Afternoon Delight - The Storyteller

Author's Notes

Sometimes a faithful reader's request just reaches out and takes hold. This one's all yours, RiverMaya. Thanks for the inspiration, you know I'm just the pen. Thanks are also owed to AzureAsh for his story edits.

All sexual activity is between 18+ individuals. Be advised, this is first and foremost a romance, and it takes a while to 'warm up'.

Now, jump in the DeLorean, and let's go back in time...

* * * * *

Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight,

Gonna grab some afternoon delight!

My motto's always been "When it's right, it's right."

Why wait until the middle of a cold, dark night?

When everything's a little clearer in the light of day?

And we know the night is always gonna be here anyway?

Skyrockets in flight - Afternoon Delight!

* * * * *+

December 1958

My mother led me into the hospital room where her mother lay dying. "Leave us," she told everyone else in the room, "I need to speak with Raymond alone." My parents and family all filed out, leaving just my Grandma Danhof and me.

A smoker for many years, even after she gave up cigarettes the emphysema and heart disease her habit had left behind had done a number on her. She was now a bedridden and frail version of the Grandma I knew as a small child: strong, opinionated, and boisterous. Unlike my other relatives, she never had a harsh word for me, only hugs and words of encouragement. Looking at her now, I had a hard time holding back my tears.

Taking my hand, she spoke to me now, her voice almost a whisper. "Raymond, don't cry now. It's my time, and I'm ready to go. I had a good life, filled with many joys. You were one of them."

She waved her other hand towards the door. "Those aunts, uncles, and cousins of yours can't wait to get their greedy paws on my estate, but not you, boy. You always just loved me for who I was." She squeezed my hand. "And I loved you for the wonderful boy that you are."

I stifled my sobs, but I couldn't hold back my tears any longer. With her free hand, she used a crumpled facial tissue to wipe them away. "Listen to me now, boy. You have an incredible imagination and a true gift with the written word, Raymond. I saved every one of the stories you ever wrote for me, and read them over and over. Promise me you'll never stop writing, no matter what."

Nodding my head, I said "I promise, Grandma." I was now 10 years old, but as soon as I'd learned to put two words together when I was 6, I started writing stories. My parents were so self-involved they hardly ever read any of them, but my Grandma read them all and even gave me suggestions for new ones. She'd always been my biggest fan, and this made it even more painful to say goodbye.

Grandma told me to open up the top drawer of the little nightstand next to her hospital bed, and I did. There was a small box in there. "That's my engagement and wedding ring set. Take it, but tell no one. I want you to have it, no one else. Don't sell the rings or give them to charity. As long as you have that ring set, I'll be with you. When you find someone you truly love, give the rings to them - but be careful. There are a lot of women who'll love jewelry more than they'll love you."

"How will I know who the right one is?"

"You'll know she's the one when you realize you can't stomach the thought of being without her, even for a day."

Just then a nurse came in with medications and told me visiting hours were over. Before leaving, I gave Grandma a kiss on the cheek and told her I loved her. The following morning, her failing heart gave up, and she was gone.

* * * * *

June 1976

It was time to leave Mexico City. When I became the main script writer for the movie, ¡José, No Way! in 1974, I'd moved here in an effort to provide authenticity to my writing. I was a firm believer in Oscar Wilde's theory that the aim of life is to find expression, with art offering life beautiful forms to realize that expression. In theory, yes, this is artistically true. In Hollywood, it's utter bullshit; all that matters is box-office revenue.

The movie, a drama, got rave reviews from the critics for its depth of characters and cultural sensitivity but died a spectacular death at the box-office and was pulled from distribution within 2 weeks. It turned out that American moviegoers in 1975 didn't want to see authenticity, they wanted comedic stereotypes -- greasy bandidos, wisecracking tamale-making abuelas, and above all, buxom oversexed Mexican muchachas caliente -- the more cleavage, the better.

As for me, I liked the real Mexico just fine, so after I finished the script I stayed, living in a US expatriates' neighborhood in Mexico City. As a blonde 28-year-old bachelor, I had a blast flirting with the local señoritas, learned a little Spanish, and gaining 15 pounds from constantly eating street vendor cuisine.

