We left the day after Claire and Bill were married. Wyatt drove a medium sized step van carrying all of his supplies and where we’d sleep, with an eighteen foot concession trailer hitched to the rear end. The “popper wagon,” as Wyatt referred to it (I guess because we’d be selling popcorn), was open on three sides which, half way up the trailer lifted to expose the heavy glass enclosed (with a serving window on each side) preparation area. The equipment used for making popcorn, snow cones, caramel corn, and homemade lemonade, plus a small refrigerator and freezer, were inside. Electricity was supplied by the carnival when we set up, for either an extra fee or, if Wyatt negotiated it, included in his “hole” rent. Each spot or hole rented by the foot and could be rather expensive.
Wyatt traveled, mainly, with two carnivals and occasionally with a third. He’d coordinated play dates so we were full most of the time with three to five days on each setup. Most of the play dates were usually no more than a day in-between, giving us time to move and set up. Although, there were some requiring us to tear down and leave after the carnival closed at night. Days and nights were long then, he explained, since sleep doesn’t come until everything is set to go and then not usually until the day ends and the joints closed.
“There’s another ‘popper’ concession who’s a free agent like me and when the carny owners need to fill a hole with a popper they contact us. Rarely do we have a problem of wanting the same date. The carnivals I follow are pretty clean, one of the outfits is what the old timers referred to as ‘Sunday School Shows.’ No dirty burly or Kootch shows. The second one is so-so, mostly clean except in some places where the money’s good and the law is lax, they’ll run a skin show or two. The other one is a fill in for us and some strong Kootch shows.”
I had no idea what “kootch” show is, a “dirty burly,” or a “strong Kootch” show. It didn’t take long for Wyatt to begin my education. Basically, a Kootch show is a girly show, a dirty burly show is a kootch show where nothing is covered, and a strong kootch show is where they invite audience participation.
Well, that’s enlightening!
“Some can be pretty rough. You’ll have to keep your wits about you and watch out for trouble. Once the carnies get to know you, you’ll be pretty safe, but townies can be a problem sometimes. As young and good-looking as you are and as vulnerable as you appear, there may be some who think you’re ripe for the taking, and not necessarily your money!”
Well, that was quite disconcerting! What Wyatt meant, if you don’t watch it, some big bruiser or a couple of smaller ones would want a piece of my ass and fuck me until I was stupid. I wasn’t ready to willingly give it up again, at least until I found someone I could love. I was going to be damned patient about that. Once burned, twice warned. Yet, it opened possibilities.
Our first gig wasn’t far, up north, outside of Dubuque. We were there for three days before moving again. The show was a clean show, so there weren’t many problems. It was great as far as I was concerned, since it gave Wyatt the chance to show me the ropes; how to set up, make popcorn, caramel corn, snow cones (big scoop of crushed ice in a paper cone, and drizzle flavored syrup over it), and lemonade (half a lemon juiced over cup full of ice, used half cut into two pieces and tossed in, and very light simple syrup made of one cup of sugar to a gallon of water, shaken and served).
The end of the third day, my ass was dragging, but Wyatt said I was doing fine. I wasn’t all that certain, but hearing him say it gave me confidence. I really did enjoy meeting the people and I found many returned for corn or whatever and seemed to want to chat. Of course, I couldn’t very long since we were busy, but Wyatt said, “keep on flashing them that innocent school boy smile and they’ll keep coming back.”
Each night, after we closed, as we counted out the cash, Wyatt counted and bundled the “soft” (folding money) and I counted the “hard” (coins) and put it in bank coin wrappers, I marveled at the amount of money people spent. They were spending three, four, and five times for something, such as our popcorn, then they’d ordinarily spend. I wondered why?
“Beats the hell out of me,” Wyatt responded, “but’s it’s paying for my college education.”
Wyatt recorded our day’s “take” in his ledger book, and locked it up in a steel box in the step van. I noticed, the first time I helped him, a snub-nosed .38 special in the box.
He winked, “Just in case someone decides this money is his and not ours.”
Tear-down and set-up became easier with each move. The step van had only one seat, the driver’s seat, but Wyatt had another installed right behind the driver’s seat. We took turns driving. Luckily, I’d learned to drive a stick shift in driver’s education. Only problem was I didn’t have a straight truck chauffer’s license so I had to be careful. Wyatt didn’t either so, I guess he wasn’t concerned.
