Baxter and Josh on the Run
Chapter 1
Ok, so let me tell you a story of a time when I lived deep in my own self-induced misery and dismal routine.
Off to a grey job in the morning, then home to a grey house, a dull and lifeless meal eaten alone while watching a make-believe world go on without me on a second-hand television. I sometimes would trade the TV for the living room window where I could watch the neighbor boy play in his yard, laughing to myself at his antics and hearing his happy giggle echo throughout the neighborhood. Other boys from the area visited him often. He wasn't the most beautiful of them at all. No modeling contracts were in his future, despite his beautiful blond hair that would hang in his eyes when his mother was slow with the haircuts, his cute freckled nose and cheeks, or even the strong but small build that held just enough flesh to hold that little-boy softness puberty hasn't robbed from him yet. No, what brought all who met him to a standstill was his eyes; a blue that somehow changed from a sparkling morning sky blue when happy to a sharp azure when angry, then to a deep denim when tears made their occasional interference in this happy child's life. But, like much of life, this bit of smile I gathered from the joy emanating from this little one brought me, like the proverbial double-edged sword, an unconquerable sadness as I remembered another boy's bubbling laughter.
A lot of people who are aware of my past call me pedophile, some have called me baby-raper. I prefer the term 'boylover' if any term is necessary. I don't expect the normal world to understand what I don't understand. Why couldn't I have made it to adulthood, found a wife who doesn't care, produced 2½ children who are only glad to see me if I have money, adopted a yappy dog that destroys my shoes at every opportunity and enclosed it all in a white picket fence? Isn't that what we've come to understand as the perfect American dream? Instead, I find little boys attractive, and this has made much of my life absolute torture.
What those people who judge me don't understand is that I am not one of those who rapaciously takes what I want and then boogies on to the next innocent victim. I want that smile, that giggle, that way the boy may lean on my hip like a warm safe wall protecting him from a world of confusion and hurt as he hugs my leg. I want his hug when he is happy, and the way he will climb into my lap for a cuddle when he is sad or just wants to share life for a bit. I give away my heart for those trinkets of a smile and a sparkle of the eye. Prior to this story I bring you now, I once knew that pure love, and it ended in the greatest of tragedy and despair. It hurt so very much, and cost so very much more, that I'd come to feel it best to remain in my little world that has no temptations, no risks, and wait until old age or boredom ends it all. I never wanted love again of any sort because the price was way too high.
And so we come to that proverbial “one day” where this story begins and my life, as it was, ends.
Standing in my kitchen at the counter, I read the note again that I'd stuffed angrily into my pocket on the way out of the shop. Another anonymous threat from a faceless wonder too afraid to confront me directly. I added the scrap of hatred and animosity to the pile of others I'd received, wondering why I kept them. A bit of self-flagellation, I guess, leaving me feeling defensive and sour. I jumped when the phone rang, a very rare event indeed.
“Yeah, what,” I answered in a surly voice.
“Mr. Baxter, it's Josh from next door. I need my Mom,” I hear from a small tremulous voice. Why in the world is the kid calling me?
“She's not here, kid, and you shouldn’t be calling here.” As I look back on that snapshot of me, standing in my kitchen being an asshole, I can't believe I was so callous to the kid. And I can't help but to wonder what my life would have been had I hung up faster.
“Oh, God! Please don't hang up Mr. Baxter! They said I could have only one call,” Josh screamed into the phone. I'm glad it was on the way to the cradle or I would have lost my hearing. Flashing through my mind was the thought 'what, are they locking up 11-year-old boys now?' “Mr. Baxter? Mr. Baxter! Oh, please Mr. Baxter!” I'd never heard a boy sound so scared. I felt chilled, horrified that something could grip this normally happy child so fiercely. I couldn't have hung up on that voice.
“Josh, I'm still here. What's the problem?”
“Mr. Baxter, please, you have to talk to this man. He said he'd only give me my one chance and then he had someone who would take me. Please, you have to help me! Please!”
So, my nightmare returns. Nine years ago I went to prison for abusing my friend's younger brother. I was still in high school, but my youth didn't matter. I was 17 and adult enough and he was a kid. Put those two together and it equals me in prison fighting for my life everyday. I turned 18 just before sentencing. I sure didn't feel like an adult. Isn't it crazy how the day comes that a child is now an adult for no other reason than a calendar says so?
Prison was very informative and formative in my life. I learned that the guards really don't care what happens so long as they don't look bad or have to do paperwork. I learned that I could stitch up knife wounds with the needle from a sewing kit and some dental floss. I learned that I could be just as violent as those around me. I could fight, stab and innocently step over the body on my way to the chow hall to eat my meal. And, in all of that learning, I found I forgot how to smile, laugh, or even cry. I felt whispers of hope for a moment, but that was snatched from my soul when I came home to stares and threats. I mastered levels of anger, bitterness and hate I never knew existed. I painfully learned to never trust another person ever again, and to never put myself out for anyone, ever. But, but!... Inside my soul there remained a last little kernel, a small squeak of a memory of love and hope, of my Jerry. That poor little guy blamed himself for diary entries that in retrospect weren't such smart decisions, not with snooping mothers around. But, what do you expect from a kid? Wasn't his fault, it never was. He just couldn't see it that way.
