The Drone

Someone knocked on his door. Hard. "Biff?" his Mom hollered. "What is that noise?"

There were so many things wrong with the situation that Biff had no idea where to start making himself look innocent other than by responding, "Huh?"

"Open this door, please!" his Mom cried, knocking again.

"Coming!"

He frantically wrapped the towel around his waist, but his erection distended the front. Glancing back, he saw the drone had left. Biff unlocked the door, and as it opened, he sat on his bed, covering his boner with his hand.

She twisted the handle and shot into the room, asking, "What in the blazes is going on in here, Biff?"

He hadn't had time to come up with a fitting lie, so he told the truth. "There was a drone at my window when I came out of the shower."

"A drone? Was that the buzzing sound I heard?"


"Yeah, it was at my window."

"Why is your window open? And why are you using your father's binoculars?"

"I couldn't see what it was, so I opened the window and used the binoculars."

"Oh," she responded, placated for the moment. Then, a scowl drew across her eyes and she said, "What was it doing? Did it have a camera? Was it looking at you?"

"I don't know."

"Was it peeping?" she asked. Then, before Biff could respond, she almost yelled, "Was it Fatima Jamali's drone?"

"I don't know, Mom."

She strode to the window, scanning the sky and snatching closed the screen, the window, and finally, the blinds. She walked toward him, finger extended back at the window. "If you ever see that drone again, you will let me or your father know, understand?"

"Yeah."

"I will not have some teenaged succubus sneaking peeks at my son."

"No."

"Okay," she said. "Okay, well, keep a sharp lookout."

"I will."

"And going forward, keep your blinds shut at night."

"Yeah."

She glanced at his towel and the hand he used to hide his erection.

Biff glanced at his groin.

"Biff...," she didn't finish. Biff's Mom looked at the window and then back to Biff. "Biff, wh—why would...I don't...oh, never mind."

Biff stared at the floor, embarrassed.

"Well, good night, sugar."

"'Night, Mom," he mumbled.

She kissed his hair and left.

It took some time to forget about both the awkward moment with his Mom and the fact that he had almost been caught. He was helped there by the memory of what the girl with the drone had asked him to do.

She had wanted to see his balls.

When Biff objectively considered his own body and the bodies of males, in general, he could think of no more repulsive part of the anatomy than the scrotum. This was especially true when he considered this matter from his version of a female perspective.

Girls, in his experience, didn't like droopy, crinkly things. How could some girl who appreciated rock-hard pecs and six-pack abs also like looking at a soft, wrinkly, weirdly hairy sack of nuts? It didn't make any sense.

Beyond that, even, was the fact that she had wanted to see him hold and rub his balls. Did girls find that hot?

He couldn't imagine why.

As drowsiness saturated his mind, Biff decided he absolutely had to know who this girl was. He had to assign a face to these strange preferences.

So, was it Fatima or Shefali?

***

The drone did not appear on Saturday night, nor did it appear the next weekend where Biff ran at the state track meet, winning the All-Class Gold in the 110 Highs and finishing second in his class in the 300 Intermediates. He broke the school's 300 record by one-hundredth.

The drone finally appeared again the weekend after state track—graduation weekend.

Biff and his close friends decided to meet up with the rest of the class down at "The Barn"—an old, abandoned barn on remote property that happened to be owned by a family with several children in the school district, one of whom was in Biff's class.

Biff hated events like these, but after winning in state track, he was kind of a class hero. More importantly, he knew high school was almost over. Some of these people he might never see again. Maybe, he decided, I can go for a few hours.

One of his friends brought a bottle of cheap vodka purchased for him by an older brother, and Biff gulped wincingly through two strong drinks before calling it quits.

People were surprised to see him at a party.

"Hey, look who's here!"

"Biff? Oh, my gosh!"

"Hey, everyone, look! The state champ's got a drink!"

"Are we sure that's not water?"

And so on.

It seemed to Biff that almost all of his 247 classmates were there.

Even Fatima Jamali was there, drinking with a couple of her friends.

Biff made the rounds, chatting with people, accepting congratulations, and talking about the future, but he kept glancing at Fatima.

With two belts of alcohol in him, Biff itched his lower lip with his upper teeth, eyeing the big girl, and then he walked over.

She was red-faced and smiley. When she saw him, she screamed, "My neighbor!" Then she threw her arms around Biff and squeezed her tits into him.