As we traveled, meals were often taken at community group food booths, bathrooms were either behind the step van if you had to piss and otherwise there were usually port-a-potties on the grounds. Showers were either at a YMCA, if there was one, or on the grounds, in the second “so-so” carnival which we traveled with after the first three weeks, where showers were offered for workers and those who traveled with the show at a dollar a shower per person (no doubling up). Although the cost was a dollar, everyone paid two since the extra buck went to “Cracker” the boy who watched over it. I suppose “boy” is not the right term, since Cracker was probably fifteen or so I thought, it was hard to tell. At any rate, he really looked young.
There wasn’t much privacy in the showers, just a couple of almost chest high pieces of canvas hooked on to a rope, but not much privacy was needed since you undressed and dressed in front of everyone and left your clothes on a bench, so everyone’s tackle was out for inspection- young or old. Hey, a cock is a cock, only different sizes, ages, shapes, colors, and arousal. Wyatt usually took one the same time I did. We reasoned it was safer for me for a while. Men, boys, and teens weren’t a bit bashful. The funniest ones were the little guys who’d giggle and laugh enjoying the shower with their daddy or big brother. Little, hairless peckers would bounce and jiggle with each giggle.
Laundry was done in local laundromats, usually once a week. I’d hook a ride with another carny who had a vehicle and do ours at the same time.
It wasn’t long until some of the regulars, those who worked for the carnival and those who traveled with it, as we did, began to know me. I recognized them and waved or smiled, but didn’t really associate with them on a social basis. I was really too damned busy and tired. They referred to me “the kid.” I asked one of the joint operators, the guy who had the little yellow rubber ducks floating on a moving stream of water, why, and he told me it was because I was the “cute kid” in the popper wagon.
Wyatt laughed when I told him and added an additional caution. “Older women want to cuddle and spoil you; younger females and some males want to fuck you, and the rest are just plain jealous wishing they had your looks, your build, and probably your nice looking ass. Levi, remember what I said about some of the guys who walk the midway or even work the joints or rides – don’t take chances you don’t need to.”
It was good advice and similar to the advice his brother gave me about helping some guy find his lost puppy. That advice seemed to slip to the back of my mind as we traveled during the summer playing fairs and special celebrations or just plain scheduled carnival stops. I became confident and comfortable with the people in the carnival and feeling relatively safe. I was over confident, too much so, and let my guard down.
We’d been with this carnival through the Fourth of July and I felt no more unsafe or threatened then as I was with the first carnival we traveled with. There were still much the same dangers, but everyone sort of knew me and I think kind of looked out for me. Carny’s either liked you or not; and if not, they sort of kept their distance, tolerating you and not racing to enjoy your company – much like I experienced at home before I bailed.
I suppose I expected the show to be really “raunchy” but by the time we joined up with it, not much could shock me anymore, I thought. It was a rather “loose” or “liberal” to say the least. There were a couple of skin shows; one in particular, if the patrons paid an extra fee for the “special” show afterwards, could watch one of the young ladies do amazing things with a donkey and another who allowed her pet python explore certain parts of her body with his- since it was a male snake. Depending on the size of the city we were in, it was also said some of the male performers would do “special” things after the main show for a cost of a few dollars more.
Now, that’s all hearsay, since I never watched any of the shows since I was busy working, but did see a donkey tied up behind one of the tents when I stepped out back to take a piss. I don’t know where they kept the snake and didn’t really go looking for it either. I wasn’t privy to any of the performances of the males either, but guys fucking guys wasn’t unusual either.
Sex was no more prevalent, I thought, on the carny circuit as it was in town. It was just as available, just as casual, and usually just as private (except for the performances). Invariably, as we moved from town to town, there’d be at least one female townie who’d wonder if a carny cock was any different than a local one and if it’d fit where she wanted it; they weren’t and it did! Several times, in the back yard where our living quarters were, I’d see a lady with her skirt up, a carny with his pants down, her legs wrapped around his waist, and him thrusting his stiff cock into her attempting to answer her questions and add to her knowledge.
It was just as true, only not quite as blatant, between males. Sex between males could be anonymous between a townie and carny with no one being the wiser, since one of the parties would move on the next day or so.
It’s not to say sex was indiscriminate with people fucking wherever there was a place to stand, sit, or lay down. It was no more noticeable here than in the “outside” world; perhaps even less. The difference was, there weren’t so many places to conceal what one was doing. I actually thought there was less casual sex in the shows we traveled with than in regular society, but I could be wrong.
