Farewell, Fair Child, Part 2

By J.J. Amirikhas

The book is about a young man's coming of age while going through four years of high school. It is autobiographical, but not an autobiography. It also has allusions to the story of Cyrano de Bergerac, and some references to Catcher in the Rye. It is in three parts, with a prologue and an epilogue. Part one covers freshman year, part two sophomore and junior years, and part three senior year. As mentioned, it involves the social and sexual awakening of a young man, and it covers the years of childhood to adolescence. There is also a brief section about the young man's native country of Iran.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664147355

Book preview

Farewell,

Fair Child,

Part 2

J.J. Amirikhas

Copyright © 2021 by J.J. Amirikhas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/09/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

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DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my mother. Rest in peace, dear mom.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

1. Jason Tristrum–main character. The story is told from his point of view.

2. Shahar Tristrum–Jason’s older sister

3. Aunt Charlotte–Jason’s aunt

4. Lucy Morrison–Jason’s cousin, same age

5. Alison Morrison–Jason’s older cousin

6. Milton Morrison–Jason’s oldest cousin

7. Jeremy Jensen–boyfriend and then husband of Alison

8. Cissy–Alison’s first child

9. Scottie–Alison’s second child

10. Rick Prozzano–Jason’s best friend

11. Russ Wessler–Jason’s second best friend

12. Mike Hoo–Jason’s third best friend

13. Gary Harlan–Jason’s rival for Mary Ann

14. Glenn Nelson–a fellow student

15. Mark Milner–another fellow student

16. Chris Neville–Paris High’s All-American boy, represents Christian de Neuvillete in the story of Cyrano de Bergerac

17. Lenny Clarke–Jason’s main enemy, brother to Salonne

18. Salonne Robinson–Jason’s main love, representing Roxane Robin in the story of Cyrano

19. Mary Ann Wilkins–Jason’s best girlfriend

20. Janice Martin–a fellow student, girlfriend of Russ

21. Deidre DeLovack–another fellow student, girlfriend of Rick

22. Lana Ling–another fellow student, girlfriend of Mike

23. Fiona Fleming–Jason’s favorite teacher

24. Mr. Lawson–another teacher, later husband of Fiona Fleming

25. Mr. Terretier–drama teacher

26. Mr. Oldham–Principal of Paris High

27. Amara Afshari-Persian friend of Shahar, Jason’s sister

28. Shahnaz Afshari–sister of Amara

29. Azeez–cousin of Amara

30. Ursula Brooks–artist friend of Jason

31. Bill Hartford–Jason’s first employer

32. John Livingston–Shahar’s boyfriend

33. Hassan–Persian landlord and sexual harrasar of Shahar

34. Amir–Hassan’s brother

35. Jacy–sister of Russ

36. Felicia Price–black bride’s maid and friend of Alison

37. Mrs. Musicke–receptionist at the high school

38. Mr. Birde–music teacher and choir leader at Paris High

39. George Dondass–a Greek student

40. Gillian de Conda–a Jamaican student

41. Fran Larsen–fat, ugly student

42. Richie–Mary Ann’s youngest brother

43. Jack–Mary Ann’s other brother

44. Phyllis Clarke–Lenny and Salonne’s cousin

45. Chute Sands–vicious sidekick of Lenny

46. Mr. Marco–science teacher

47. Mr. Parker–geometry teacher

48. Julian James–student

49. Stella–maid to Hassan and Amir

50. Rudy Justin–Lucy’s boyfriend

CONTENTS

PART TWO

SOPHOMORE

URSULA

Chapter 25

Chapter 26— Ursula And Lucy

HIGH SCHOOL—SALONNE

Chapter 27

Chapter 28— High School—Salonne and Mary Ann

Chapter 29— High School—Mary Ann

Chapter 30

AUNT CHARLOTTE AND FAMILY

Chapter 31

Chapter 32— Alison—the bosom

Chapter 33— Aunt Charlotte and Family

Chapter 34— Alison and Lucy

HIGH SCHOOL–PLAY

Chapter 35

Chapter 36— High School—Field Trip

JUNIOR

Chapter 37— High School—First Date

SHAHAR

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41— Shahar and Jim

Chapter 42— Shahar

HIGH SCHOOL-SALONNE AND MARY ANN

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

URSULA

Chapter 45

Chapter 46— Ursula–Male Nudity

Chapter 47— Ursula And Amara-Female Nudity

HIGH SCHOOL-R PARTY

Chapter 48

Chapter 49— Mary Ann

Chapter 50

SHAHAR, URSULA, AMARA

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

PART TWO

SOPHOMORE

SECTION EIGHT

Ursula

25

For about three weeks after my freshman year at the high school was over, I just lounged around the house, doing nothing, relaxing, taking it easy. During those twenty days or so, I was really glad to be out of school. Now I could watch TV at home in peace; I did not have to go to bed early to get up early; there were no impending tests or term projects to worry about; and, most wonderful of all, I had no daily homework. I was a free and happy young man, letting my days and nights go to waste and not giving a care about a thing.

