His voice was low and wicked in the boy’s ears. His large, hot hand fumbled with his crotch. He grabbed his balls and squeezed, the blinding pain causing the young man to inhale sharply the acrid, sweet smoke, ending in a coughing fit. Then it was over
“See ya tomorrow shithead,” the man said, “and bring money, the lady ain’t free.”
The rush should have been all consuming, but it was secondary in his case, background. The sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears and the vision of his mother telling him he would be something, something…something. Flying to the moon and back was something, right?
Everything was on his right, even that girl who lived on Folsom, she was reaching for his hand but he couldn’t move. He could see himself smiling, but lifting his arm was out of the question, it was toooo... damnnn... heavy.
“In a minute honey-pie,” drifting, “jus’ one more minute.”