Saying that, I did happen to discover, on my way to the step-van for more supplies, on one of the ride operators behind a tent, pants down around his ankles, and his cock buried up the ass of a very young boy. The worker shrugged his shoulders as he fucked, explaining, “He asked if he could have a free ride and I told him as many as he wanted,” and continued pumping away. The boy wasn’t objecting, in fact, was urging his partner on to give it to him harder.
I took a closer look, walking around front of the boy whose shorts were down around his ankles and his tee-shirt bunched up near his shoulders, and checked out his “equipment.” The boy was hard, all three inches or so, twitching above two very small balls in a tight, smooth pouch, and not a hair in sight. I couldn’t imagine he was over ten or eleven years old. I guess there’s just as many men who like boys here as in the rest of the world, although I think it was different in the ‘50’s than it is today; perhaps less evident or talked about and punished.
It was rumored Cracker, for five bucks, would give a guy a blowjob and for ten bucks let the guy fuck him. I never took Cracker up on, and only once, while showering, did I witness any sexual activity between him and someone else. Cracker and another young guy, probably Cracker’s age, who worked as a set-up guy and worked a ride operator, came into the shower area and stripped. Cracker bent over and took the guy’s rather substantial prick up his ass in one thrust. Cracker sighed, looked up at me, and smiled as his ass was being pounded; “He has such a nice big cock.”
It probably wasn’t the first time that particular instrument got tuned by Cracker’s pitch pipe, nor would it be the last, I thought.
I once asked one of the regular carny workers how Cracker got his name. The man grinned, sort of rubbed his crotch, replying, “I heard say its ‘cause when you fuck’im and cum, it’s so damn good you’d swear your nuts are going to crack.”
This particular night, the night I almost bought the farm, had my lunch, got my corn shucked, or was skewered like a pig at a hog roast, however you want to describe it, was hot, not a breeze blowing, and humid to the point of almost making it hard to breathe, much like the day had been.
We were in the fourth day of a five day run and crowds were phenomenal all four days despite the heat and humidity, and spending money- lots of it. Caramel corn, lemonade, and snow cones sold as fast as we could make them, Caramel corn also takes a while to make and really heats up the “Popper.”
As I worked, the sweat drenched my body, running in rivulets down my back to the crack of my ass in a steady stream, where if it didn’t flow forward to my balls, slid down my legs or soaked the shorts I worked in because of the heat. It was no different in the front of my body where the sweat dribbled down my chest and abdomen to my cock, where it dripped off like a leaky faucet or flowed around the base through my sparse bush to my balls, coating them with a slightly salty, watery sheen, before cascading down my legs.
Wyatt and I drank water and drank water in an effort to keep hydrated. The big fan in the “Popper” helped, but it was one of those white hot, not a cloud in the sky, Iowa field corn growing days with the livestock heat warning category in the “danger” zone. We just worked through it! We were down to our last block of ice in the small chest freezer when the day ended. We’d have to replenish the supply in the morning.
Wyatt said he’d count out if I wanted to go first to shower. What he didn’t get done, I’d do when I returned. I accepted his offer.
The lights were down in all areas of the show, including the front end and the back end. Our area, the back yard, had a few lights on, but never-the-less, there was still enough lights on for security reasons to make it relatively safe to be out and about.
I paid Cracker two bucks for a shower, walked into the men’s area, and took my time pulling my sweaty clothes off. Fortunately, I didn’t wear any underwear so I only had a tee-shirt, shorts, socks, and tennis shoes to put on the bench. Picking up my wash cloth, shampoo, and soap, I stepped into one of the shower stalls.
Shampooing my hair, I thought I heard someone come in, but paid little attention to it. I figured it was Cracker coming into to watch me shower, as he sometimes did. If I turned around and if I was hard or not, it was comical to watch him. His face would scrunch up, his lips tighten, eyes widen, face would redden, he’d give me shy, guilty little wave of his hand. He seemed embarrassed being caught, but never stopped coming in to look. I figured he must have a crush of some sort on me, but never commented on it. I think everybody has some fantasy; I know I did.
I heard someone say, “I told you that would be one fine, fuckable young ass!” and it wasn’t Cracker!
Carefully rinsing my hair to clear my eyes, I turned slowly and saw two naked, cocks very erect, strangers probably twenty-eight to thirty years old, their clothes in a heap on the bench, standing there ogling me. There was no doubting why they were there and what their intentions were; certainly not honorable I thought.
