27 Yards An' Runnin'...

27 Yards

An’ Runnin’…

C. Phil Moore

Copyright © 2013 by Chris Fillmore

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

ISBN: 1512011126

ISBN-13: 978-1512011128

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to anyone who has struggled through the valley and made it to the other side, relatively unscathed with a storied testimony… And also for those who unfortunately never made it out. Just keep in mind that the Sun is always shining somewhere…

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

All the beta readers, friends, family, and well-wishers who continued to keep this thing going, when I was dead-set on putting this to the side.

This story was created many years ago, when I was in a valley. I’d since put it on a shelf, and only came back to it in what seemed like a lifetime later; to complete it once and for all on my birthday when, ironically, I was feeling the exact way as the main character. I hope for the person that needs to read this, you take my hand and walk through the valley with me as we get to the other side and run to the Sun...

Filly

1/3/14

Chapter 1

Wake up, this gravely baritoned, all-too-familiar voice greeted me; permeating through the thick barrier of my down-filled pillows. The words were nearly indistinct, while at the same time its robust intonation was fully perceptible. It was from my cousin Hendrix, who was waking me up for work. Just like every day, he was right on cue for the morning ritual. I not only had it timed, but my body responded accordingly by waking up early in anticipation of it. Despite the fact the alarm on my phone located underneath my pillow was set to go off just a few minutes later, he would come into my room unannounced and blare out his version of an endearing, morning salutation; precisely train some kind of object at the heap that I was underneath the warm comforter; and then promptly enter into my bathroom to take a racehorse-with-a-full-bladder piss. Every sensory imposition given by him was increasingly jarring. However this time, he’d apparently added another not-so-charming part to the morning routine.

C’mon, we go’ t‘nventory t’ phill t’day. And y’u put i- t’off from las’ night, he reminded me. His speech sounded slightly impaired, as if he were suffering from a stroke. But in this case it was worse.

Much worse...

Slowly, I pulled my head away from within the protective crevice of the pillows I’d spent the better part of the night molding, and turned toward his general direction. I was then quickly reminded of my head cubby being a temperate sanctuary, almost deafening to the world, and what held the absolutely welcomed reprieve of darkness. The rapid departure from such a haven quickly beckoned me back; especially when I was reminded how awfully drafty it was for a late-spring morning. But I suppose that’s what you get if you wanted to lease one of these notorious New York apartments that was preserved for their rustic sentiments— which was a kinder way of saying that everything was outdated as hell.

The early dawn’s rays— courtesy of an east-facing window that was in desperate need of weather stripping— allowed the full-on glory of the 7 AM light to pour in that was now stinging my bloodshot, raccoon-like eyes with a sensation as if I had been, in reparation for the night before, masochistically applying lemon drops and coarsely gritted, salty sand into them. It was also then, as if the volume of it had slowly been turned up, that I could hear the city’s arteries flowing with her lifeblood: the metallic shearing of the train’s wheels against the tracks, all the horns, sirens, and sudden-stop screeches from which made up the congested rush-hour traffic. I could almost even detect the individual pedestrians on the street muttering on with conversations of business, pleasure, or simply the manic musings. In all, my city, too, was lending me her warm salutation. I smiled slightly at the sentiment.

I

then inhaled hard, and rubbed the crust from my eyes, taking a moment more to adjust my senses to the previous doses of stimuli. But as I did… Man, are you usin’ my toothbrush!? was the thing I asked, as it was my only concern at the present moment.

I’ll get y’u an’other one, my cousin nonchalantly replied through the thickening foam of toothpaste. The statement was also tinged with a thin air of obliviousness; likened to the blood he now produced while he continued to brush. "Too much force? I began to wonder to myself. Onset gingivitis, perhaps? Any number of STD’s contracted from strange cunnilingus?" In any case, I surely didn’t want it back now. Seeing my apparent irritation, he stopped brushing and smiled at me, coupled with an exaggerated wink. With the blood now mixed in with the froth, turning it a faint pink, all I could think of in that moment is that he appeared gleefully… rabid.

I pushed my head back into the refuge of my pillows, trying to stay the full-on wrath of an oncoming headache, which was being delivered by the sun and slight annoyance that only my cousin could inspire.