The effusive friendliness stunned Biff, but he knew alcohol probably factored into it.

When she released him from the bear hug, she looked him squarely in the eyes and announced, "I've got you on video."

Biff swallowed. Was this an admission? He said, "I'm sorry. Come again?"

"Your hurdle races at the state track meet," she explained. "They were amazing! I'm sorry I never went to any meets, but my Mom recorded it."

"Oh."

"I showed Tina and Viv—they didn't go to the meet, either—and we agree, you look really, really...," she paused, looked at her friends, and finished, saying, "...fast."

The three girls laughed at some kind of inside joke.

Biff suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

Then, a hammer stroke fell. Tina, drunk as hell and slurring asked, "You ever hit your balls on the hurdles when you go over them?"

Uproarious laughter ensued from all three. Cackling, Fatima fell into Tina, leaning on her for support and spilling some of her drink on the floor.

Biff tried to smile and said, "I—uh—I do my best to make sure that doesn't happen."

Doubled-over laughter continued, so Biff politely excused himself.

He drove himself home and streamed a movie alone in the basement. He didn't really watch it, though. He was seething with embarrassment and rage at Fatima.

There wasn't an inkling of doubt in his mind that she was behind the drone, and like a fool, he had played into her trick.

Showing it to her friends!

Biff imagined them in the Jamali house, excitedly loading up the videos of the ugly boy across the street. What an idiot? they would say. Yeah, how stupid can you get? He'll just take off his clothes for a drone? And stroke his balls for the camera! Well, when you're ugly, you're hand is all you have!

When, Biff wondered, will the video of me massaging my nut sack go online?

Fuck me, I'm fucked.

Just after midnight, the show ended and Biff marched up the stairs to his room on fire with fury. A part of him hoped she was there with her drone tonight.

She wouldn't be, of course. Like most of them, she would be out, he knew, nearly all night celebrating.

When Biff flicked on the light in his room, however, the familiar buzzing sound suddenly revved. He ran to the window and snatched up the blinds.

There was the drone.

And there was Fatima at the window. She put her hand on the glass.

Biff's eyes flashed like a predator's. The hand-on-the-glass gesture from her always seemed so forlorn in the past. Behind it, Biff always felt like he sensed a person trying to connect with him. Now, it was just mockery.

He calmly turned around and shut off the light in his room. Instead of returning to the window, he swooped down the stairs and out the front door.

She was there. She saw him, but she didn't move.

He walked across his front yard and across the street. He passed over into the Jamali front yard, fists balled.

He looked up at the window, and he slowed down.

He looked harder, and he stopped in cold disbelief.

Not Fatima, not Shefali, but Mrs. Jamali was looking down at him from the window with the controller in her hands. Biff instantly knew from her bearing and subtle movements that it was Mrs. Jamali and that it had always been her.

It was inconceivable. It could not have been her, but somehow it was.

He took a clumsy backward step and he fell on his ass, eyes still locked on Mrs. Jamali. He thrust himself back to his feet and turned away from her. His feet rapidly propelled him home, and he ran upstairs to his window.

He looked across the street. She was there. She put her hand on the glass.

Biff dropped his blinds shut.

***

He refused to accept what his eyes had seen.

It was nearly impossible for Biff to believe that it hadn't been Fatima all along, especially after her and her friends' jibes and innuendos earlier that evening.

"So, that had just been a coincidence?" he asked himself with incredulity.

He tried to convince himself that no mother would ever, ever use a drone to peep on a neighbor kid. Older people didn't do stupid shit like that. It was a total kid thing.

And no mother could be interested in him that way. Sure, it happened, he supposed, but not to him. He wasn't good-looking enough. Plus, Moms wanted dads. Mrs. Jamali was a Mom. A Mom.

Between these denials, Biff whispered curses, remembering what he had done.

"Showing my dick to Mrs. fucking Jamali!"

"Massaging my balls in front of her! Shit!"

Slowly and with a grave and sickening comprehension, Biff could no longer deny it.

He hissed, "I can't go over there and mow her fucking lawn!"

But he did. He couldn't think of a more flustering moment in his life as he walked across the street on the Saturday afternoon before graduation.

Mrs. Jamali never showed her face. Biff mowed with his shirt on. Shefali paid him.

During the graduation ceremony, Biff saw Mrs. Jamali in the bleachers. She saw his glance and turned away. Afterward, Biff's parents stood chatting with her in the cafeteria when Biff walked up in his cap and gown.