I was alone, except for Cracker out front. The two guys were bigger and stronger than me and, by the looks on their faces and the way their cocks twitched, they wouldn’t be satisfied until they both raped me. I thought at the time it wouldn’t come easy for them, but they’d get it done. My only hope might be to strike a severe enough blow to some balls to discourage them. Hell, with my luck it’d only intensify and encourage their attack.
“May I help you?” I asked with faux innocence.
“No,” one of them answered, “we’re going to help ourselves.”
I nodded, responding, “The grounds are closed and the showers are for workers.”
“That may be,” sneered the other fellow, “but that sweet little asshole of yours isn’t and we’re going to fuck it until the cum runs down your legs like Niagara Falls.”
I tensed up, my fists formed, and braced myself, preparing for a desperate, but losing battle with the two naked bastards.
“I don’t think so,” a man’s voice from outside the tent announced and a joint operator who ran a bear pitch, stepped in.
The man, older than me, but how much I wasn’t certain, was probably taller than me by three to five inches, thirty pounds or so heavier with not one ounce of fat on him, stepped in the door. I recognized him as “King” one of the joint owners and operators. I’d never met him, other than a passing “hi” and never spent any time with him. I was just happy he showed up for a shower.
My would be assailants easily outweighed him and, by the look of the two of them, either loaded one hundred pound bags of sugar all day or tossed hale bales for fun, turned and sort of smirked to each other, expecting to maybe get a “twofer.”
“If you touch him,” King said, his voice low, calm, threatening, and deadly, “the only way you’ll save your cocks and balls is in jars filled with formaldehyde,” and brandished a wicked looking a machete, sort of waving it menacingly in the general direction of their manhood’s.
If the two thugs thought his voice was threatening, his slight gesture with the machete, sealed the deal! There’d be slightly less of their anatomy if they failed to obey. Their cocks wilted faster than a dead worm shriveling up on hot concrete on a summer day.
“We were just…..,” one started to say.
“Git!” King commanded.
They reached for their clothes.
“But, we’ll be naked,” they complained.
“Better to be without clothes than without your cocks and balls,” King advised.
The two couldn’t scramble out of the tent fast enough!
The breath whooshed out of my lungs as I realized my ass, literally, was just saved by the handsome man with the machete in his hand and knowing smile on his face.
“God, am I ever thankful you showed up when you did. Those guys were preparing to scrub me from the inside out.”
“So I gathered; glad I could help.”
Looking at the wicked, hacking implement in his right hand, I commented, “I usually bring a towel, wash cloth, and soap to shower. You always bring a machete instead?”
“No, sometimes I bring a pistol, but mostly a switchblade knife.”
Furrowing my eyebrows trying to discern the truth of the situation or whether he was just pulling my leg, almost incredulously, I asked, “Why!”
“Pistols are too noisy and if they don’t wake the neighbors they certain bring all fucking to a halt.”
God, this guy was so funny and liked him almost immediately. He really grinned at me after his last comments.
“Really, why did you show up so fortuitously?”
“Fortuitously?” he responded raising his eyebrows. “So, I’ve encountered a young man with exceptional intellect or someone who uses big words to impress people.”
“Neither,” I sort of muttered, embarrassed by his reflection on my language. I couldn’t help it if I loved to read and spent so much time in the library. Funny thing about it, though, I remembered what I read, oft times the book, the chapter, and the page. Moving back to my original question, “Really, why were you here if not to shower?”
“The two miscreants,” he answered referring to my would-be assaulters, “gave Cracker five bucks to take a hike and he did, straight to my trailer and summoned me to come post-haste. I just couldn’t let Cracker’s favorite item of voyeurism and masturbatory delight suffer any harm could I?”
Okay, King just didn’t fall off of the turnip truck; he was more highly educated than the run of the mill person and more so than most of the workers in this particular carnival, other than my cousin Wyatt. I wondered what the hell he was doing working in a carnival joint. Of course, it also crossed my mind he was wondering the same about me.
“Well, thank you, King,” I said, really, really meaning it.
“You’re more than welcome. You have the advantage of knowing my name but all I know of your name is “Kid” and I can’t very well continuing to call you that, now I’ve seen you in your entirety and definitely see by your physical development you’re far beyond the “kid” stage.” King grinned and waggled his eyebrows.
I was standing in the shower stall bare-assed naked, my pecker and balls available for inspection, and it was evident I really wasn’t a “kid” any longer. Well, I wasn’t a “big” man, but I was more of an “average” man, if you know what I mean!
