in the gloom, after a hard day’s lazing around in the shade, drooling and sleeping, they had energy to burn. I smoked the day’s last cigarette as I sat on a log and downloaded the Twitter App onto my phone.
The act of downloading an App made me shudder, I felt violated as the 21st Century crept into my life despite my best efforts at keeping it away.
Presently the dogs returned to me and we made our way down the gravel path, between the roses, into the warm glow of the lounge. I fed the dogs and retired early to bed with my laptop, a glass of red wine and started Tweeting.
“This is @TimG signing in to twitter OMG I have nothing to say!”
Not an auspicious start but as I, selected people to follow and tracked down a few friends who were old hands at tweeting, the replies started to appear.
“@YasminGoodHeart Lol TimG, when have you ever been lost for words?”
And so it went, long into the night until I began to tire of speaking but still saying nothing. The experience was as vacuous as I had suspected it would be. The upside was that my name and profile were getting out there and that meant I might get my career out of the doldrums.
I woke late and went to give the dogs their breakfast but they had other priorities, crapping on the lawn for one!
As the front door opened they barged out as if someone had let slip the dogs of war. The three of them headed across the dew-laden grass, a thrashing mass of red fur and wagging tails…they spied a squirrel and all thoughts of crapping on the lawn were put on hold.
Laughing, I turned back into the wood-panelled kitchen to make my morning toast and coffee.
Off in the distance I heard a terrible commotion and assumed the dogs had bailed the squirrel up in a tree. Ignoring it I turned on the radio to catch the morning news.
“Residents of Comely-in-the marsh are being advised to stay indoors and upstairs if possible, following the escape of a male Lion from Comely Grange Wildlife Park last night”.
Coffee hit the fireplace as I spat it out in surprise, locked the front door and ran upstairs to call the dogs…the wildlife park was only two miles from my house!
Leaning out of the upstairs bedroom window I called the dogs “Scamp! Tramp! Champ!!!”
I whistled and made a racket with their favourite squeaky toys.
I tried the spare bedroom as it was nearer where I had heard the commotion coming from.
“Scaaaamp!!! Traaaamp!! Chaaamp!!! Where the FUCK are you????”
“ROOOOAAAAARRRRRRRR!!!!!” My blood froze, the unearthly noise was unmistakable.
Straining over the window ledge I caught a glimpse of something large, sandy coloured fur, huge feet. I struggled to get back inside the room, ran into the main bedroom and took in an appalling sight on the front lawn.
This huge Lion, blood staining his mane, was dragging the limp carcass of one of my dogs.
My world fell apart but it wasn’t the time to be sad. I got mad, very mad, so mad that I ran to the gun cabinet, grabbed my 3 inch choke shotgun and loaded it with what my brother would have called “a typical anti-zombie round” there were some big fuck-off lumps of lead in there.
Angry beyond all reason I went back to the window and yelled at the Lion “Hey mother fucker, eat leaden death you bastard!!”
The Lion turned towards me with a malevolent expression on his face; I took aim and pulled the trigger.
I had the choke adjusted for maximum harm and the recoil nearly took me off my feet. When the smoke cleared I saw a wounded and very pissed off Lion shaking its head as if to clear the daze from a good left hook. The Lion trotted towards the house and barged at the front door.
“Crash!” Fuck me sideways, it was in the house!
Grabbing more shotgun shells and a skinning knife for good measure, I barricaded the bedroom door with the chest of drawers but didn’t feel it would do anything except slow him down a bit, hopefully enough to give me time to shoot the beast fully in the chest with some very large shot.
A noise outside distracted me, it was Champ and Scamp! Bloody but unbowed they came charging across the lawn, barking like the Valkyries were on their tails.
“No boys; don’t come home RUN!!” I yelled at the top of my voice while keeping half an eye on the bedroom door, expecting a big sandy paw to come crashing through it at any minute.
They either didn’t hear or didn’t care. Those brave boys headed straight for the broken front door with revenge in their hearts.