But then Shahar grew irritated at my continued laziness and began nagging me to get a job, to help her out a bit. I was resentful at first at being asked to work. After all, this was my vacation time. But then I realized the advantage of summer employment. I was starting to get bored. Having something to do would occupy me and keep the doldrums away.

It was not easy finding a job. One third of the summer was already gone and the high-salary, high-interest occupations were snatched off by the ambitious and the alert. However, after a week’s toil, I managed to acquire a half-way decent job: assisting the driver of a bread truck in selling bread and pastries to regular customers on established routes near my home. The pay was only a dollar an hour, but the work promised to be interesting. I would get to meet a lot of people; maybe some young, nubile females.

The driver of the truck was a jovial, lively, pleasant fellow who was good to me. He told me jokes, most of them dirty, and on Saturdays he gave me cakes to take home for free. I liked him well.

I cannot say I liked the job well, however; I did get to meet a lot of people, but the people were old and decrepit; frugal buyers who were slow with tips. Their idea of a big tip was a chocolate chip cookie, or maybe a cup of cocoa.

But then, as the summer months rolled by, I came to like my job more and more, mainly because of the return of the customers who had been away on vacations; customers whom I had not seen before: namely one Ursula Baines Brooks.

Ursula was in college and she was tall and tanned with light brown hair and sky blue eyes. She was a honey. She lived in the same apartment complex that we occupied. She lived alone, except for a cat, and she had gone away to an art school for a month. Bill Hartford, my boss, supplied me with the dope on her.

Bill also related an incident concerning Ursula and himself to me that I found hard to believe, though it was plausible, I suppose. One day, before my arrival to help him, Bill went up to Ursula’s apartment to sell her some pastry, he said. He was overloaded that day and he had to get rid of a lot of stuff. As Ursula was normally a good buyer, he planned to unload as much foodstuff on her as possible.

Ursula opened the door of her first floor apartment for him wearing a peignoir with the ribbon at its neck undone. She must have just gotten up, even though it was around noon, Bill thought. She invited Bill in and closed the door behind him. In the kitchen, Bill put the food basket on the table to show her his wares. But Ursula seemed more interested in showing him her wares.

While he was talking, she bent over to see what he had in the basket. With the movement, her gown flapped open and Bill could see she wore no bra. My god, but she’s got nice ones, he thought. He took a deep breath and tried not to stare too hard down her neck-line. She bent over still more till she almost fell out of her gown. She chanced to glance up then and caught Bill ogling her bosom.

Can you do business while looking in there? She asked him, pertly.

Bill was at a loss for words.

Nice pastry, hmm? She went on, tauntingly.

Bill could think of nothing to say.

Do you have pastry like that in your basket?

Bill sputtered a little.

Do you?

Bill sputtered a little more.

Would you like to make a trade?

Uhnggggghh?

I’ll give you a taste of my pastry, if you give me some of yours, she offered. From your basket. I’m out of money.

Bill gulped. I’m.......I’m a married man!

So what? Ursula countered. I’m not asking you for a lay. A little play won’t hurt anyone.

Bill stared at her, flustered. She grasped his tremulous hands.

Uhhh........no........no...... he mumbled, but he could not resist her.

She drew his hands to her, slipped them inside her peignoir.

So warm and soft she was, Bill related to me nostalgically, his mouth drooling. And so full......

Feel my hot cakes, Ursula said to him. I know you want to. Don’t they feel good?

They certainly did. Bill cupped them happily, though anxiously.

In a moment, Ursula took him into her bedroom, sat him down beside her on her unmade bed. She lowered her gown to her waist, and let him kiss and fondle her hot cakes as much as he desired.

Bill ended up leaving his entire basket of pastries behind.

I did not believe much of his bawdy tale. It was probably greatly exaggerated, if true at all. Bill tended to speak parabollically. And apocryphally. Ursula probably flashed him a thigh, or maybe her nightie accidentally fell open and got Bill all stirred up.