“Levi Moore,” I quickly responded, sliding one hand down to sort of try to cover my pieces parts.
“Levi, why don’t you finish your shower and I’ll keep watch?”
I wasn’t certain he meant to watch for trouble or watch me; probably a little of both if I interpreted what I saw in his eyes.
“I gotta remember to thank Cracker,” I said. “Those guys would’ve fucked me stupid without his help.”
“I doubt the stupid part, but the fucking part wouldn’t have been easy,” King commented, “the way you were geared up to fight.”
“I’m not that big,” I started to say, before King interrupted me.
“Makes no difference, does it Cracker?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. “I know you’re back there so come on in. Levi doesn’t care if you perv on his cock, do you, Levi?”
I laughed and said, “No.”
Cracker popped through the tent entrance, grinning, and sidled up close to King. King put his arm around him, pulling him closer.
“Thanks, Cracker,” I said, stepping out of the shower stall and pulling him from King into a close, intimate embrace. “You’re a real friend.”
He held me tight, sort of mumbled an “aw shucks,” and before we parted, sort of slid his hands down over my bare ass. Cracker had to be hard as a candy cane, albeit not a very large one, by the looks of the tent in his pants when he stepped back and took a position up next to King.
“You can watch, Cracker,” King warned, “but no wanking off your pecker.”
I thought it was hilarious watching Cracker’s face as he tried to adjust his hard-on inside his jeans.
While I showered, we visited. That’s sort of a misnomer; I talked and King and Cracker listened. They received the shorter version of how I became estranged from my family, my employment at the market, how I really wanted to go to college, and Wyatt giving me the summer job so I could, and finally, with some trepidation, uncertain how they’d react, confessed I’d come out to my parents on the way out the door.
King’s questions were few.
“How were your grades in high school?”
“Graduated in the top ten of the class.”
“Percent or number?”
“Where do you want to go to college?”
“Iowa State Teachers College, Cedar Falls.”
“Gotta place to live?”
“Nope; gotta work on that yet.”
By then I was dressed and ready to leave. King asked me to meet them for breakfast around eight-thirty at the Methodist’s food booth and I agreed.
Cracker earned an extra forty-five bucks that night; twenty from me, twenty from Wyatt when he heard what happened, and five from the two assholes who told him to take a hike.
King and Cracker were waiting for me in the morning just inside the Methodist tent. Cracker looked very tired, as if he’d had a difficult time sleeping. It was the first time I saw him without his baseball cap and in the daylight. His hair was cropped quite short, the tight, black curls clinging tightly to his small head. Combining the hair, with the eye color and light mauve complexion quickly brought me to the conclusions; he was much younger than I thought originally and he was of mixed race, probably bi-racial. He waited on a chair at a table while King prepared a plate for him first, then one for himself. I was most appreciative when King paid for my meal.
Drinking our coffee and eating our breakfast, King commented, “Cracker’s about wore out this morning, aren’t you peanut?” and put his arm around Cracker, giving him a gentle hug. “We move after the show closes today and the shower house is closed so he’ll be able to catch up on his sleep. Right?”
Cracker nodded sleepily and sort of picked at his food. King leaned over and whispered something in his ear, Cracker nodded again, and began eating his breakfast. With that, King quickly got to the reason he wanted to meet with me.
“I made a call earlier, before we came over here to a guy I know who has a nice home about five blocks from campus. It has four bedroom and he rents out two to sort of help on the bills. Bedding and kitchen privileges come with the rent but you have to do your own laundry, including your bedding. The rent is seven dollars a week. Interested?”
You bet I was interested! Housing was one of my major concerns and if King was recommending a place without me having to travel all over the area hunting for a place to live, it was great.
“Yes!” I answered emphatically.
“I thought you might be. According to him, he had one left, so I told him you’d take it. I’ll confirm it later on once I know when you’ll be arriving.”
I had to do some quick figuring in my head. We had another week with this show and wouldn’t be doing the State Fair which was right after that week, so we’d be working our way back home to finish up. Wyatt wanted to be done no later than the last week before Labor Day Weekend. He needed time to clean up and get ready for his last year of college. I needed time to get ready for my first year.
If I could arrive in Cedar Falls on August 28, it’d give me three days in between getting done with the “Popper” and when I left. I could use those days to visit St. Vinnie’s and a couple of churches to find some clothes for college. I’d be staying with Claire and Bill and they were planning on taking me to college. By arriving on the 28th, it’d give me time to plan a schedule with my advisor, pull class cards, get settled in my room, and start looking for job.
