Message-ID: <40539asstr$1043140203@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: johndear@softhome.net (john) X-Original-Message-ID: Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: 21 Jan 2003 04:11:11 GMT X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 20 Jan 2003 20:11:10 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} ASSM} (Revision) "Caught" formerly "Not Caught" by johndear Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2003 04:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw Author: johndear Title: Caught Summary: A shy house painter evades the police but is caught in the end. Keywords: love story Length: 1,756 words Copyright: c. 2002 Caught by johndear Ripping off the traffic sign was Janet's big idea. She planned to take it all, the sign, the pole, the street names at the top. And more. I missed that then. "Two fucking bolts. Thirty seconds tops. Tops!" she'd underscored. "You get to keep the post and fucking 'Stop.' It's fucking crap to me." Her words. Not mine. Her expletives especially. My coffee table now -- a bright red, metal octagon atop two cinder blocks beside my sagging couch. A conversation piece. A lesson in the art of being stolen. * * * * * I'm Stephen Newcomb. Painter. Houses, in the summers; took General Arts and Science in the fall. I jog. And bike. Last month, I bought an old Gitane to get to school and back. To save the van for work. I jog to stay in shape. That's where I met her, met them both. Heather first, before I started GAS, before I got the bike. Heather ran the path along the North Saskatchewan not far from Pinnaird Park. People noticed Heather. Not that she was gorgeous, not like magazines or films. Just very nice. A quiet, confidence that made her more than cute. Okay, her eyes. Brown. But that's just colour. Puppy eyes. The sort of eyes that you could look at over cornflakes half a life and never lose your interest, the type that sparkle even when they're sleepy, just waking up, or tuckered out from taking care of children. It was spring. She was out of breath in sweats that hung in damp, unfriendly lumps against her body. But everything about her smiled. Not at me. She didn't know that I existed. Smiled at everything. I knew I had to meet her. It took awhile to catch her, though. A dozen times she'd breezed right by me. Finally, three weeks later, waiting at a fountain, I managed an approach. Winded. Out of words as well. My brain got stuck on strands of long, black hair, escapees from her braid, now trapped in perspiration on her cheek. I dreamed I'd weave them back. I'd take my time. Our kids would help me when they're older. "Are you okay?" "Fine," I gulped. "Steve," exploded with a second breath. "You ought to take a slower pace to start with, Steve." "Steve." "Build up kinda gradual. You sure that you're okay?" "Steve." Inept. I know. "Hi, Steve." She caught the errant filaments with gentle fingers, shooed them to her nape like mother hens might herd their chicks. "I'm Heather. I see you almost every day I run." "Paint." Then, "College." "Landscapes? Here?" She looked away from me across the sweep of boiling rapids. Clavicles appeared, then fell beneath the neckband of her sweater. I memorized her breathing. "Houses. Interiors. Exteriors. You?" Spaced evenly between my gasps for air. "I paint nails." I pictured six inch, galvanized and twisted. "Nails?" "Nails." She paused for me, as if I might be new at speaking English. "Manicures? Cosmetics?" "Oh." "We'd better walk. You're looking pale. I think you're going to faint." "True?" Could I have done it any worse? Been less impressive? No. * * * * * "Princess St." and "Janet Ct." Just that, the one above the other. "That's my fucking reason." "They'll know you did it by your name," posed Heather. "People call you Princess." "As if. It's way the hell out in the burbs. Not a chance in fucking hell." "So what's *our* reason then?" I asked myself, but Janet overheard me. "You always need a fucking reason? Fun! Because it's there. 'Cause I need the van." "Right." Futile. Heather's eyes found mine, or I found hers. We had no choice. She always overpowered us, always backed us in some corner with her voice. Maybe if we'd known her motives. Likely, not. * * * * * For weeks that summer, Heather jogged with me in parks along the river. Friendly friends, not lovers. I was working up my nerve to ask her out. A date. Romance and candles. Get it right or kick myself forever. "I finish up." (Pant.) "That house on." (Pant.) "Friday." "You'll have a weekend off?" "Might see a." (Pant.) "Movie have." (Pant.) "Have a meal." "They called me in for all day Saturday and Sunday. Bummer, eh?" That's the kind of timing that we had. By then, though, every time I rested, winded, she'd stop with me and jog in place. And when I turned for home or walked, she'd do the same. We were a sort-of-couple, at the least, that's what I thought we were, the day that Janet interjected. "I fucking hate this." Janet's introduction. "What?" "How do people do this shit? What's the fucking point? Race you to that tree and back?" I looked at Heather. She was looking at her shoes. One of us said, "No." "Fuck! I didn't think so. Fucking, joggers!" She was taller, leaner, and, of course, much faster, too. Her sports bra was defined