Ursula was a bit on the wild side, however, I had to admit. I never saw her in negligees–unfortunately–but she did like to wear clothes that accentuated her lithe figure: short skirts, blouses with cleavage, tight designer jeans, knit shirts that seemed molded to her body. She had a good body, and she didn’t mind exhibiting it.

Still, Bill Hartford was, to put it bluntly, a dirty old man. At age fifty he drank, smoked, cursed a blue streak, and he was an avid collector of erotica; or, in simple terms, dirty pictures.

He was continually promising to bring in some pictures he had collected over the years, some gems. I did not believe he had any such pictures till he brought in selections from his porno library and showed them to me. There were about two dozen of them, dealing with couples engaged in acts of intercourse and various sexual perversions. The photos shook me up some. They were explicit. I didn’t know people did such things. Grown people.

The playmate of the month in Playboy was decidedly tame in comparison to what Bill showed me. Decidedly. For my money, though, I would take the playmate of the month over the other pictures any time.

Ursula had moved into the apartment complex that we occupied recently–like us: Shahar and me. It was a vast complex. She had three rooms, including a cozy kitchenette–like us–and she had dressed up her livingroom walls with paintings; her own paintings.

They were good, the paintings. She had talent as an artist, I thought. There was a painting of a nude on her center wall that was particularly striking; at least to me.

Did you really do that yourself? I asked her on one of my selling trips to her place.

She nodded. Uh-hm. Not really one of my better efforts. I have some in school that are finer.

This one looks pretty fine to me, I affirmed, standing close by the wall where the painting was hung.

Does it?

Yes.

She strolled over to stand beside me, counting change in her palm. Our first model, she reminisced. She was kind of heavy, but had a nice body. Like me. She smiled.

Yes, I accepted. But you’re not heavy. Not at all.

You’re sweet. She paid me for the stuff she had bought, leaving me a generous tip. That’s for being sweet, she said.

Thank you.

Are you interested in art, or just naked girls? She asked, teasingly.

I like art. I took it in school last year.

Did you?

Uh-hum.

How did you do?

Okay. Got a B.

You’ll have to show me some of your work. Maybe I can help you with it.

Okay.

And I’ll show you some more of my work. I have a few other nudes in school you might find interesting. Another smile.

Mmmmmmm......Uhhm......can I draw you? I asked her.

Would you like to?

Yes.

All right.

Mmmmm......Uh......can I draw you.....like that? I pointed to the nude on the wall of her livingroom, blusterfully.

You mean nude?

I nodded hopefully, remembering Bill’s story, grinning, flushing furiously.

Ursula crossed her arms over her chest, watching me in amusement. She was wearing a tight knit shirt and cut-off jeans, and sandals. Her jeans were real tight, and short.

Ever seen a fully nude girl? She asked me.

Uhhhh.......not lately.

Mn. But you’d like to.

Uhmm.......yes! I flushed again.

Ursula laughed, her sky blue eyes gleaming. Well, we shall see, she said promisingly. After all, it’s only skin.

Skin, indeed!

I liked Ursula’s nude paintings better than the porn pix Bill had shown me also. The paintings showed skill, taste; while the porno pictures showed neither. The pix were gross, unerotic. There’s nothing really stimulating about a couple of people on top of each other, in various acrobatic positions. While the sight of a beautiful woman’s body can be quite stimulating. In my view of things, anyway.

And I still wouldn’t believe what Bill had recounted to me about Ursula and himself. What would she want with an old fogy like Bill–her fondness for pastry notwithstanding? Wishful thinking it was, I felt, on Bill’s part. He had related to me what he had probably wanted to happen.

26

Ursula and Lucy

On the following Sunday, I met Ursula Brooks, my collegiate neighbor, on the way to church. I went to church alone. Shahar was generally too busy to go. She worked hard all week, as a secretary in the Schering Drug Corporation, and on weekends she had household duties. Had we had a car, she might have accompanied me, but without a car, it was difficult for her.

I was crossing the street when a red Chevy convertible pulled up to the curb ahead of me, braking sharply. I looked up, startled. Ursula smiled and waved her arm at me. She wore a red scarf about her neck and fancy sunglasses shaded her eyes.

Hi, she called, appraised my navy blue suit. Going to church?

Yes, I returned, stopping by the car and leaning over the front passenger window. Are you?

Yes. Jump in. I’ll give you a lift.

Thanks. I opened the door and slid inside. What church are you going to?