"Congratulations, Biff," she said, extending her hand.

He took it, thinking about this same hand running the controls on the drone or pressed against the glass of her bedroom window.

"Yeah," he said warily taking her hand. "Yeah, thanks. Oh, and Fatima, too."

Her hand was warmer than he expected.

Mrs. Jamali replied, "Yes, I am very proud of Fatima."

She spun back to his parents, and Biff left to see his friends.

Summer began, and Biff mowed another week without seeing Mrs. Jamali and getting disinterestedly paid by the younger daughter.

***

The second Thursday in June was his Mom's 40th birthday.

Biff woke early from a strange dream—one where he needed to get through a door, but couldn't find any way to open it. When he sat up his clock read 6:19am. He climbed out of bed and went downstairs in silence.

He heard someone.

What was that sound? he wondered. Was it crying?

He crept through the front entry hall toward the kitchen where he saw his Mom. She stood in front of the kitchen sink, staring out the window into the back yard. She wiped her eyes with a paper towel she was clutching in her hand.

"Mom, what's wrong?"

She turned toward him and smiled weakly. "Good morning, sugar. I'm—I'm sorry about this."

"No. Don't—what's the matter?"

"It's nothing," she uttered, wiping the tears from her eyes again. "Can I get you anything?"


He stepped closer. "I'm okay."

Biff wondered if his Mom wanted to be alone. He considered leaving her in peace. Seeing his mother cry was a rare thing—Grandpa's funeral and when her friend, Lucy, died of cancer. But, he had never once seen his mother cry in this way—silently and alone.

He didn't think he should leave. "Did something happen?" he asked.

"No," she responded. "No, it's just me. I'm sad for me is all. Don't fret over it, please, sugar. And don't tell your brother or your father you saw me this way."

He came up beside her, and he gently put his hand on her back. He said, "Don't be sad on your birthday, Mom."

She turned away, staring once more out the window. She blinked through fresh tears, and finally whispered, "Getting old is no fun, Biff."

"You're not old."

She smiled in a bittersweet way, still staring ahead. "I am, and I'm crying because of what's lost—things I may never get to see or do; promises I made to myself that I can't keep and...and feeling old, feeling worn out and useless and...."

"And what?"

"And not myself anymore, not—now, don't be harsh when I say this, but I was a beauty in my time, and I see myself now. That's all gone, sugar."

"Mom, you're still beautiful."

She wiped the tears from her eyes and said, "Thank you" in a way that meant her son was being a polite gentleman, but not a very convincing one.

"I mean it," Biff insisted.

She turned to him. "I know you do, and I'm sorry to unload this all on you right now. I never meant to."

"It's okay."

She didn't respond. She turned back to the window, and she whispered, "It's just hard, Biff."

He remained beside her for a few minutes, and then she turned, kissed his forehead, and went upstairs without another word.

For the first time in his life of eighteen years, Biff saw his Mom as a person—not a Mom and not a wife. She was like him, he realized.

He wondered what she had been like when she was eighteen. She had hopes for the future, he thought. She trusted that some things would change and others wouldn't.

When Biff next saw his Mom, all was well. She laughed and smiled all through her presents and cake. She was herself, and she never once mentioned or even signaled through a look the event of that strange, sad morning.

But the memory of it bounced around in Biff's mind, seizing his thoughts one moment and vanishing the next, but always there, somewhere, working on him.

***

On Friday night at midnight, Biff drew open his blinds and stood half-naked in front of his window, staring at the Jamali house and waiting.

The curtains on Mrs. Jamali's window were drawn shut.

Biff's eyes strained at them, seeking out even the slightest ruffle of movement.

He gave her ten minutes, checking his clock every so often.

Nothing happened.

He decided to add a minute.

Then another.

And another.

Biff began a countdown. Thirty seconds.

When it expired, he started again, telling himself that at zero, her curtains would either part or he would shut his blinds and go to bed.

Didn't happen.

Ten-second countdown.

Again.

Again.

He turned to check his clock, sighing.

When he turned back, she was not there.

He went to bed wondering what had changed for him. Should he really be trying to restart this?

On Saturday night, he waited for her again.

Nothing.

On Sunday, Biff went over to the Jamali house to mow. A light rain started, and Biff wanted to get their lawn done before the big storm rolled through later in the afternoon. He checked the windows, but no one seemed to be watching him.

