Doodling

***

My dad had three talents. Three things in life that he was extremely good at. The one thing he was most accomplished in was drinking. He could drink his entire paycheck in one weekend. A paycheck it took him fourteen days to earn would be gone in less than forty eight hours.

Not exactly a skill to put on a resume. I don't imagine many employers are looking for that particular talent. But the oil fields of Louisiana hires their fair share of men with that talent.

The secondary skill was beating on women. In particular, my mother. Again, not a talent worth mentioning.

The tertiary talent, one that might have been commendable, enviable, was talking women into the back seat of his piece of shit Buick Riviera. That talent would have been enviable, except for how it impacted my mother.

Like many abused women, my mother suffered from the illusion that if she just loved my father a little more, if she just cleaned our home a little better, cooked his dinner a little better, he would change. Of course, that belief was doomed to failure.

No matter how hard my mother tried, Bert would still come home, reeking of booze and another woman and would slap my mother for asking what had happened to his paycheck.

"I'm one busting my God damned ass! I'm one sweating my fucking balls off! What I get for that, huh? Tell you want I get. God damned fucking whining bitch up my fucking ass wanting piece of my soul," he would scream and slap her again.

I asked my mother once why she put up with it. I asked her why she put up with living hand to mouth, living with the verbal, emotional and physical abuse. Why did she put up with a man that cheated on her, and did so flagrantly?

(I had to define 'flagrantly' to her.)

She looked at me as if I'd grown a second head. Then her face got hard and she slapped me. In a screaming tirade, she explained that she'd taken a vow to love my father and to stay with my father, 'in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or for worse, 'til death do they part.' I didn't ask again.

The only man my father was afraid of was Big Bert, his father. Bert had learned his talents from the best. Every now and then, the two of them would go at it in the clam shell drive of our trailer park. Neither man would stop until one of them was out cold. Most of the time that would be Bert, Jr. Big Bert would wipe the blood from his face, spit on my father and call him a pussy.

The one time my father did win, it was a hard battle won. My father lost two teeth in that fight, had a broken cheekbone and a broken hand. But Big Bert never came around again.

Because of living hand to mouth, because of living off my mother's salary as a cashier at Adrien's Supermarket on West Congress Street, I went to school in the finest that Goodwill had to offer. And, because of constantly being in the top of my class, academically speaking, I was ignored by my peers.

Some kids were bullied, tormented without mercy, despite our school having a 'No Bullying' policy. In my sophomore year, two boys actually committed suicide because of the non-stop harassment.

I wasn't bullied; I'd inherited my father's build. I was six feet tall, and weighed one eighty. So, I wasn't bullied; I was ignored. I simply did not exist. That was fine with me; I did not suffer harassment, torment at the hands of my peers.

At the start of my senior year, on the day of my eighteenth birthday, God gave me a birthday present I would have never imagined. My dad had come in on the boat the day before, a Thursday. Cashing his paycheck, he proceeded to drink his paycheck away. At twelve minutes after one o'clock, Friday morning, my birthday, a man found his live-in girlfriend in the back seat of my father's Riviera, being rode hard and screaming in orgasm.

Two bullets into the skull of Bert and two in the face of the girlfriend, my mother received Bert's life insurance. She immediately ran out and bought herself a brand new Chevy Malibu and gave me Bert's Buick.

Before she could run out and buy herself any more shiny trinkets, I sat her down and showed her how, with careful management, she could live comfortably, month to month off of the interest, provided she continued to work at Adrien's. Because I'm male, thanks to years of conditioning from my father, my mother listened.

She also graciously gave me twenty five thousand dollars; ten percent of what she'd been awarded. She wanted me to just put it into a savings account, to go toward college. I showed her, on my calculator, that even with compounded interest, the most I'd have after a year of dormancy, my twenty five thousand would be twenty five thousand and sixty eight dollars and nineteen cents. Meanwhile, the bank would have my twenty five thousand at their disposal with which to enrich their coffers.

(Yes, I had to explain 'dormancy' and 'coffers' to her.)

We compromised. Half, twelve thousand five hundred would remain, dormant in a savings account. The other half, twelve thousand five hundred would be mine to strategize and invest, in an attempt to enrich my own coffers.

(She was proud of herself, using 'coffers' in a sentence.)

