She was nine when I moved in, a spidery little kid, all gawky and selfconscious as only a city kid can be. And she was bright and sweet and unaffected. She was the landlord's daughter, and the fact that such a neat kid would be in my new apartment building was one reason I took the place.
The trouble started three years later.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Hi. This is Angie."
(As if I might not recognize her voice. Sure, she'd been less likely to spend time chatting with the old guy on the fourth floor in the last year -- especially the last few months -- but that was okay. Her voice was immediately recognizable, nonetheless.)
"I have to do this paper for school on volcanoes and I was wondering if it would be okay if I looked at some of the books you have." (She knew about the Library Wall because she'd seen it.)
"So, like, if it's no hassle, let me know when you get a chance, okay? The paper is due Monday. Thanks." (I was listening to the recording on my answering machine on Thursday night.)
On my way out the next morning, I slid a note under the door of the owner's apartment saying Saturday, around noon, would be fine. My Main Squeeze was out of the country on vacation and if Angie needed more time or help, Saturday would be no problem.
I made a mental note to clean up the place when I got home from work Friday night -- I like to sleep in on Saturdays -- so it would be presentable when Angie came up to raid the books. I had several books on volcanology -- it fascinated me when I was in my twenties -- as well as the encyclopedia (Britannica).
In truth, I was delighted that I had stuff that could help a good, bright kid get a solid grade. Really. That was it. I mean -- sure, the baby fat was melting away and a very pretty girl was emerging, but she was still very much A Kid, so nothing else occurred to me.
This is, I was later to learn, a sign of encroaching senility.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Saturday afternoon, 12:10 p.m., there's a knock at the door. I'm mostly awake. I've had two cups of The Elixir of Life (a.k.a., "coffee") and a bowl-and-a-half of Borkum Riff. This is as awake as I should ever *have* to be at ten after noon on a Saturday.
Angie. Telling me how much she appreciates my help and many promises not be a problem and cute as can be in her HUGE oversized sweatshirt and spray-on Gitanos. I note -- not being dead -- that she has a very cute and sexy and well-formed butt inside that denim and tell myself that somewhere out there in Brooklyn, Queens or the rest of the Tri-State Metropolitan Area, there is an incredibly lucky 12- or 13-year-old boy who doesn't know that this butt has his name on it -- or will.
I simply smiled and told her of my genuine pleasure at her use of the books and pointed to the living room, which is where the Library Wall lives and lived. For myself, I planned to finish that second pipe bowl and drink more coffee. Lot's of More Coffee. (This is a prescribed response to going out for "a couple" of beers with journalist-friends on Friday night.) I suggested she open the windows wide, if she liked, since it was a typical Weird April and the temperature was already near 75 degrees, and the smell of the pipe might bother her.
"Oh, I really like the way it smells!"
Which is one of the reasons I like kids. They think pipes are neat, usually. They are fascinated by the little rituals of the pipe -- the packing with rich, savory tobacco; the careful double-lighting; the tamping of the tobacco.
Angie started with the Brit-3 (logical) and soon had four volumes scattered on the floor. I went online and picked up some EMail packets. While I was downloading, I refilled the More Coffee Cup. Came back in and started answering mail, then looked up to find her watching me. Great big hazel eyes and sun-lightened hair falling in riotous curls around her rounded, pretty face. Very pretty face. Looking at Angie, it was easy to understand why the first Spaniards in the New World had been smitten by the Aztec women (Angie's folks are from Ecuador and Puerto Rico).
"The encyclopedia is great, but we're not supposed to just use one book or encyclopedia."
"No problem." I stood and padded, barefoot, behind her into the living room. Barely 12, Angie was small even for that -- maybe 4-foot-6 -- and not even the luscious twitching of her butt in the Gitanos could dispel the awareness that she was a kid. A smart, pretty -- maybe even sexy -- kid. But a kid. I kept telling myself that as I stood, towering behind her, in front of the stacks and pulled books for her. I had several on volcanology, tectonic plates and morphology.
In the meantime, volumes of Brit-3 were scattered all over the living room floor, with a liberal leavening of pages from her notebook covered with semi-legible scrawls.
Naturally, though she was supposed to do the research and writing on the paper, it took a good -- oh, fifteen minutes before I was crawling around the living room floor with her, finding and marking passages that would be useful and relevant.
Crawling around on the floor is precisely when the trouble started.
I was just riffling the pages of THE HOLE IN THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA (about Project MoHo) for a useful explanatory section when I looked up and found myself confronted with her jean-clad butt. She was crouched over something else, reading, but as she read she was moving that cute, round little ass in small circles.
I was wearing an old sweatshirt and a pair of nine-year-old jeans and nothing else. Seeing her hard little ass, the way the denim of the jeans crept between her cheeks and the split of her cunt and -- oddly, most of all -- the little line of bare flesh just above her waist, where her shirt had crept up...well, it was instant, embarrassing boner time.
This was a KID, fer cryin' out loud!
I cleared my throat and said, "Angie, please sit on the couch or something."
"Waving your butt in front of my face is a bit awkward for me." (Yes, I really do talk that. Sue me.)
Now she leaned her head back and turned to look at me over her shoulder, hazel eyes bright with mischief and mirth. "What's the matter? Too hot for ya?" She wiggled for effect.
"That -- and too young. Stop it."
She arched her back and swiveled her butt still more. "You mean this?" GIggle. "Or what'll you do? Huh?"
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Changes last made on: Tuesday, May 5, 1997