Coming of Age
By: Brock Archer
(© 2020 by the author)

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barcher@tickiestories.us

Chapter 10
Sweet sixteen

Johnny and I both were both born in October, just days apart. From our first away game, our birthdays were only a couple of months away, but we could barely wait. Dating had been difficult without a car, but come October, we would be 16 and able to drive. And sure enough, we both got our driver’s licenses on our birthdays.

The Andersens suggested that we have a joint birthday party at their house the following weekend. Mom made two birthday cakes, and Mrs. Andersen decorated them. Johnny’s was white and blue (our school colors) and adorned with confectionary football gear. Mine was white and green and decorated with leprechauns and four-leaf clovers—plus a 49ers helmet in honor of Mike, who couldn’t be there because he had a game in New Orleans that weekend.

Dad and Mr. Andersen took turns grilling hamburgers and hot dogs while the kids swam in and danced by the pool. Johnny opened his presents, which consisted mostly of football paraphernalia and memorabilia, but he saved a few that had been tucked away. A couple of the kids had bought me similar presents, but most of them hadn’t known me very long, and maybe they figured it was really Johnny’s party since it was held at his place. I really didn’t mind. I was just thrilled to be part of the action.

After the other kids had all left, Mrs. Andersen suggested that we open the remaining presents. The Andersens gave me a couple of shirts and slacks, and my folks gave Johnny the same. Everyone laughed at how “great minds think alike.”

We were surprised to discover that we had each received a package from Mike. Each contained a folding 8x10 picture frame with three panels. On the left panel, we had identical press photos of Mike in his 49ers uniform. Of course, they were autographed. The middle frame held a picture of Mike, Johnny, and me leaning against the hood of his cherry red sports car, a picture that Mom had taken and we had all forgotten about. Johnny’s third frame and mine were different. His was a picture taken by a newspaper sports photographer when Johnny scored his first touchdown of the season. Mine was a picture of me receiving my fist MVP award. I don’t know who was more thrilled, Johnny or me.

“One more,” said Mr. Andersen, handing Johnny a rather large box. When Johnny started unwrapping it, he discovered that there was another box tucked inside, and when he opened that one, there was another one, and another one, and another one, nested like a matryoshka, a Russian nesting doll. When he finally got to the end, he opened a small box to discover a key. “What’s this?” Johnny asked. “Well,” explained Mr. Andersen, “your mother has been pestering me” (Mrs. Andersen slapped him on the arm) “for a new car, so you get the leftovers.” Johnny was getting the family’s Lexus. I think I was thrilled as much as he was because now we would be able to go on real dates and not have to rely on anyone else to give us a ride.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Andersen, “it seems like we missed one.” I fully expected her to hand it to Johnny, but instead, she handed it to me. “What’s this?” I asked. “Well, open it,” said Dad, “and find out.”

“Don’t get overly excited,” said Johnny. “It’s probably just one box inside of another one.”

When I opened it, I was speechless. It was an illustrated guide to the Book of Kells, Ireland’s most prized national treasure. The Book of Kells, I explained to everyone when I regained my faculty of speech, is a richly illustrated eighth or ninth century manuscript of the four Gospels housed at Trinity College, Dublin.

“How did you know?” I asked Mrs. Andersen. “Don’t look at me,” she replied. “Johnny picked it out.” When I gaped at Johnny, he replied, “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve done nothing but brag about how you’re going to be the greatest Irish-American writer since Eugene O’Neill.” Everyone laughed at the faux sarcasm except me. I was still in shock. Johnny may have gotten the most expensive birthday present, but I got the richest one.

Though I had ridden to the party with my parents, Johnny insisted on driving me home in his newly acquired Lexus. On the way, he told me that he would call Cindy and Debbie, the cheerleaders, and ask them for a double date the next weekend.

When we got back to the farm, my dad said that there was a package waiting for me on the porch when they got home. “I put it on your bed,” he said. Johnny and I ran upstairs to see what it was.

“It’s from Italy,” I said.

“Well, don’t just stand there, signore,” he mocked. “Open it!”

Inside the box was a paper bag and two larger items. I opened the bag and pulled out two pairs of underwear identical to the ones that the Swedish girls had taken as souvenirs. Johnny and I laughed and said in unison, “Armando!”

I reached back into the box and pulled out two identical photo albums. They contained prints from Mike’s photo shoot, including the ones in which Johnny and I had served as extras, but they also contained pictures that did not appear in the ads.

Professional photographers take hundreds of shots just to get one great one. Armando’s camera was constantly clicking away, so he got some shots of the models as they repositioned themselves, which may explain why he had gotten some pictures of Mike totally nude. There was the scene of Mike sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, but Armando had also captured Mike before and after he crossed his legs. Armando had also photographed Mike standing naked in front of a dresser with an open drawer blocking his genitals, but his camera had also captured pictures of Mike when the drawer was closed.

The albums also contained photos of the other models that were not included in the advertising campaign, and in many of them, the models—male and female—were completely nude, and in a few shots, some of the male models were partially erect.

Some people, I am sure, would have considered those pictures pornographic, but I saw them as works of art, pictures that belonged in a museum. I had thought of Armando as just an eccentric, if not perverted, picture taker, but I now realized that he was a master artist.

I handed one of the albums to Johnny and hugged the other one to my chest. I was speechless, and I think Johnny was too until he noticed something else in the box. “What’s that?” he asked.