The Buick was truly a piece of shit. My father couldn't be bothered to care for his trailer, his wife, his son. Why would he bother taking care of his car? I immediately traded it in and used a thousand of my own money to buy a Saturn SW3. Yes, a station wagon. I was already unpopular; I was not attempting to impress any of my peers. It was good, reliable transportation. The AC worked, the windshield wipers worked, the radio worked, the electric windows went up and down.

The only other thing I did that had nothing to do with investments, dividends, profit margins, was I went to Wal-Mart and bought myself some decent clothes. Not fashionable by any stretch, just good quality, serviceable clothing. A three-pack of plain white tee shirts that were still white, and didn't have someone else's sweat stains under the arms. Some size eleven leather tennis shoes. Leather. Not vinyl. Size eleven, not ten and a half, even if they looked big, size eleven. Not size twelve, even if they looked small enough to fit me. Size eleven.

On the way out, there was a display rack by the check out. And I gave in and made an impulse purchase. There was a stack of Spirograph sets for ten ninety eight. I'd had one as a kid and had loved doing the circles, and the ovals, over and over, until there was a really cool pattern on the paper. I don't remember what happened to the Spirograph set I'd had; probably was deemed 'stupid' by my father and thrown out, just like everything else I had ever liked.

"How you doing?" an attractive African-American girl asked as she started ringing everything up. "Oh! I had me one them when I was a kid; loved doing that."

At home, I found a plank piece of paper and opened the toy. My mother still had a typewriter, so I used a piece of her typewriter paper and again lost myself in the simplicity of creating a pattern of loops and swirls that formed a rosette of red. The washing machine gave a 'brpp' to let me know the cycle had finished. I took my new tee shirts and my underwear and our towels out of the washer and put them into the dryer.

An idea came to me and I found a black ink pen. Putting the point down into the whole right next to the one I'd used for the red pen, I again maneuvered around the circle. It gave an interesting design.

When the dryer buzzed, I took out my new tee shirts, the towels, my underwear and my mother's panties and folded everything.

Putting the tee shirts onto my desk, next to the doodling I'd done, an idea came to me. I first turned one of the tee shirts inside out, then used a heavy textbook as an anchor. Positioning the circle onto the tee shirt, I saw I'd have to stretch the tee shirt quite taut. Unlike the paper, the material of the tee shirt tended to bunch up as the point of the pen travelled over it.

But, after a few attempts, I figured out how to make a pretty impressive pattern. I took the tee shirt, turned it right side out, and did several patters in various shapes, patterns, and colors all over the tee shirt. I even managed to get one sleeve with a long oblong black ink pattern.

The next day at school, Sandra King, one of the cheerleaders, noticed my shirt. She came over and asked me where I got it.

"Made it," I admitted.

"Make me one?" she cooed, thrusting her big tits at me.

Sandra King was beautiful, in a classic she'll look like shit in five years, will be fifty to eighty pounds overweight, those big tits will sag down to her waist, will have two or three kids from two or three different fathers and will somehow still think she's hot shit sort of way. How can I say that? Let me introduce you to my mother. Being punched in the belly while carrying what would have been my younger sister just managed to end the cycle of repetitive pregnancies with my mother.

"Well sure," I said, smiling and Sandra beamed.

"I wear a size..." she started.

"For twenty bucks," I continued.

She frowned at that. Then she agreed. Again, she frowned when I told her I wouldn't even start on her shirt until I had a fifty percent deposit in my hand. And, she would not get the tee shirt until I had the remainder in my hand.

I don't know how many blow jobs she had to give, but by fifth period, Sandra had the deposit. Okay, maybe I'm not being fair, but I do know that at eight ten that morning, when she'd asked me to make her a tee shirt, Sandra had not had ten dollars.

There was a chain arts and crafts store on Johnson; I went there right after school. They had an unbelievable selection of pens. I bought one or two in just about every color imaginable. The cashier did give me an odd look, but I was more than used to getting odd looks. Wearing stained, battered clothes, having bad haircuts, having vinyl shoes splitting apart, I was immune to odd looks by now.

And by six thirty, I had a beautiful looking tee shirt. Sandra had said that purple was her absolute all-time favorite color and there were a purple or a lavender patterns for every one pink, blue, or yellow pattern.

