The Saga of the Stray Condom, part three
(For this to make sense, read part one and part two first)It was a small kid going down the path around the baseball fields. Right away, Frankie and Dave went charging after him. I followed behind, whining “Guys?...Guys?...Hey, guys?” That rubber was mine, I knew. I didn’t want to give it up to a couple of losers when there were plenty of girls to gross out with it.
The kid, who we’ll call Timmy, was chubby and slow, so Frankie caught him pretty easily. As he held his arms behind his back, Dave slapped him across the face a couple of times with the condom. “Hey, fag! What’s going on, fag?” they taunted.
“Quit it!” Timmy shrieked and Dave punched him in the gut to shut him up.
As the poor kid wheezed for air, Dave went on shaking the rubber in front of his eyes. “You know what this is for? You know? Do you know?”
I stood a few feet back. “Ummmm...guys? You better quit it, okay?” I said, my words feeble and weak beneath their shouts and their whooping.
The kid had started to cry. “Leave me alone!” he pleaded, a bit too young to understand that this was the sort of thing that only encouraged them.
“Make him wear it!” Frankie shouted.
“Is that it? You want to put it on, fag? Is that what you want?” Dave asked.
“Nooooooo!” the kid shrieked, so loud I’m sure they heard it in Wisconsin. Spit flew from his mouth and landed on Dave, which made him angry. He dropped the rubber and began pummeling the kid. Frankie joined in and I just watched them, whispering “Hey...hey...hey...” until Timmy finally managed to scramble away and tear off through the field.
Dave snorted as the kid disappeared into the distance. “Little fag.”
“Yeah,” said Frankie, “Let’s get out of here.” They went off the other way then, without so much as another glance at me. I stood there for awhile, in the flattened grass where the kid had been beaten, waiting for his crying to stop echoing in my ears. When I realized it probably wasn’t going to, I scooped up my rubber and headed for home.
(To be continued...)