The Lion must have heard them and turned to face his attackers, both sides met in a clash of fur, blood, barking and general violence.
“Go on boys! Have the fucker!” I cheered them on while hoping that my initial hit with the shotgun had weakened the Lion somewhat.
My optimism didn’t last long.
Champ and Scamp were gutsy fighters and they went straight for the neck, Champ on the Lion’s back and Scamp in between his legs but it was an uneven struggle.
Once the Lion had got his bearings in the melee he lashed out at Scamp breaking his neck with one swipe. Arching and twirling, like a dog chasing his own tail, the Lion flicked Champ off his back and onto the lawn.
He pressed home the attack and clamped his massive jaws around the poor dog’s windpipe.
This gave me an opening, while the Lion waited for Champ to expire I took aim and let fly with both barrels. This time I really did get knocked off my feet, both barrels, full choke and a huge load in the shells is a lot to cope with when you are in a panic situation.
Back on my feet again, I looked out onto the lawn and saw a trail of blood leading to the front door. Champ was dead and the bastard Lion was still on my case.
I sat on the bed, facing the door with the shotgun, loaded, on my lap. I considered phoning the police but thought it best to stay focussed as I was expecting the Lion to come charging up the stairs at any minute.
He didn’t disappoint, after a few minutes of knocking things over in the lounge and kitchen he caught my scent and came lumbering up the stairs.
I could tell from his laboured breathing and irregular footfall that he was wounded. I didn’t get to see where my second shot had got him but I know my aim, he took a fair packet of lead in the side and he would be hurting.
He wasn’t dead though and as he climbed the stairs I became acutely aware that my next shot would have to be the coup de grace or I was history... it wouldn’t be a swift end, most likely it would be a horrible and grisly death.
Putting such thoughts to the back of my mind, I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer and got ready to meet my fate.
Oddly enough, knowing that potential death was the thickness of a door away made me feel very calm… If this was it then I was ready.
A curious snuffling and scratching came from the landing at the top of the stairs. He knew where I was and now it all depended on whether he had the strength left to take down the flimsy, hardboard door.
I cocked the shotgun, I had 3 shells in the magazine and I could fire the two in the breech both at once. I wondered if I would have the time to fire them singly and if this would give me a better chance at killing the beast.
The answer was soon upon us both.
Time stood still, the clock ticked, the world around me slipped out of focus as adrenaline gave me tunnel vision.
“Crash!” The Lion still had the energy to break down the door. He looked at me through the hole he had made, he was breathing heavily and soaked with blood. For a split second we eyeballed each other, trying to get the measure of the opponent.
Autopilot took over; I stood up, took a couple of paces toward the door yelling “Diiiiiiieeeeee!!!” and virtually rammed the gun down his throat.
“Boom!” I pulled only one trigger and the shot blew out the base of his skull. The Lion sagged and I fired again, right into his left eye…”Boom!”
The recoil sprained my wrist knocking me off balance. I staggered back from the doorway.
Through the haze of smoke I saw a big hole in the door and no Lion.
I sank to the floor in a heap.
In the distance I heard sirens, they were heading my way.
Two days later I was recovering from the ordeal. The house looked like shit, blood, shotgun blasts, broken furniture and smashed doors. I decided I needed help to put it all back straight again and dialled “Hire a Hubby”.
The “Hubby” arrived the next day and started cleaning up the place. Over the next few days we got on really well together but I kept finding myself looking at his strong, tanned legs. He was wearing rather short, shorts and when he moved or bent down in such a way as to reveal the softer, less tanned upper reaches of his thighs I felt urges that I had never felt before…and got a huge erection into the bargain.
One the night of the second day I lay in bed, naked, hugely erect and full of lust for the “Hubby”. I resisted the urge to masturbate because I enjoyed the surging feelings of lust and it took my mind off the dreadful fate that befell my poor dogs.
Thursday was the last day of “Hubby’s” hire. He turned up with a new front door and as I helped him hang it I wondered if the waves of sexual excitement I was feeling were tangible.
