Trent flicked his head, his hair lifting up to briefly reveal two eyes and then replied. “I don’t fuck’n care what you and your boyfriend fuck’n think cause I’m just fuck’n staying here until something fuck’n better—”
Mitch stopped him with a hand motion. “Can you fuck’n say fuck’n a fuck’n sentence fuck’n without fuck’n saying fuck’n fuck’n every fuck’n time you fuck’n say a fuck’n word?”
Trent screwed his face up in distain. “Yeah, I can talk without say’n fuck’n. But why should I fuck’n care?”
“Well, because you sound like a 12 year old who just learned the word and is using it to shock adults. Give it a break, Trent. I’ve been say’n fuck since before you were born. And actually I bet you can’t stop saying it because now it’s a habit,” said Mitch. He got a little glimmer in his eyes that Trent would years later recall with humor. “Actually, that’s exactly what I’ll do. If you can keep from saying fuck or anything like it for the next week, I’ll get you new clothes. Jeans, shirts, undies, the whole thing.”
Trent glanced down at his threadbare clothing, obviously intrigued. “And what if I lose? Do I have to give you head or something?”
Mitch ground his jaw briefly and then let the frustration go and ignored the blatant dig. “I have an 80 acre pasture that needs cross fencing. The corner posts have to be dug by hand since we can’t get a tractor in there. So you can dig them.”
Trent looked at him and considered the offer. He’d been on the street for months and had barely existed on what he got from tricks. Boorman’s money would have been the most he’d gotten in weeks, but that had evaporated when they had been caught. He really did want new clothes, and he thought he could keep from dropping the F bomb for a week.
“A’right, it’s a deal. I don’t say fuck for a week around you, and I get new clothes,” stated Trent.
“And if you do, then you’re going to spend a day digging postholes in some of the worst clay on this ranch,” said Mitch.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Trent with flick of his hair.
Mitch held out his hand. “It’s a bet then. Starting now, no fuck from your mouth in front of any of us.”
“Oh fuck no! That wasn’t the deal! I just fuck’n had to do it with you! I’m not fuck’n watch’n it with all three of ya!”
“That’s the deal. All three of us, or nothing,” said Mitch with a firm look on his face.
Trent looked at Mitch, calculating his chances and then made a counter proposal. “When I win, I get three sets of clothes.”
Mitch twisted his mouth slightly as he seemed to consider the offer, when actually he was trying to keep from laughing. He’d planned all along to buy Trent more clothes, so this would be a great way to get them without Trent feeling they were a gift. After an appropriate pause so Trent would think he was considering the offer, Mitch agreed.
“Ok, three sets of clothes. I think that’s fair. But if you slip even once around any of us, then you’re digging fence posts.” Mitch stuck his hand back out again. “Agreed?”
Trent looked at Mitch tentatively and finally took his hand and shook it.
Having saved his ears from Trent’s verbal assault for at least a short while, Mitch moved on the more immediate problem. Pointing Trent to a kitchen chair, Mitch emptied the medications on the table and started going through each of them with Trent. Filling a glass with water he handed Trent his first doses. After he’d swallowed all the pills, Mitch again stressed that if he didn’t take them all, and according to the instructions, they could come back. Having gone through the easiest part of the discussion, Mitch plowed on to the second.
“This is the shampoo with the stuff in it to kill lice, just follow the directions. Once you’ve finished, you’ll have to comb through your hair with the comb that comes with it and get out the nits. That’s going to take some time with your long hair,” said Mitch.
Trent took the box from Mitch, glancing through the directions, he turned back with an unreadable look. “What are nits?”
“It’s what they call lice eggs. The lice attach them to the hair shafts so they’re hard to get out. But if you don’t, they’ll hatch and you will have to do this all over again.” Mitch tried not to grimace as he continued. “If you want, I can help you comb them out.”
“No! You’re not f— You’re not touching me!” shouted Trent.
“Ok, ok! Calm down. I was just offering,” said Mitch.
“I don’t need your, damn, help.”
Mitch held up his hands and nodded. “Good enough. Let’s get you in the shower and I’ll throw your clothes in the washer.”
Mitch ushered the boy into bathroom and adjusted the shower for him. Trent looked at it for several seconds, and then began unceremoniously striping in front of Mitch. At first taken aback, Mitch quickly chalked it up to Trent’s recent life. Mitch was shocked at how skinny the kid was. He could easily count each rib. When his pants fell to the floor, his impression was amplified due to the hollow cheeks of Trent’s butt, the sharp bones of his hips and his emaciated legs and calves. Mitch was also slightly surprised at the elaborate, and intricate, tattoo covering one of Trent’s shoulders. The boy stepped into the shower without a backward glance, for which Mitch was happy. Grabbing the small pile of clothes to wash, he left a large towel on the side of the shower.
While Trent was cleaning up, Mitch went to the guesthouse, stripped the bed and threw everything into the washer. The pillows he ran through a hot dryer to sanitize them. Finally satisfied that everything that needed to be cleaned, was being cleaned, Mitch went back to see how Trent was doing. He quietly walked to the door to find the boy standing in the middle of the bathroom with the huge towel wrapped around him, struggling to get the nit comb through his shoulder length hair. Mitch started to offer to help again, but stopped himself and went back into the living room. Mitch listened to Trent struggle to get the comb through his hair for most of an hour. Eventually Trent walked into the living room and Mitch looked up.
“I can’t get this damn comb through my hair. What happens if I miss something?” said Trent without a sign of emotion.
“Then we’ll have to do it again. We’ll need to check in a few days to see if you have gotten them all anyway,” replied Mitch.
Trent struggled to pull the comb through again, but this time it didn’t move. Looking at Mitch with a stoic look on his face Trent asked, “What if I cut the shit off?”
“Your hair?” asked Mitch, more than a little shocked that Trent had suggested it.
“Yeah, cut it off.”
“Well, it would be a lot easier. Depending on how short you cut it,” explained Mitch.
“You got something to do it with?” asked Trent.
“Yeah, I have a pair of clippers. You sure you want to do that?” said Mitch.
“Yeah, cut the shit off. I’m tired of my head itch’n,” said Trent.
“Ok, I’ll get the clippers then,” said Mitch. A few minutes later Mitch returned with the shears and a handful of guards. “How long do you want to cut it? I’ve got a few guards to keep it all the same length.”
Trent looked up and unconsciously flicked his head, moving his hair for what would probably be the last time for a long time. “How long is yours?”