In the back yard, Biff decided to strip off his shirt. There was no need to. The sun was hidden behind low, gray clouds; if the effort of pushing the mower hadn't been keeping him warm, the misty rain would have made it downright cold. He did it anyway because he thought it might be a sign to Mrs. Jamali.

True rain began falling. Giving up on her, Biff counted down the rows in his hurry to finish. Five to go. Four. Three.

Then, he saw something—movement in the kitchen. He looked through the glass as he pushed his second to last row.

There she was—Mrs. Jamali. The sun's absence and the kitchen light made it easier to see inside the house. She closed the refrigerator, and she stopped.

Biff walked toward the window. The mower powered itself down behind him.

His sopping hair clung to his head, and his body shined with rainwater.

Mrs. Jamali looked resigned and wary as if she had been expecting some kind of confrontation, and here it came.

Biff stopped at the glass. The yard was about three feet lower than the base of the full-length window.

The two locked eyes for several moments, and then Biff put his hand on the glass.

Mrs. Jamali seemed to snatch her breath. She didn't otherwise move. Those stern eyebrows watched him.

Does she think it's a trick? Biff wondered.

Biff nodded, his eyebrows drew upward and his lips indicated the subtlest of smiles.

A beat passed, and then Mrs. Jamali's beautiful, dark eyes softened. She offered Biff her own hint of a grin.

He nodded again and ran back to finish the yard.

When he pushed the mower into the garage, it was a downpour. His shirt, hanging over the handle of the mower was just as sopping as his shorts, boxers, and footwear.

Mrs. Jamali emerged from inside the house with a thick white bath towel. "I cannot let you go home like this. You should dry yourself, Biff."

"Oh, that's okay, Mrs. Jamali, you don't have to...."

Her hand pressed down on a button beside her, and the garage door closed. She came towards Biff. "Take off your shoes and socks," she commanded in her petite voice.

He tugged them off. When he rose, she approached him and began dabbing his face and hair with the towel.

Biff opened his mouth to thank her and tell her it wasn't necessary, but one look into the unwavering decisiveness of her eyes shut him up.

She worked down to his neck, shoulders, chest, back, and finally, his belly. She rubbed him carefully, not missing a single bead of water. The towel was plush and soft.

No girl—woman, Biff corrected himself—had ever been this intimately close.

"Now," she said, moving behind him and wrapping the towel tautly around his waist. Her breasts grazed Biff's lower back. Her arms reached around to Biff's front, and her fingers cinched one end over the other. Her thumb slid along his skin as it shoved the corner between the towel and his lower abdomen. The tip of her thumb delved briefly into Biff's pubic hairs. "Take off the rest of your clothes, and I will dry them."

A little water is no big deal, he thought. He twisted around to tell her.

Her eyes locked onto his. "Do it, please," she directed.

Biff reached underneath the towel and pulled his shorts and boxers down.

He bent to pick them up. She said, "Your socks, as well."

Adding them to the wet mass, he rose. Mrs. Jamali stood in front of him. She snatched the sopping clothes, saying, "Come inside."

Biff hesitated.

"My daughters are not here. They spend one month of the summer with their father," she stated as if reading his mind. She turned and strode into the house.

He followed her like a young soldier behind a veteran officer.

The place smelled like strange, delicious food—exotic spices wafted around him.

Competing ideas filled Biff's mind. This same lady, he recalled, was a divorced woman who not only actively sought to see his body, but also nudged and encouraged Biff to show her more—touching and squeezing.

Yet, Biff knew, she was an older woman and a mother, and he had always ascribed certain self-applied boundaries to females of that class. There was no way she was interested in him sexually. She would want a man.

It didn't occur to Biff's rational mind that Mrs. Jamali's excitement in seeing his body naturally suggested a desire for physical intimacy. Nor did it strike Biff that there were countless examples of people engaging in intergenerational sexual relationships.

In the end, the power of Biff's mind to self-deceive outweighed the simple facts. He convinced himself that Mrs. Jamali was only interested in looking. Her desires ended there. Seeing Biff's body fulfilled some fantasy of hers.

He was, therefore, willing to show his body. For one, he found that he liked it—a lot—and he missed doing it. Secondly, he felt he saw something in Mrs. Jamali that he only recently began to understand. She deserved to have some little dream of hers come true. He couldn't stand the idea that she might be depressed about her life and what might have been.