“You’ve done an amazing job of that front door” I told him.
“I’m pretty good with back doors too…if you get my drift” he fixed me with a look that was both quizzical and inviting.
“Mine could do with a good lube” I found myself saying.
We raced upstairs, leaving a trail of clothes behind us.
“It’s my first time” I told him, “until yesterday I was a straight guy.”
He ran his hand down my quivering belly and grasped my cock.
“That makes it all the more fun” he leant towards me and kissed me passionately.
After an afternoon of searingly exciting sex I lay naked in my bed with my phone in my hand. As I replayed in my mind the moment when he parted my legs and, facing me as per the missionary position, entered me.
The memory of it nearly made me come. It was so exciting, being lifted up, feeling his hot, hard member parting my anus and gently, slowly pushing the walls of my arse apart and sliding inside me.
I recalled how I felt round beneath me and grabbed his manhood, easing him into me as I relaxed and then shot my load across my belly. I felt him shuddering inside me as he lost all control and filled me with his spunk.
Suddenly I remembered a recent conversation with Yasmin and sent her a Tweet.
“@YasminGoodHeart. Lol. Seems I was right about Twitter. Missing the dogs badly but something new is filling the hole in my life right now ;-)”
Be careful what you say boys and girls; you never know when it might come back and bite you on the arse.
Waking up was always the worst part, wondering, not if it was cold but rather how cold it would be.
I could feel my nose, pinched and frozen and that was my reality. Another bitch of a day with sod all fun and even less hope. If I got out of bed the rest of me would be pinched and frozen, in addition to filthy and undernourished.
I had not been in a good state since Summer, she had captured my heart, lifted me up and cast me into the pit of despair. Leaving me with no job, no money and a bitter taste in my mouth.
Let’s take that trip down memory lane, to last August (its December now) and one of those warm summer days when time stands still, the heat makes the air yellow and heavy. Nobody complains.
I was 23, working at an auto shop and because of my junior status I got all the shitty jobs…well, the old guys thought they were shitty but I loved being on breakdown callout.
Actually having a job at that time and in that part of the country was a blessing indeed. Jobs were scarce and there was always someone trying to bid for yours.
Breakdowns meant variety and travel, ingenious roadside fixes and the occasional hot MILF in distress to leer at while I changed her tyre.
The old guys liked their routine; they could service the same model of car every day and revel in it. All it did for me was made me realise that Roger Daltry had a point when he sang “Hope I die before I get old”…
So, with all this perfect weather and impending boredom I was hoping for some breakdowns.
The call came mid-morning and I gladly handed over the service I was in the middle of to one of the old guys. I headed out to the coast.
My brief was that a hippy chick called Summer, who lived and travelled in a converted panel truck, had fried her transmission. My Job was to evaluate, quote and repair.
The truck was parked at a place the locals called “Crusty Corner” because that is where the itinerant truck-dwellers, “Crusties” would park up when passing through our county.
It was rare for us to be called out as many of the Crusties where pretty handy with the spanners but for some reason there was only the one truck at Crusty Corner this week.
Bouncing down the dirt road in my tow-truck, I wondered what I would find. Some of the Crusty Trucks were ancient old Albions or Bedfords, which meant fixing them was old-school. Improvisation being the mother of invention in most cases.
I soon spotted the truck, marooned in an idyllic grassy clearing, with views out over the sand dunes to the sea. It was an old Bedford, hand painted dark blue with stars and moons arranged in constellations and galaxies all over the sides.
I walked round the back of the truck to the sunlit seaward side and stopped dead in my tracks. I nearly swallowed my tongue at the ethereal beauty before me.
Summer must have been about my age, she had Elfin features, like Liv Tyler but with bobbed blonde hair.
She had the kinda body that made women hate her and men fall instantly in lust.
Small firm breasts, a flat belly and strong legs, all wrapped in a cotton print dress that hugged her form as tight as any red-blooded male would do if he got the chance.
Summer smiled and my heart stopped beating for a while, I struggled to speak.