King said nothing, but did raise his eyebrows when I mentioned where I got my clothes. However, when I spoke of looking for a job and my former boss’s promise to give me a good recommendation, he sort of looked at me funny, before saying, “You know, it’s better not to work your first year and devote your time to your studies.”
“I know, but I’m not certain how much I’ll have at the end of this summer and I really want a college education and the only way I’m going to get it, is to pay for it myself. I’ll get no help from home or anyone else.”
Cracker yawned, then drank the last of his hot chocolate.
Taking a chance, I asked, “How old are you Cracker?”
“Fourteen,” he answered proudly.
“Where in the world did you ever get the name ‘Cracker’?”
He grinned and pointed a thumb at King.
King laughed and nodded, “I must confess, I’m the guilty party. I first met him when he tried to lift my wallet while I was visiting with another joint operator. What was that, Cracker, about three years ago?”
Cracker nodded and giggled.
“I grabbed him and he fought me, kicking, hitting, and none very effective since I was bigger than he was. I pinned his arms, pulled him up close, and told him to stop struggling, ‘you little firecracker’ and it stuck.”
“Come to find out, once I was able to talk to him, the street trade was not real great and he was hungry.”
“Yeah,” Cracker grinned, “he told me I was dirty and stunk worse than an outhouse. Nobody’d want to fuck a pile of shit and that’s why the johns were not coming around.”
“I took him back to the trailer, scrubbed him up, making certain all the cracks and crevices were clean, and then fed him. He’s been with me ever since.”
I wondered if he’d been intimately “with” Cracker since then since they both admitted Cracker was whoring out his body. Christ on a biscuit; if I figured correctly, Cracker was only eleven years old at the time. It’s a wonder some guy with a big dick didn’t split him.
During the next run, our final one with this show, I had breakfast with them almost every morning, visiting and loving every minute of it. I discovered King and the lot boss decided the shower tent was too dangerous for Cracker to work in anymore and another older guy took his place. Cracker was helping King and his partner, a nephew he said, run the bear pitch. I really enjoyed their company, especially King’s. He made no demands on me and, although I suspected he was just as bent as I was, he never made a pass at me. I’d notice him watch me, smiling either enjoying our conversation or just my presence. Perhaps, I thought, watching him with Cracker, he preferred younger boys. I really didn’t care if he was fucking an entire grade school, I know I enjoyed his company.
King was eight years older than me, the youngest of several children, a farm boy, and from Minnesota. I suppose someone else would’ve asked how he ended up in Iowa, but I really didn’t care. All I knew was, he was here, and I was loving every minute of it. King was one hell of a looker in my eyes, smart, considerate, gentle, and extremely loving and loyal. He was the type, even though he was older, I could fall in love with. If, however, my assumptions were correct and they’re not, I was too old for him. No matter, I’d vowed not to fall in love again until I was dead certain the other guy loved me.
We parted ways after the run and I discovered I missed them terribly, especially King.
Claire and Bill were happy to see me and I was happy to be with them. I was some two grand richer than when left, so, after talking it over with Claire and Bill, decided I might not have to work after all, especially if I could do as well the next summer. I think I talked non-stop from the time I arrived at their house until they drove me to Cedar Falls. Claire commented I seemed to speak a great deal of this “King” and hoped someday to meet him. I wasn’t certain I’d ever see him again, since he’d not commented on returning the same circuit the next summer. I hoped he did and I would. I was pissed with myself for not getting his home address in Minnesota so I could at least drop him a note now and then letting him know how college was going.
We drove around campus and then headed toward the address King had given me.
“What’s the guy’s name?” asked Claire.
“David Coleman. All I know about him is King and Cracker say he’s pretty decent and looks forward to me staying there.”
Bill pulled up in front of a nice, two story brick home, rechecked the address I had, and let out a low whistle.
“Cripes, Levy,” Claire said, amazed at the house. “Are you sure this is the right address? Pretty damned spiffy digs I’d say.”
I checked again, nodded, and said, “There’s one way to find out,” climbed out of the car, went up the front door, and rang the doorbell. Claire and Bill walked up behind me while I waited for someone to come to the door.
The door swung open and a familiar figure catapulted into my arms, holding me tight, shouting, “He’s here!”
“Cracker,” I sputtered, completely surprised. “What the hell you doing here?”
“I live here, that’s why!”