Things took a dark turn when the guerra sucia conflicts spilled over into our quiet district. There had been several 'disappearances' carried out by the Partido Revolucionario Institucional government forces - the PRI - where citizens deemed to be anti-government somehow vanished, either killed or imprisoned, never to be seen again. On the other side of the coin, Marxist groups like the Partido de los Pobres -- the PDP - began kidnapping and ransoming government officials or wealthy people to fund their movement, and American expatriates were easy targets for this.

When one of my American expatriate neighbors was kidnapped, I'd seen enough. Aside from my Smith-Corona manual typewriter, the only tangible thing of real value I owned was my grandmother's gold ring set worn on a thin gold chain around my neck. The next day I loaded my clothes, my typewriter, a few scripts-in-progress, and a little AM transistor radio into my beat-up 1968 Mercury Colony Park station wagon and headed towards the nearest border point: Brownsville, Texas.

* * * * *

Once back in the United States, I called my agent Artie Lipnicki from a pay phone to let him know what was happening and where I was, and asked him about any new projects he'd found for me. That's when he gave me bad news: After ¡José, No Way! had bombed so spectacularly, several people's names were now mud in the industry -- the movie's star, Stuart Beattie, the movie's director, Christopher Portola, and the movie's scriptwriter, Raymond Winslow, i.e., mine. My name now radioactive career-wise, nobody in Hollywood wanted to touch me. I hung up.

Since I'd left Mexico City in a big hurry, I hadn't had time to run to the Banco Mercantil del Norte and withdraw the money from my account. All the cash I had was in my wallet, about 6,200 pesos, or $300. I'd have to go to a currency exchange which charged 15%, leaving me with $255. I needed a job and place to stay, and fast.

I'd grown up in the Midwest; during high school I'd worked summers as a farm hand to save up money for college. I drove down the street until I saw a farm supply store, then went in and looked at their bulletin board for any 'help-wanted' notices. I found exactly one. No phone number, just a rural route address. The guy behind the counter gave me directions, and drove out to the farm.

The owner's name was Mrs. Louise Yasgur. She was a 62-year-old widow whose husband had passed 8 months prior. She was tall, and with her blue eyes and silver hair she was almost regal, despite wearing old work boots, overalls, and a plaid shirt. "I can offer you $5 a day, plus room and board," she told me very matter-of-factly, "I can't allow you to sleep in the house, however. I have a 19-year-old daughter, Billie Jo, so it wouldn't be proper to have an unmarried man in the house at night with the two of us. There's a one-room shack with a shower in it behind the barn where you can sleep."

I raised my eyebrow at that revelation. She saw it, and answered the unasked question in my eyes.

"I have two older children, my son Desmond and my daughter Linda, that are 38 and 35. Desmond lives in Chicago, Linda lives in New York City. Neither one wanted to be a farmer. Billie Jo was a surprise baby, the last real gift my husband ever gave me. She's as innocent and kind as the day is long, but she's a simple girl. When her Daddy died, she dropped out of high school because she wanted to help me on the farm as much as she could. Now she cooks some, does the laundry and tends to the chickens and goats for me." Mrs. Yasgur narrowed her eyes.

"She's such a trusting girl that she's a real sucker for men's sweet talk. One man already took advantage of that fact, Mr. Winslow, so I'll thank you not to do the same. The other fella took off before I found out, otherwise I'd have given him a taste of my shotgun. Do I make myself clear?"

I knew there was only one answer to that particular question. "Yes, Ma'am." Tasting a shotgun was something I had absolutely no desire to do, so I decided then and there that I would stay away from Mrs. Yasgur's daughter. That resolution was short-lived, however; the minute I met Billie Jo Yasgur, it flew straight out the window.

* * * * *

July 1976

I has just unpacked the Mercury, and was arranging my typewriter on the small table in the room when I heard a girl's voice, "You're the new man. You don't look like a farm hand." I turned to see the source of the voice, standing in the doorway of the shack.

Let me say this right now: Billie Jo Yasgur was adorable. If she lived in New York, with that face she could have been a model if she were taller. A tiny thing, she was about 5'2", with eyes even a deeper blue than her mother's, and her jet-black hair was super-long - all the way down her back.

She was dressed like her mama in old work boots, overalls, and a plaid shirt. Her hair was up in a loose bun, and her hands were a farm-girl's hands -- callused, with dirt under her short finger nails. There was not an ounce of pretension to her, especially because she was holding a clucking hen under her left arm and being actively pursued by a brown-and-white baby goat.