And that's how Tees By Bert was born. Sandra's deposit had been ten single dollar bills. The next morning, she handed me two fives and then screamed in delight when I showed her the finished product. She ran away to the bathroom and changed into her new shirt.

By lunch time, I had seventy dollars in my pocket. Having a very well-endowed girl walking around in a tee shirt of your creation was a sure-fire way to garner sales. When I left school that afternoon, I had one hundred and ten bucks; eleven orders for a Tees By Bert tee shirt.

"Hey uh, the shirts? I, uh, man, they're pretty cool," Jonah, another eighteen year old reject said to me the next morning as I went around, delivering my goods.

"Thanks," I said, continuing on.

"But uh, you uh, you do anything other than just you know, those whatchamacallits?" he pressed.

Jonah Lawrence was into heavy metal, Thrash metal. He also fancied himself as some kind of guitar god. I heard him and a couple of guys jamming once; God what a bunch of crap.

He asked me if I could do a guitar and that intrigued me. I said it would be somewhat abstract and he laughed.

"Man, music is abstract, right?" he said. "Here."

With that, he handed me a twenty dollar bill. In the library, I looked up guitars and decided on a Fender Stratocaster. To me, the Stratocaster looked pretty metal.

It took almost three hours and I was exhausted by the time I finished. But I'd managed to get a spirographed outline of a guitar on a white tee shirt. Then I filled in the outline with spirographs of bright red.

"Fucking awesome, dude!" Jonah screamed when I handed him the finished product.

"Oh! That is awesome!" Percy Jacoby said. "Um, Bert, you do a horse?"

My first reaction was to pretend I'd not even heard Percy. He was another reject, and was quite often the target of savage bullying; both verbal and physical. It was rumored that Percy was gay; this guy said that that guy heard that another guy told this guy that Percy had offered to suck some other guy's cousin's best friend's next door neighbor's dick.

But, I had a good idea what being ignored felt like. And, whether the rumors were true or not, I didn't want to be another one of those guys, the kind that treat others like shit, just because of some rumors.

"Man! A horse? That, dude, you got any idea how hard that's going be?" I asked.

And it was hard. But, I did manage it. Snapping up a pen in a chestnut brown had been a true find.

Horses and unicorns, even a Pegasus or two was very quickly my biggest sellers. A close second was guitars. Fender Stratocasters, Gibson Les Pauls, and a couple of acoustic guitars for a few country music fans.

Another trend that helped sales was guys would give up their Tees By Bert tee shirt if a girl that they liked demanded their tee shirt. The results were sometimes comical; a four foot ten inch girl walking around in a Tees By Bert tee shirt that had been created for a six foot two inch football player. Or, Babette, an African-American girl with enormous boobs, stretching Nick Verdot's shirt all out of shape. But, it did help answer the question; yes, Babette did have a pierced nipple. I don't know what the significance is, but she only had her left nipple pierced.

-

Despite my flourishing business, I managed to continue getting top marks in my classes. I also managed to continue growing my portfolio of stocks. Our library had a subscription to The Wall Street Journal and I took full advantage of that, reading it during my Study period.

Shortly after our third test in Biology, Ms. Edwards called me to the front after class. In hushed whispers, she asked if I'd be open to tutoring a few students that were failing the class.

"Time is money," I said, very serious.

"It's for some of the cheerleaders," Ms. Edwards smiled.

As if that was supposed to sway my decision? Time is money, whether it's tutoring the pom-pom sluts of our school, or a group of nuns. On average, I was making anywhere from five to ten tee shirts every day; that took time. And that put some serious money in my pocket.

(Give me an A! Give me a B! Give me a C! What's that spell? Words are hard, words are hard, I'm a fucking retard, words are hard, go ignorance! Yay!)

Okay, maybe I'm a misogynist. Okay, maybe I have an extremely low opinion of cheerleaders, of most women. Let me introduce you to my mother, a former cheerleader high school drop-out. Yep, I've been taught by the best. Bert Jr. and my mother.

Ms. Edwards said I'd earn twelve an hour, tutoring three students. I liked Ms. Edwards, liked Biology, so with a sigh, I agreed.

The first one was none other than Sandra King. And when she learned we would be meeting in my trailer, Sandra acted like she would somehow become infected with a desire to live in a trailer if we met in my trailer.