When suddenly…

Do we have any more pancake mix? a sweet voice asked, turning my auditory attention back toward the room’s threshold. That, too, was a familiar voice. But it couldn’t help but inspire all-but-the-contrary of the aforementioned sentiments. For it came from Reya: Hendrix’s first steady girlfriend since… forever I think. I knew it was official and not just another of those one-nighters or a fleeting romance when I noticed there was an extra toothbrush in his bathroom one day way back when. And not just any toothbrush, an electric one— a his and hers set he freely admitted to picking out from the Brookstone in LaGuardia! Although she had a place of her own around the way, Reya had since become a semi-permanent resident at ours, which was no biggie to me at all.

All at once, that headache of mine began to subside. I pulled my head out once again, poised to behold the only person I’ve witnessed in the flesh with the effortless ability to roll out of bed and look runway ready. She had on a basketball jersey— oversized for her frame— with the subtle hint of there being little else underneath. She and Hendrix must’ve done the business again, I gathered. I figured as much, not because of the attire, but because she had that glow about her— you know, the kind that was only brought on by a late night (and sometimes on into an early morning) tryst. Although the glow also could’ve been because of the very real fact that she was standing in the direct path of the sun rays too… But, never mind that.

Sup Ré, (pronounced like ray [get it?]) I called out, trying not to sound so eager. I affectionately called her that because I always saw her as a ray of beauty. Corny, I know. But for real though, I really needed to stop molesting her with my eyes because I’m sure it looked creepy. However, I could never tell from the way she so sweetly smiled back at me. She had that air, sensuality, even the smoky voice like Sadé, so much so that once upon a time it used to drive me wild being around her.

Hey Soon. Morning, she replied with an airy, sing-song cadence. You hungry?

Yep.

Through that radiant smile she then responded in an almost sensual whisper, M ‘kay.

The way she said it to me sounded so… intimate. I would oftentimes forget that she was just nice like that. Still, that wouldn’t stop me from slipping into the false sense as if she were, somehow, with both Hendrix and me. A fantasy that was often quickly crushed by the reality that when it came to something like sex, for example, I could only live vicariously through my [lucky] cousin’s exploits; privy to the excessive moans and loud grunts that would emanate through the walls of his room, when they were both high, torridly amorous, and oblivious to the fact that there was someone else in the apartment playing Madden for example!

I’d always envied Hendrix for coming across Reya, because she was an all-around good woman; the epitome of what anyone would call a thoroughbred. She cleaned up the accumulation of what two messy guys like us made about the place; and, among other domestically-essential things, fixed us the best breakfasts and dinners. She was also responsible for keeping account of the records, bookkeeping, and other important paperwork for the business Hendrix and I have together.

I did get to see her naked once too!

Well, kinda…

It was a text meant for Hendrix that was sent to me by accident. (Short version of an unnecessary-to-go-into-detail-for of a side story: swapped SIM cards while a phone was being replaced.) It was a candid selfie of her standing in the bathroom apparently fresh out the shower. Man… I said to myself when I saw it at the time, So this is the infamous text he’d pause for, no matter what he was doing. I remember… his reaction would always be the same; her personal chime would blare out, indicating an incoming message, he’d reach for his phone, stare at the screen, wryly chuckle with a hint of a smirk, and then break away from his business to, apparently, handle business. And now I knew why.

No lie, Reya’s body was amazing. She used to be a dancer what now seems like a lifetime ago, but still stayed in shape not only with the running around she did for us, but spinning sessions and mixed martial arts classes at the Y. And boy, did it show. The picture was far from pornographic, but more like… artistic. Because, beyond all the visual trappings that would attract a thirsty dude, what really struck me about the photo was her face— more specifically: her eyes. Everything about them held the perfect imperfections that would’ve made them definitely weak points if done in excess or placed on someone else. However in her case, they are what made her. Occasionally, she would take out the hazel contacts she didn’t even need in the first place and sport her natural, beautifully soulful, uncannily deep, dark browns. They were almost big like a cartoon character (but not cartoonish), cinched close together, and when she was looking straight at you, they crossed ever so slightly. That was the naked of her I lusted after… for lack of a better way of saying it.