Why does my mind run down these painful roads? Flashbacks suck.
“Ok, Josh, calm down. I'm not going anywhere. What do you need me to do?”
“Mr. Baxter, I don't know,” Josh replied, his voice beginning to break as little boys do when they are fighting to not cry. “This man just told me to call my Mom, that I just have the one chance. I was afraid to call home because Mom would still be at work, but you are always home. Just please, do whatever this guy wants, ok?”
“What does he mean by 'you only have one chance', Josh?”
“I don't knoooooowww,” he whined in a voice so filled with sorrow, fear, and little hic-ups as the cry began to win the fight, and looking back now I think it was those three words spoken in such despair that made me realize I couldn't refuse him now, no matter what prison or even hell awaited me.
“Ok, Josh”, I said softly. “Can you put him on the phone?”
“Baxter, you got one chance,” I heard a voice growl at me after a bit of fumbling of the phone. “I have a buyer for one little white boy with blond hair. This one will do just fine. You have this one chance to tell his mother to pay her debt or I'll gladly recoup some of what that bitch owes me this way. Don't call the police. Trust me, I will know and just cut and run, literally. I’ll call back in two hours.” And then the line went dead. Shit!
Not knowing what else to do, I called the kid's moms cell phone with the news that her son has been taken by someone, and that he wants money to let him go. The line was intensely quiet, like all sound seemed to be sucked into a vacuum for a space of ten seconds. “I'm on my way,” was all she said, and then the line went dead.
Twenty-five minutes time found this woman, that I’ve met only briefly to trade emergency contacts, on my doorstep with a suitcase in her hand. This neighbor, whose only contact with me has been one of distrust and watchfulness. A dark haired tired looking woman, whose glare could keep the wolves of this world at bay by willpower alone, stared death at me with brown eyes full of hard promises. I've seen those eyes before on immigrants who braved deserts, fences, dogs and guns, letting nothing hold them from their dreams of a better life. Looking through the window in my door, I see a resemblance to Josh in her stiff chin and clenched cheeks. I can't figure out where she came up with enough money so fast, but it really isn't my business. Graciously I let her in and offer her a Pepsi, coffee, maybe water. I’m out of practice at being a host.
“I don't want a fucking thing,” she snarled at me and shoved the suitcase into my chest. “Where's my boy? I have your damn money, you fucking monster. Give me my boy!” she snarled as vicious as any momma bear I could imagine.
“Lady, I didn't take your boy,” I pushed back at her with as much dignity as I could muster. “I got nothing in this shit. I'm just the idiot who was stupid enough to answer the phone when it rang!” At this, that strong woman broke into a puddle on my floor, weeping in such desperation that all of my hurt feelings for being so unfairly accused melted my body to the floor right next to her where I pulled her into my chest. “We will get him back. I promise, Lisa. We'll get him back.”
Two hours on the dot came the promised call: “You got my money, caremonda?” What a way to be spoken to! That one sentence took me from worried and determined to pissed and determined.
“Yeah, we got it. Josh's mom has it.”
“Put her on the phone.”
I already had her on an extension. “How do I get my boy back,” was all she said. I'm still blown away by this woman. I'd be half out of my head in worry and she is all business.
“Answer your door,” was his cryptic response in a dark and deep Hispanic accent, and he hung up. I knew there must be some sort of James Bond shit in that statement and was struggling to figure it out when the doorbell rang. Oh. Before I could get to the door a mountain of a man shoved his way through the doorway. He had a scar across his nose and then another in line across his left eyebrow. It didn't do much to improve his looks, but it didn't hurt either. He was just too damned ugly. Behind him came another man, Latino like the first and not quite as big as man mountain, but far larger than me. This one had an air of respectability to him; a better style of dress, a neater haircut, nicer shoes. He was pulling Josh in behind him by the arm. Both men had wide eyes that were searching everywhere. Having seen everything that was worth their attention, the mountain rumbled and out belched the voice I recalled from the phone call.
“You got the money, asshole?”
Now, prison taught me that allowing others to push you around only encouraged more pushing. No matter how big the other guy may be, stand up for yourself and the person you are dealing with is more likely to treat you as he would like to be treated. Be a victim and he will make you his victim if for no other reason than to feel less a victim himself. But then there are those who are just higher on the food chain, and this was one such predator. But, a man's gotta try, right?
“Look here you damned gorilla, who the fuck you think you're talking to? I'm not your boy and I'm not your bitch, you got me?” I imagine this man rarely had the experience of others talking to him in such a way because he just seemed to watch me speak. As I think about it now, it reminds me of the look on my neighbor's German Shepherd when the Poodle down the street got it into its goofy mind to defend its property with a fit of barking. I think the Shepherd wasn't sure whether it would get in trouble with his master or if it simply figured it wasn't worth the trouble to eat that fluffy noise. This man didn't seem all that impressed either. “And, I told you already, the kid's mom has the money”.
I thought that went off well, and it got me out of the spotlight because at those words Lisa came out of my back bedroom with a suitcase in one hand and a gun in the other. Oh, double shit!
TBC