behind a tight, white tee. She wasn't shy about her body. "Fucking rehab for my ankle," she announced. "Two fucking weeks of this before they'll let me play." "You play... what?" Heather's voice was soft as fleece adjacent to the jagged edge of Janet's. "Badminton. Tennis. Whatever's got a racquet. Fuck!" "Your ankle?" "Three weeks on crutches. Now, build it back with weights and fucking jogs." We raced. We didn't want to, but she made us. We gave it up. We're like that. Both of us. She beat us easily, of course, at distances she chose. And in a week her ankle healed in spite of breaking rules. It works that way for Janets. Never us. * * * * * We'd parked my van, the one I use for painting jobs, five blocks away. Heather was the driver. "Fucking wheel man," Janet said. We left Heather in the dark. She'd give us seven minutes, time for us to jog back down the street and do our work before she drove to Princess/ Janet. I'd open up the panel door. Slip the sign into the back. We'd jump in after, just as Heather pulled away. A piece of cake, I'd thought. "A piece o' fucking cake!" said Janet. One a.m. The place was desolate. A couple, running? Strange but not the kind of thing for which you'd call the cops. A little pack: my socket wrench. It seemed so juvenile. "Yeah, it's stupid, maybe, but what the fuck." Her voice was different in the dark. Not soft, but softer. She was right of course. It worked. Janet stopped to tie a shoe while sitting on the curb, watching up the streets for nosy neighbours. I hopped in place, and fiddled through her pack. Two nuts. Thirty seconds each. Then some phony stretches up against the sign to loosen it. Once the bolts were off, the rest was simple. Heather. Right on cue. I yanked it out and slid it in the van atop a drop cloth that I'd spread to muffle scrapes. The door slid open; closed; the van sped off. "Fuck! Right on!" I felt a kind of thrill. Knees shook. My heart beat fast. I'd never done a thing like that. I'd never painted swears along a hoarding; never broke a window just for fun. Now suddenly I had. Like joined a cell of activists or robbed a corner store. "Right fucking on," I aped. Heather drove. It's old, my van. The motor needs a tune. I doubt she heard me say the swear. I know she couldn't hear what Janet did. She might have seen it, though, by glancing back or even in the rear view mirror. Dim, but she'd been sitting in the blackened van enough her eyes were used to night. A shadow hand reached out and grabbed me, held me while a shadow head approached. And then our mouths were nested in a kiss. It must have been the thrill of stealing. Not getting caught. My knees still trembled. Whiffs of turp and latex primer blurred my brain. Janet's tongue was deep inside my mouth. Her hand was on my crotch. I couldn't help it. I was Jesse James. Or Robin Hood. The van rolled onto downtown streets that flooded us with light. Janet took my hand and held it to her breast. I don't how that happened, but it did. And when, at last, she broke the kiss, she almost screamed out, "Fucking A. I needed that." The way she said it made it sound like "that" was for the kiss and not the sign. Heather didn't say a word. Just drove. We stopped. Heather turned and smiled and said, "That's it for me. My folks live down this street." I looked around in panic. "You guys can keep the loot. Hey, thanks." And, "What a night, eh!" "We're going to my place? Celebrate," I begged. We'd had this plan, the three of us. Janet tugged my arm. I struggled with the sliding panel door. "I'm wiped. You go ahead." "Heather?" "I'll prob'ly see you Tuesday in the park." "'Kay." "You were fucking cool, girl!" Janet had her arm around my waist. "See ya, Janet." "Tuesday. By the fountain? Six?" I hoped. * * * * * Of course, she wasn't there. Never was again. It was easier for both of us that way. The night we stole the sign, I screwed things up completely. Princess came to my place for the party. Just a beer. A rehash of the heist. We laughed. She loved the sign. Seemed so happy that I let her have her way. She went to use the john. I heard the tap. She had a shower and didn't even ask. "I fucking smelled like shit," she said as she came out in just a towel. "Got a tee or something I could wear? Or nothing? What the fuck." That's Janet for you. Now she's back most nights. Oh yeah, the coffee table. Made by her. One evening we were lying on the chesterfield, a post-coital snack. Naked still, she tossed me grapes and cracker fish by aiming at my mouth. "You need a fucking place to put this crap." The bowl of fruit was cradled underneath her breast; the biscuit box was nestled on her pubes. "Where's that fucking sign?" The table's kind of weird, of course, and tippy, but I know it's here to stay. I like it, in a way. It's something stolen, something secret. Like the memory of gentle, soft, brown eyes. ====================================================== Please comment to johndear@softhome.net This story first appeared in Desdmona's Fish Tank. The original draft of this story and comments are posted at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Desdmona/www/FishTank/. Other works by johndear can be seen at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear and http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+