“Hi, I’m your breakdown dude.” the effort made me sweat.
“And does my breakdown dude have a name?” she smiled.
I tried not to faint or come in my pants.
“Tim.” I could feel my voice breaking with tension and so kept my sentences short.
“Tea?” Summer indicated a picnic table with a delicate, floral china tea set all ready for the occasion.
I nodded in the affirmative while swallowing hard, trying to unparalyse my larynx.
“Tea is the best way to start any transaction, it allows people to get to know each other and properly communicate before any work starts, don’t you agree?”
“Oh yes.” I replied, regaining the power of speech but as yet unable to take my eyes off her lithe body and the gentle ways in which her tight dress transformed whenever she moved.
“You don’t say much do you Breakdown Dude?” It wasn’t an accusation, more of an amused rhetorical question.
“Errr…sorry.” I shook my head to break my gaze from her strong legs that were suddenly revealed as she sat down on the green and white striped folding chair beside the picnic table.
“Yeah, um, I do talk but I’m not used to…hmmm, err, look, err, tea…I don’t usually get tea in nice cups.” I was gibbering like a fuckwit.
“Poor thing…cake?” Summer poured the tea and produced a carrot cake from under the redundant tea-cosy, which looked like it had once spent time on the late, great Bob Marley’s head.
“Yes please.” I was regaining some semblance of composure now and was able to take the offered cup and saucer without spilling it.
This gave me the confidence to converse.
“Have you lived in a truck for very long?” I bet she got asked that a lot but I couldn’t think of anything else to say except for “I love you, have my babies” and didn’t think the latter to be appropriate under the circumstances.
“Four years, I bought it after my parents died and have lived on the road ever since…I feel adrift in the world since they passed, being on the move keeps me busy and stops me thinking about it.”
I felt myself welling up. Her story made me want to take her in my arms and protect her from all the ills of the world.
“Truck been reliable?” I was on safer ground now.
“Never misses a beat but recently it’s been jumping out of gear and now the gear lever won’t move.” She gave a little girly pout that had me reaching for a handkerchief and a bucket of sympathy.
We chatted about life on the road, trucks and freedom, hippy fairs and the continued threat to our existence from the New World Order (whatever that is).
Tea and cake consumed, I crawled under the truck with my flashlight and spanners to make my diagnosis.
It didn’t take me very long to realise the seriousness of the problem…
“Bad news I’m afraid, the selectors are buggered, IF you could get new ones they would be expensive and it’s a total strip down on this type of transmission to fit them.”
This made me realise how a Doctor must feel when giving a message of no hope to a patient.
“How much?” Her beautiful, full lips were starting to quiver.
“Couple of grand, give or take, plus a tow to the workshop…Take a good few days once the parts were in.”
This made her cry and I felt such a heel.
Summer sat down as if poleaxed and sobbed as her world came apart at the seams.
It was hard to watch and I sat in the shade of the Bedford wondering if there was any way in which I could help her.
Suddenly a revelation hit me; I rolled out from under the truck like my arse was on fire.
“I know! I know what we can do!” I was very excited because the solution meant I would have to spend some time in her company and right now, that was everything to me.
I explained to Summer that I could declare the truck beyond repair and get it off our books at work. Then I could take it apart at the weekend and quite possibly fix the selector mechanism with some judicious welding and grinding.
It would take weeks of off-duty work but it was a cheap solution and I never could resist a damsel in distress.
She went for it, declaring that she would plot up for the summer at Crusty Corner and continue her travels once the truck was fixed.
The three weeks that it took to fix the problem were the best of my life.
Sitting down by the sea working my magic on her ancient transmission, talking about life, the universe and our dreams, we bonded.
My dreams were filled with her, my waking hours were filled with her and every day, after work, I would drive down to Crusty Corner and work on the truck.
Finally it was all fixed and the transmission was ready to fit back in. The weather packed in big time that weekend but with visions of heroism in my head I stuck at it. Lying on my back in an ever deepening puddle as dark clouds dumped rain on the coast like Noah was still a ship-builder.