Quickly overcoming my shock, I answered, "I agree, I may not look like it, but I am, it's just buried inside me. I was a farm hand a long time ago. Most recently, I wrote scripts for the movies and TV." I extended my hand. "I'm Ray Winslow. You must be Billie Jo. Nice to meet you."

She shook my hand, "It's nice to meet you, Ray. This chicken is Sally, and this baby goat is Gene. He likes to butt, but you mustn't allow him to. Scold him good if he tries. See, he's little now, but when he's growed up to 60 pounds he won't understand, and if he butts you it could seriously hurt."

I nodded in agreement, "Noted." I waggled my finger at the little guy. "You there! No butting!"

She giggled; it was a sweet sound. Then she asked, "So you write stories and such?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I write stories that sometimes go into TV shows and movies."

"I'm not a very good reader. I like to hear stories though. They make pictures in my head." Not 20 minutes prior, I'd made an internal vow to stay away from this girl. Now that I'd met her, I realized it was an impossibility. Stay away from her? I'd sooner trash my trusty Smith-Corona. Then she asked me, "Do you think you could tell me some stories later?"

Talk about a slow pitch over the plate! I swung for the fences. "Billie Jo, nothing would give me more pleasure than to tell you stories." OK, that was a half-truth, because I'd left off the second part, "...and kiss those sweet lips of yours."

So, eight years after San Francisco's 1968 summer of love, I began my own in Brownsville, Texas.

In the mornings, Mrs. Yasgur would assign me my tasks for whatever was needed that day -- fixing fence posts, changing the oil on a tractor, replacing shingles on the henhouse, etc. Waking at 6am, we'd work until noon, then stop and enjoy the lunch that Billie Jo prepared, resting after for a bit to avoid the blistering mid-day heat. At 2pm we'd start back up, working until 6pm, when we'd stop for supper.

After supper, per Mrs. Yasgur's rule I'd have to leave and get back to my shack unless I stayed and helped her daughter wash and dry the dishes. I usually did this, not because I enjoyed doing dishes; it was purely for the pleasure of extending my time with Billie Jo. After bidding both ladies goodnight, it was back to the shed where I would spend an hour or two scriptwriting before bedtime. True the promise I made to Grandma Danhof, I still wrote some every day, even if it was a just paragraph or two.

Every Saturday morning I'd drive into town and call Artie Lipnicki from a pay phone; I didn't want to rack up long-distance charges on Mrs. Yasgur's phone. I'd let him know what I was working on, and when I finished a script, I'd mail it to him. Then he'd shop it around under a pseudonym, much like the blacklisted authors during Hollywood's 'Un-American Activities' purge of the 1950s. Artie, in turn, would send me more typewriter ribbon and paper to keep my creativity (and our revenue) flowing.

This life was definitely doing me some good. While I did my mindless chores, my imagination had free rein and I came up with some great story lines. The physically demanding work helped me lose the extra weight I'd gained from all those street tamales, tortas, and gorditas back in Mexico City. My skin tanned, my stomach became flat, and my arms bulked up.

The hours between noon and two, however, were what I lived for. That's when Billie Jo would come to my shack so I could tell her stories. I was a modern-day Scheherazade, except instead of a beautiful woman telling stories to spare her life for one more day, it was me telling stories to a beautiful woman, allow me another day with her in my life.

We'd sit in the shed with the windows open, her seated on the bed, and me in in my desk chair. As I spoke, her blue eyes were locked on me intently; I had a captive audience, and I loved it. The first story I told her was one I had learned while in Mexico, about an active volcano visible from my building in Mexico City, Popocatépetl.

"Long ago in ancient Mexico, there was an Aztek princess named Iztaccíhuatl. This princess fell in love with one of her father's warriors, Popocatépetl. Her father the Aztek emperor sent Popocatépetl off to war, promising him Iztaccíhuatl in marriage when he returned.

Meanwhile, a General in the Aztek Army, jealous of Popocatépetl, told Iztaccíhuatl falsely that her suitor had died in battle, and believing the news, she died of grief. When Popocatépetl returned to find his betrothed dead, he was overcome with rage and killed the evil General as vengeance for his lies. Then took Iztaccíhuatl's body to a spot high on a mountain. Once there, he lit a small fire and knelt by her body until he, too, died from grief.

