The ride into Nelson was a bumpy one at best. Blaine Anderson was the very last to be driven to town. The driver hadn't returned after the second trip into town, and he begrudgingly spent the night in the stopped train. He was sore from a night in the sleeping car, it was lumpy and cold in the bunks.
The scruffy, chubby man behind the steering wheel was trying to make small talk, which, no offense, Blaine was just not interested in engaging in. He had a book with him, and that would be enough to keep him occupied, but the dirt road was merciless. Anderson was used to riding smoothly over paved roads, sometimes just leisurely along the river bank. Life in Charleston certainly had its perks, but even little summer drives through the pleasant outskirt scenery. Yeah, he didn't live in Charleston, per say, but close enough to be a resident. Blaine was actually surprised by how uncomfortable he was feeling in the middle of nowhere, seeing as he had come from nowhere himself.
The book jumped in Blaine's hand as they hit another bump, probably a stone. It thumped out of his fingers and tumbled to the floor with a soft thud. Page ninety-seven became page one hundred twenty-nine. Blaine picked it back up, and have forgotten the number, dropped it onto the suitcase next to him.
"You got a sweetheart back home?" the driver asked gruffly. He sounded like his intentions were harmless, but he lacked people skills. Not good for a driver. Blaine didn't appreciate his taking the opportunity to talk as soon as he dropped the book, but ignored him rather than reprimand him. He wasn't exactly in the right position to be telling this man what to do.
He sighed deeply, breath fogging the window as he leaned his head against it. "No, no, no sweetheart... Women are a foreign species to someone like me." Why the hell would he say that?
"Ah, I see," the man smiled, pseudo-knowingly. He didn't really know Blaine, but he could always guess. "Girls not your thing? Don't worry, we get plenty of that around here. No churches, really: dampened morals, everything. Men 'round here, they do what they want, and the girls -or guys- just take it. You go down to the Sun Spot once we get to Nelson: you'll see what I mean. Guys there are animals. Beautiful dames, though, and the boy. That boy, boy, he's the main attraction. Angelface, they call him. They do. Gorgeous kid, Hollywood damsel-in-distress kinda pretty."
Blaine was only half listening when he heard 'Hollywood.' "I was on my way out there when the train stopped. What were you saying about it?" He was only half-interested.
"You got corn in your ears, kid? I was sayin' how that gorgeous boy at the Sun Spot is the biggest attraction of the whole damn town. Androgynous -is that the word?- yeah- Androgynous enough to be swooned over by guys who love their bit of ankle, too. Y'know, they like the ladies, but this boy ain't bad, not at all. No breats or nothing, obviously, but fine tail."
Blaine could only understand about half of what the man was talking about. Western dialect was so much different from southern, and even Blaine spoke more northeastern, at best. This terminology was all very new and strange to him, and though he didn't particularly dislike it, he sure as hell couldn't decipher it. "So... this 'Sun Spot,' it has a man who looks enough like a girl to, er, turn the men? Is that it or..."
"Not even a man, Jack, a boy. Sixteen or seventeen -looks more like twelve, though. Snowy flesh and narrow limbs, and the best ass you'll ever see. And I'm not even an ass man: that's just how good it is. First time I went, I tell ya, no idea it was a boy at all. Y'see, the kid's old man -he owns the joint. And the guy's wife, she was a real nice lady. She's gone now, she ran out on the husband and kid still in diapers. But real nice lady, still. And what a voice. She was a performer at the Sun Spot before it got all dirty, back when nobody hardly never came around cuz nobody in town wanted that kinda stuff. Well, after the wife's gone, Hummel buys the joint for next to nothing, and turned it into a real showhouse. You ever been to a cathall?"
Blaine blinked tiredly. He didn't wanna hear any more about this, he just wanted to get to his room and sleep until the train started again. "A cathall?" he patronized. "No, I can't say I have."
"Yeah, that's only what peoples here in Nelson call it, a cathall. Er, I think over on the coast people call it a burlesque house. Where oversexed guys pay to watch the scanty girls dance in their underwears and stuff. Well, the guys here, they're all real boozhounds, all of 'em. And when they're drunk, they can't tell hand from foot, so the Hummel guy got an idea. He had a pretty little boy, doll him up in half a dress and glitter and five-inch heels, he'd pass for a chick to those bottle fiends. And so, guess what he did?" A pause that Blaine left in silence. "He did just that, that's what he did. And the kid's the main event!"
Blaine nodded slowly, absently. He'd zoned out by now. He rested his head on the window glass, staring out at the rows and rows of corn. He wondered what the hotel would be like. He could really use a hot meal. And a bath. The train didn't have baths or anything. They had toilets, but Blaine didn't wanna know where the sewage went. Hopefully the beds were nice. Nicer than the ones on the train.
"Not like the joint don't cater to those seeking sexy woman tail. There is two dames who sing, too. This skinny redhead, Lucy Quinn, and, um.. a brunette Jew girl, Rachel -or Ronnie, or something. Her nose is too big, but she can sing, and she's got nice legs. Lucy's real pretty -like, Hollywood starlet pretty- but she can't do nothing on stage to save her life. Heard she run off to California to make it big. So she's out. Rachel's 'look but no touch,' not that e'ryone want to, anyhow. Angelface, he come down from the stage and that perky little ass is just perfect for touching. Boy, if he weren't a boy... sure lotsa the hounds woulda had their way with him by now. Don't look like he got much fight in him. Them waitresses and even the bartenders always got his back, though. Them girls will even spill the whiskey on ya if you so much as look at the kid the wrong way! I mean, why does he even come down off that stage if he don't want the attention and maybe a little feel?"
Blaine shrugged, half asleep. He wasn't even tired. Maybe if he pretended to be he could finally get the silence he craved. The man's voice was grating on his last nerve, especially when he had to shout over the popping engine.
"Y'know, you look like you got something ailin' ya. The hotel knows yer comin', they can wait up for ya. I'm gonna drop you off at the Sun Spot instead. Get yerself a drink and enjoy the show. You'll see what I mean."
Blaine Anderson was too asleep to argue.