In the midst of this discomfort a flame was kept burning in my heart by the sight of Summer, bending down under the truck to hand me cups of tea and tofu salad sandwiches at regular intervals.
Finally, on the Saturday evening I emerged from my foxhole of filth, bedraggled, oily and exhausted.
I called up to Summer, who had been in the driver’s seat moving the gear lever to my instructions so I could set up the linkages.
“Start her up and try first and reverse.”
It worked!!! The thing was fixed!!!
Summer jumped down from the cab and hugged me. She kissed me full on the lips and squeaked with delight. When she let go I just slumped into a sodden picnic chair, spent and soaking.
I woke up some time later, warm, dry, and naked with a straining erection. I was in bed with Summer, lying on my back. What had woken me was her soft hands stroking my dick.
“Oh, you’re back with us then.” she gave me a wicked grin, lifted the duvet and licked her way down my belly to my man muscle.
I felt her tongue slide up the shaft. I winced with pleasure, her full lips sucked the end of my cock into her mouth and she buried me in her throat.
Fuck it was good, I stole a glance under the covers as she deep-throated me.
Her right hand cupped my balls and she squeezed gently…that was enough, I shot my load down her throat and she swallowed greedily.
I fell asleep again.
Sunday morning, I woke up, alone in her bed. Summer was packing the truck as if to leave.
“Hey you!” it was a cheery welcome back to the world and I could have died from happiness.
“What are your plans?” she gave me a look as if there was a right answer I should give. The sun shone onto her face and she glowed like a cherub.
“Same old grind I suppose.” which was true, work beckoned.
“You have choices you know.” she looked down and smirked.
“How so?” I was never very quick on the uptake.
“You could travel…with me…in this truck.” again the look.
“Really?” I was fully awake now.
She just smiled and handed me a vegemite sandwich.
Lost in thought, I chewed on the sandwich.
“I’ll do it! I’ll pack in work, sell the car and do it.” That was the turning point, fuck security, this was love!
Summer smiled again and all the evil in the world vanished.
I went home and packed furiously; I withdrew all my money from the bank then went to see the boss.
Walking up the wooden stairs to his office, which overlooked the workshop, I took in the crumbling whitewashed walls, inhaled the smell of oil and tyres and thought “I’ll be glad to be away from all this.”
The boss asked if I was sure, he said he could replace me within the hour and that he thought I was making a mistake. He also said that I was young and he wouldn’t stand in the way of love and dreams, in fact, he wished he had the balls to do it.
“This is your last chance to change your mind Tim, no going back now.” His hand was on the phone.
“It’s fine, I’m doing this, I have to.”
As I turned and left his office I heard him speaking on the phone.
“Charlie? Yes, Brad here, still need a job?”
With a new sense of lightness and freedom I drove to Crusty Corner and loaded all my worldly possessions onto Summer’s truck. Money, tools, clothes, the lot!
“I’ll be back in the morning, John is buying my car and he gets paid as soon as he gets to work, I’ll cycle down.”
“Great!” Summer smiled and gave me a warm hug.
I kissed her and got back into the car.
“I love you Summer, I really, totally love you.” I called through the open car window as I drove off.
The next morning I was over at the supermarket where John worked by half past eight. I collected the money, jumped on my pushbike and rode off towards Crusty Corner and my new future as fast as I could go.
Breathless I crested the rise just before where the truck was parked and…there was no truck!!!
Summer was gone!
In disbelief I sat down on the damp grass and just stared at the spot where she had been parked for the majority of the summer. I was numb.
I must have sat there for two hours before I could think what to do. I looked about for her tyre tracks and saw that they lead back out the way I had come. The tracks were full of water from the rain that had fallen in the night.
“Bitch!” she had done a runner! Fucked off with all my money and possessions and left me looking a complete idiot.
I flew into a rage, kicking my bicycle into a buckled mess and walked slowly home…except I no longer had a home…