This powerful love did not go unnoticed by the gods. Taking pity upon the lovers, they changed their bodies into mountains. To protect Iztaccíhuatl, they covered with her with a blanket of perpetual snow. Even now, the mountain's shape is that of a sleeping woman.

As for the mountain which had been Popocatépetl, the gods took the small fire he built and placed it deep within him, and every few years he rains his fire down on Earth in grief and rage at the loss of his beloved."

Billie Jo's eyes were filled with tears. "Is that story true, Ray?" I nodded my head.

"It's a Mexican legend but I, for one, believe it. Both mountains can be seen from Mexico City, and Popocatépetl is indeed an active volcano. When he blows steam and ash high into the air, it goes up as far as you can see."

Billie Jo leaned into me. She lightly smelled of sweat, soil and chicken dust, and it occurred to me House of Chanel had never made a perfume so delightful. "I hope somebody loves me that much someday," she sighed.

"I'm fairly confident someone will." It wasn't yet time to reveal that particular someone was me, but I was well on the way.

Then she unexpectedly asked me the $64,000 question: "Do you think I'm pretty, Ray?"

I had to be careful how I answered this, lest my 'sweet-talk' earn me a blast from the barrel of Mrs. Yasgur's pump-action shotgun. "Billie Jo, I can't lie to you. I think you're one of the prettiest women I've ever seen. I'm saying this not because I want anything from you, I'm only saying it because it's true. It's true now, and it will still be true 50 years from now."

Before I knew it, Billie Jo sprang up from the bed and jumped into my lap, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me tightly. Then she began to cry.

"Hey, what's this about," I asked her, "did I hurt your feelings?" She didn't say anything, just shook her head 'no' as she wept quietly.

Finally, her wave of sorrow passed, and she spoke quietly. "The farmhand who was here before you was a fella named Jason Flynn. Every day he told me I was pretty and swore he loved me, and said it enough times that he convinced me it was true. After a while, he asked me to come to him in the night. I did, and let him have his way with me. When I woke up in the morning, he was gone. Only his juice in me got left behind. All of them words about me being pretty and being in love with me was lies, just his way of getting what he wanted.

Mama was furious when I told her, but he'd high-tailed it out of here early before she woke up and got clean away. A few weeks later, my monthly was late. Now I'm gonna have a baby. Mama says I'm being punished for sinning, but I don't believe that. Babies are sweet and innocent, they're a gift from heaven. Do you agree, Ray?"

I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. This explained a lot. "I do, Billie Jo."

"Mama says now no man is ever gonna want to marry me; with a baby, I'll just be damaged goods."

My heart ached for this girl. I was probably crossing the 'sweet-talk' line, but Billie Jo was worth the risk.

"Billie Jo, your mother is a good woman, but the way I see it, she's way wrong. I meant what I said earlier about how pretty you are. Having a baby isn't going to change that. You're a good woman, kind and sweet. You're going to be a good mother, and a wonderful wife. Any man says otherwise is a damned liar who deserves a punch in the mouth -- and I'll be happy to give it to him."

That last sentence sounded a little more heated than I had first intended, but I meant every word of it. Having finished my mini-soliloquy, I shut up and waited her reaction.

It wasn't long in coming. Billie Jo pulled me closer, tilted her head up and kissed me. Her lips were soft and warm, and I hadn't felt anything this good in years. My first instinct was to run my hands up and down that sweet torso of hers, but I was afraid that would be too much, too soon, so I kept my hands placed chastely at her waist. My heart, though, was beating like a jackhammer.

Billie Jo pulled her lips away from mine and murmured, "I had me a talk about you with Sally and Gene. They're good listeners. They seen how you look at me when you think I won't notice, and how you stay late after supper and help me do the dishes, even though it's not your job. Nobody ever done that before for me. Sally and Gene didn't like Jason, he was mean to them, but you're nice to them so they like you." It was true, sometimes I'd give the hen crumbs of bread from my sandwich, or slip the little goat a piece of carrot from my lunch. I guess it was good to have friends in the barnyard.

Billie Jo snuggled in and laid her head on my chest. "Jason lied to me, Ray. Every word that come out of his mouth weren't true. But you ain't like Jason, is you Ray? All you just said, I could tell you meant it, right?" I looked down and could see her eyes glistening now, as if she were on the verge of tears.