Honestly, I was sure either a trailer or Section-8 housing was in Sandra's future. Because the trailer would be cleaner and better maintained, I was sure Section-8 housing would win out.

"Best of luck in your future endeavors, Sandra," I said. "By the way? The trailer? Fully paid for. Only bills every month? Utilities and insurance."

Sandra King was very nearly hopelessly lost in Biology. She had no concept of classification, phylum, and genus. I earned my twelve bucks on my acting skills alone. I acted like she had a shot of ever understanding the difference between a fruit fly and a fish. How in the hell do you not know was invertebrate is?

"Thanks Bert," Sandra said when my digital watch gave off the chime, indicating that our hour was up.

"Don't worry, we'll get this," I assured her, without laughing.

"You know, you're actually kind of nice," Sandra said, resting her hand on my leg.

"Uh huh, but you're still paying for this," I thought to myself.

"Oh? What you mean?" I asked Sandra.

"Well, like, when I asked you to do my tee shirt? By the way, that first one's still my favorite, although I love my purple unicorn; there's just something about that first one," Sandra started. "I mean, you were all like 'I'm not doing nothing 'til I get my money.'"

She even imitated my voice, dropping her voice down an octave or two. I didn't bother defending my position. I'm sure Sandra expected that people should do things for her, simply for the pleasure of doing something for Sandra King.

"But here? I mean, this is so hard! But you're not acting like I'm all stupid and won't never get this junk," Sandra said, her hand still on my leg.

"Because you're not all stupid, and you will get this junk," I smiled.

With that, she squeezed my leg and pressed her lips to mine. Her lips were nice and soft and moist. Her hand was nice and soft and warm.

When we came out of my room, my mother had just gotten home from another day of work. I introduced her to Sandra. My mother immediately jumped to the conclusion that we'd been fucking and started complaining.

"Mother, please," I snapped, in a hard voice.

That shut my mother up. Years of conditioning by Bert, Jr. played to my favor. I then explained that I had been tutoring Sandra. Tutoring. Not fucking. Tutoring.

"Bye; see you tomorrow," Sandra said, beating a hasty retreat.

I then did my own homework. After that, I did the two unicorns I'd been commissioned to do. I did think I was slowly reaching saturation in my current market. The orders were dwindling.

The second tutoring session was with Percy Jacoby. He wasn't as lost as Sandra, but wasn't far behind her either. We worked on the three tests he'd failed and by the time my alarm dinged, he just let out his breath and left the trailer.

Addison Comeaux was another cheerleader. Her curly blonde hair barely reached her shoulders and her eyes were such a brilliant blue; they almost sparkled. She was five feet tall, with slim hips, barely any swell to her backside, and hardly any boobs to speak of. But she was truly beautiful; the kind of beauty that would improve as she aged.

She just needed someone to guide her, someone to show her what was pertinent and what was not. We corrected the first test, reviewed her notes, and she managed to correct the second test on her own. She gave me a smile that toothpaste companies would pay money to photograph, then hugged me.

"Bet next time, I ace the next test," she enthused and bounded out of my bedroom.

Sandra and Percy failed the next test. Addison scraped by with a 'D' and all three wanted additional tutoring.

Twenty minutes into her tutoring, Sandra wanted to fuck. Future drain on society or not, Sandra had big boobs, a very nicely rounded backside, and a pretty enough face. She was wet and ready as she flopped on my bed and I put our biology to the test.

This was my first time but I didn't tell Sandra that. I have been studying pornography for years and put my observational skills to the test. She had a sparse thatch of blonde hair and had a slightly salty, musky taste. It was not an unpleasant taste and aroma, despite all the jokes I'd heard about pussies.

I must have done okay; Sandra had a noisy orgasm from my finger fucking, then my mouth. She told me she was on the pill; I didn't need the condom. But I had heard Bert, Jr. bitch and complain enough times about this stupid bitch and that lying cunt claiming they were on the pill.

I rolled the condom on and lined my cock up with her pussy. I have to tell you, I'm glad I had that condom on. I would have blasted my load the minute I pushed into her if I had not had it on. Sandra's pussy was hot and tight.

Sandra was an energetic lover. She may have been underneath me, my weight may have been pinning her down, but she moved against me, meeting me, thrust for thrust. And when she orgasmed, she did so loudly.