I pulled out two envelopes containing notes to each of us. The handwritten notes said pretty much the same thing, but it was gracious of Armando to have personalized them, I thought. In the notes, Armando thanked us both for “modeling for him.” Heck, all we did was stand in a crowd.

“You were the most beautiful models there—two of the most beautiful models I have ever seen, in fact. It is such a pity that Mr. Murphy would not let me photograph you more. I hope that someday you will give me the honor of capturing that beauty for all of eternity.”

For the second time in just a few minutes, Johnny and I were speechless.

That night, as I nestled in my bed, I spread out several of the sexiest photos of Mike against the footboard and leaned back against the headboard and beat off. I did not fantasize about having sex with Mike. Oh hell, God no! But I did imagine him watching me. I just wanted to show him what I could do. And when I blew my load, I would swear that I saw him smiling back at me from those photographs.

 The day after our joint birthday celebration, Sunday, we watched Mike and the 49ers play the New Orleans Saints on TV, and then Johnny and I went “cruising,” which is to say that we just drove, going nowhere in particular. Johnny even let me drive the Lexus a bit.

On Monday, Johnny told me that he had plans after school and that I would have to take the bus home, which was no big deal since it was what I had always done. When I walked up the dirt road to our farmhouse, I was surprised to see a strange vehicle, a late-model Ford Explorer in our driveway. When I reached the porch, I was shocked to see Mike coming out of the house. “Happy Birthday, champ,” he greeted me.

“What? How?” I stammered.

He explained that he had taken a slight detour flying back from New Orleans to San Francisco. “Sorry I missed your ‘sweet 16’ party,” he said. “I hear it was quite an affair.”

“It most definitely was,” I assured him, and I thanked him for the present of the framed pictures. “I think Johnny will prize his even more than the Lexus,” I laughed. “And speaking of Lexus cars,” I added, “how’s yours? Don’t tell me you’ve crashed it already. You haven’t lost that endorsement contract have you? Did you rent that Explorer at the airport?”

“No,” he laughed. “I believe that car belongs to ‘the greatest Irish-American writer since Eugene O’Neill.’”

I started to laugh, and then it hit me. “You don’t mean…you can’t mean—”

“Happy birthday, champ,” he said, holding up the key.

“What is all the commotion?” asked Dad, stepping out of the house onto the porch—as if he and Mom didn’t already know.

“My Lord,” protested Mom. “You’re going to spoil that boy rotten.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. It’s last year’s model,” he joked.

When we all went to get a closer look, everyone took a turn pointing out certain features of the SUV. “This is actually better than Johnny’s Lexus,” said Mike, nudging me in the ribs with his elbow. “The rear seat folds down,” he clucked.

“Michael Sean Murphy!” Mom scolded.

“Can I go show Johnny?” I asked.

“Well, it is a school night,” said Mom.

“Let him go,” said Mike. “If he makes anything less than an A on his next report card, “I’ll personally come back here and take back that SUV.”

Johnny walked back to the Explorer with me and said for me to look into the glove compartment when I got to Johnny’s house. When I did, I found two packages of condoms. I kept the extra-large set for myself and gave the other one to Johnny.

A couple of days later, just as we were finishing our supper, we heard a car coming up the driveway. Mom looked out the kitchen window to see a pearly white Lexus sedan coming to a halt. “Oh, it’s Emily (Mrs. Andersen),” said Mom. “Bill (Mr. Andersen) did say that he was going to buy her a new car to replace the one they gave Johnny.”

When we all went outside to greet Mrs. Andersen, though, it wasn’t she, but a young man nattily dressed in a blue business suit. “I have a delivery for a Mrs. Murphy,” he said, meeting us at the foot of the porch steps. When Mom identified herself, the man handed her a clipboard and said, “Sign here please.” When the man said nothing more, Mom asked, “Is the package in the car?” “The package,” said the man, pulling a set of keys out of his coat pocket, “is the car.”

As the three of us were oohing and aahing over the luxurious Lexus, a silver Ford pickup pulled up behind the car. When a woman clad in Dockers and a Levi’s shirt stepped out, we assumed that she was there to drive the man in the blue suit back to town. “Mr. Daniel Murphy?” she asked, not sure if that was me or Dad. “That’s me,” said Dad, and the woman handed him an envelope. Inside were a key and a card that read, “Sorry, Dad. Lexus doesn’t make pickups.”

Now armed with cars of our own, Johnny and I began dating much more frequently. In the early days, we often double-dated, sometimes with his car, sometimes with mine, and Mike was right: the fold-down rear seat was very useful.

The Saturday after Johnny and I became 16, we double-dated with Cindy and Debbie, the two cheerleaders we had made out with on the bus, and that was the night we lost our virginity—twice, if there can be such a thing—which is to say that Johnny fucked Cindy while I fucked Debbie, and then we switched partners and did it again. Of course, Johnny and I used the condoms that Mike had so fortuitously given us, and, without the others watching, I discreetly collected the four condoms, tied them off, and saved them for dessert.

No longer virgins, Johnny and I dated often, sometimes together, sometimes separately, though the double-dates became less and less frequent. Word around campus—and every high school campus within 50 miles apparently—was that we were boffing a different girl (or girls) every night, but that was just hyperbole. Johnny did date a lot, and I had as many opportunities as I could handle, but even with two new workers, I still had responsibilities on the farm, and I still had to study.

To be continued...

Posted: 01/08/2021