The Catholic Church on Park Avenue. She lifted her foot off the brake pedal and pressed it on the gas. Pressed it hard. The car leaped forward with a screech and zoomed down the road. Where are you going?

To the Protestant Church on Main Street.

It’s on my way. She glanced aside at me. You’re not Catholic?

I shook my head. Everyone around here seems to be. I’m outnumbered.

I’m Catholic only in name. I’m not very religious, really. I’m not even sure I believe in God.

I gazed at her in astonishment. You don’t believe in God? You’re an atheist?

More an agnostic, I would say. I just don’t know. I don’t bother to think about it.

Why do you go to church then?

I don’t know. Force of habit, I guess. A Catholic upbringing is hard to shake.

She stopped for a red light and I leaned back in my seat. Dressed in her Sunday clothes and her light brown hair arranged neatly under a beige hat, and with the red scarf and sunglasses she was a fetching figure. I pondered her disavowal of God and church. Curious how many attractive girls were irreligious. Shahar was another one, though she was by no means an atheist, or an agnostic. She was just too busy. I guess with so many other things to do, the girls simply had no time for religion.

The light changed and the car leaped forward again. She made a sharp turn into Grove Street, a couple of blocks from my church, and I was thrown against her. My hand brushed on her uncovered thigh and I let it linger there a moment before drawing it away. Ursula had fine legs, long and tanned, displayed charmingly now in a short beige skirt. Not very churchly attire.

She laughed. I’m a reckless driver, she confessed.

So I see.

I love to drive fast. I love anything fast.

Mn. I kinda like things slow.

There’s only one thing that I like it to be slow.

What’s that?

Never mind. You’re too young. Humph.

After a moment, I asked her, Who’s your favorite painter?

Gaugain, she replied unhesitently.

Figures. "Why?

Well, he was the one who denounced God and religion and everything, wasn’t he?

She waved her hand. Oh, I don’t like him because of that. That has nothing to do with it. I like his art; especially, his nudes.

You think he’s better than, say, Cezanne?

Cezanne didn’t do much with nudes. Matisse, you mean, maybe.

Yes. Matisse.

I think so. Gaugain’s nudes are more lifelike, realistic. They are also more pagan. I like pagan art.

Because you’re pagan yourself? I grinned at her.

You think I’m pagan?

You seem to be.

Maybe I am.

We were on Main Street now and she pulled to a squealing stop in front of my church. Here we are, she said.

Thanks for the ride, I said.

That’s okay. She drew her skirt up some, to get it out of her way. Don’t pray too much now. She smiled.

Muhhhn. My eyes riveted on her bare flesh.

Ursula chuckled. I bet you’re not thinking very churchly thoughts.

Uhhnnn....n-no….

She drew her skirt up higher. Pagan enough for you? She mused.

Muhhhnnn….

Like what you see? Uhnnm.....Y-Yesss….

Want a little feel before you go? She asked me. Uhnnn…….

She took my hand in hers and drew it to her thigh, moved it over her creamy flesh.

She gunned away down the street after I got out of the car, and made a right turn at the next intersection, hardly applying her brakes. I shook my head, sighed. Some girl. A pagan and an agnostic. Hardly fit company for a moral being like me. Ha. But she was nice. And she had nice thighs.

I saw Lucy in church. She had come with Aunt Charlotte. Lucy did not usually accompany her mother to church and I was glad she had come this time. Now the service would be halfway interesting and I would not be bored out of my gourd during the sermon.

The church as an institution in America was a failure. At least the church I went to was. Its membership was small, consisting mostly of middle-aged and old people, and the minister was old himself. He had to be sixty or more. Perhaps twenty people in the entire congregation were younger than thirty, and they showed up only on Christmas and Easter and maybe on Palm Sundays; and occasionally on a communion Sunday. The indifference and apathy of the members of the church was markedly apparant every regular worship day. The lack of youth was particularly distressing. Lucy and I were the only representatives of the teen age class in the church. And Lucy did not come that often.

That was not the case in Iran, I remembered. The church in Iran was strong, crowded, and reverently energetic. But perhaps that was because we were an oppressed minority there, Christians, in a land of Moslems, and the oppressed tend to band together staunchly.

I sat next to Lucy in the back row, happy to see her there. Like Ursula, she had on her Sunday best and looked prim and peachy. Her white-blonde hair was gathered under a light blue scarf and she wore a sky-blue outfit and bluish pumps that, along with her blue- grey