And with those eyes staring into the artificial iris of her phone’s camera, she held a harmoniously cohabiting appearance of both innocence and guile, confidence and vulnerability. Not simply just some graphic pic that seem to litter my DMs, but a quintessentially sensual, intimate nuance in the form of ones and zeroes. This was her calling card made exclusively for him to come and get it… And right— five— minutes— ago! The excess steam from the shower gave the pic an otherworldly glow, while the careful placement of hands and towels hinted of eroticism [and the clever forethought of the protection from future embarrassment had this gotten into the wrong hands (i.e., yours truly)]. So, I guess I really didn’t see her naked naked, but I knew enough to fill in the blanks, feel me?

I remember… glancing at the pic for all of three seconds, but then deleted it without thinking twice. That wasn’t mine to keep, or to even ogle at for an extended period like a drooling perv. I wouldn’t… I couldn’t play my cousin like that. Even if at one time a case against him could be built. In the beginning… back when it was just a thing… he sometimes undervalued her realness, and kind of played her to the left. However, the fact that she did manage to hang in there and do whatever she did to slow Hendrix down just goes to show how much more there was to her than I would ever know, and that she was meant for him (and he for her). Plus, despite all that, to poach his girl would simply be a disloyal, hater move. I didn’t need to pine for his when the great Big Apple had many ‘a ladies to choose from. And I was as eligible of a bachelor as they come: young, independently employed, credit was immaculate, and I had no attachments (that I was aware of). If she was out there, I just now knew who to rate them against. Reya was the Prototype.

And then there it was; the guitar riff of the aptly titled song by André 3000 of Outkast, which now began to play in my head while she continued to stand in the doorway bedroom-eyed staring back at me. I knew where this was going… my mind was starting to elaborate deeper into my imagination. This would be better than any wet dream I could conjure up. It’d all gone into a slow motion-like, dreamy-hazed sequence. The sunlight gave her an even more surreal radiance, especially about the face. Stylistic-colored designs and symbols with no rhyme and reason slowly emanated from behind her. Butterflies fluttered about, robins sung melodically, and— for some odd reason— uber-cute-chibi, anthropomorphic kittens scurried around her feet. Some of who were holding strategically placed purple sashes that were covering up her (you guessed it) now nude body. Her coffee-with-heavy-cream skin was misty and supple, as if she were… just— out— of— the— shower. Wow… I’d done it. Right before my eyes, I’d successfully transformed her into the infamous picture Hendrix gets.

One thing that my mind was good for, was wandering far from reality when it felt like it. But, instead of a knowing daydream where I took off within a new world of my own design, sounds and sights borne of my imagination were superimposed upon the reality in which I perceived. It felt like being fully conscious within the twilight zone. And, since music was a big part of my life (more on that later), apropos to the song that was now going off, I always had an appropriate track cued up. It was an event that was at times fun— especially when I was creating a scene such as this. However, there were also other times…

But for now…

Yeah…

"Stank you smelly mu—ch…"

Yeah, uh… me too, Hendrix finally chimed in. I’m hungry, yo. This, of course, quickly broke me away from my daydreaming/lightweight coveting, and back into reality. It was as if he were reverse cock-blocking me. In that moment, the images around her dissolved, the animals scurried away, Reya was once again draped in the only piece of garment that was protecting her modesty, and the song faded with 3000 still singing his heart out before asking the engineer if they were recording his ad-libs.

Thought you had plenty to eat already, she coyly shot back at him, as she turned to leave; sashaying while she did.

And, just like that, the bubble was completely burst. Back into the head-shaped cubby I went.

Besides, she continued from the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge, There’s nothing in here anyway.

Wait. You were supposed to go shoppin’ last night, I directed to Hendrix from underneath my refuge.

You know I don’t do that, he replied in a, again, coolly dismissive manner.

Yeah, well I better go and get somethin’ in here, Reya chimed in. She returned to the threshold and suggested, I’ll go to the bodega right down the street. You got the grocery money right? she asked Hendrix.

Look in the top dresser underneath my socks, he directed, spitting out the toothpaste. He rinsed his face and then started picking the hair of his Afro with a comb that had been floating at the crown of the big, burnt rust-colored mass.

"When were you gonna tell me you