I had never heard of The Omaha Boys Choir until their tour bus pulled up to my shop one Friday morning.  The driver left the engine idling and approached me, saying he needed an oil change and general service, and that the shift linkage was sticky.  They were going to be in town until Sunday afternoon and he wanted to know if I could work it into my schedule.

            I have the only facility to service large diesels in town and I get a few old buses like this every summer.  “Sure,” I said.  “How will you be paying?”  Church type groups like this are notoriously flaky and I wanted to be damned sure he had the money.

            “You take Visa?”  He asked, fishing the card out of his wallet.

            “You betcha!”  I answered.  I don’t mind credit cards when I know in advance, so I can pump the bill up enough to cover the four percent fee that the bank charges me.  I ran his card through the machine and verified that he had enough credit limit to cover my bill while he cranked up his cell phone and made some calls.  He finally parked the bus and the twelve members of the choir filed off.

            They all looked to be between thirteen and seventeen and all were well-groomed handsome young men.  They stood around in the shade and shot the shit and played grab ass for a half an hour until a couple of station wagons and small vans showed up.  They retrieved their dress shoes, choir robes, and small backpacks from the bus and got into the cars and left.

               I see groups like this every summer; some Holy Roller church usually sponsors them, and members of the church feed and house them and do their laundry for them during their stay.  The driver, who was also the director, told me they had three shows in the high school auditorium, and then they were headed to Wadesville.  He even comped me two tickets for the show.

            I finished the job I was doing and then ran the bus into my shop.  It was an old GM 4106, which was standard issue for both Greyhound and Trailways back in the mid ‘60s.  It had a GMC 8V72 two-cycle diesel and a four speed manual transmission and two speed rear end.  A lot of these get converted to custom motor coaches that are worth big bucks, but this one wasn’t anywhere near that deluxe.  It still had the original seats in the front, but a crude bulkhead had been constructed part way back and the rear of the bus had been converted to a sleeping compartment with fourteen small bunks and a larger bed, presumably for the director.  A closet for the robes and the original small lavatory filled the raised area over the engine.  The widows on the back half of the bus had been painted over to provide privacy.  It was most likely just used for transport and occasional overnight sleeping and was clearly not meant to live in.

            I changed the oil and all the filters, checked the hoses and belts and injector timing, then tackled the shifting problem.  I had a pretty good idea what the problem was:  these buses originally had an inspection panel forward of the rear hump that could be opened to lubricate and adjust the shift linkage, but most customizers don’t give a shit about maintenance and they cover these panels with cabinetry.  The linkage can be serviced from below but it is a bitch to get at and is usually ignored during routine maintenance.

            I went inside to where the access panel is located and found that a small storage locker had been constructed over it.  I opened the locker to see if the panel was still accessible, and after removing a few tightly wrapped bundles I saw that it hadn’t been covered up and was still usable, so I opened it up, lubed up the linkage, and then checked to make sure it worked okay before reinstalling the cover.  One of the bundles rolled open when I picked it up.  ‘What the fuck?’ I thought.  ‘What the hell does a boys’ choir need with padded handcuffs and leg restraints?’  Maybe there was another use for them, but it beat the hell out of me.  Curiosity aroused, I opened another bundle.  This one held a stainless steel tool that seemed familiar, only I couldn’t place it.  Just then the phone started ringing so I rolled up both bundles, closed the compartment, and went back to my business.

            The director came by later and settled the bill, then secured my permission to leave the bus there until Sunday afternoon.  It was quitting time by then so I cleaned up and headed home.

             I was planning on spending the evening around the house but I screwed up and mentioned to the wife that I had complimentary tickets to the choir’s performance, in case she wanted to take one of her girlfriends or something.  Big mistake.  She conned me into going, saying that it would do me good to get out now and then, and maybe we could go to dinner afterwards, and then maybe get a little romantic later on.  Don’t ever kid yourself, guys.  Sex isn’t free, even for guys who have been married for twenty years.

            We sat next to Ron and Mary, a couple that we have known for years and are comfortable socializing with.  Mary happened to mention that one of the singers was staying with them for the weekend, and what a nice young man he was.  My wife and I hosted these kids from time to time when our daughter was still at home, but my wife got upset after finding a big cum stain in one of the kids’ bed sheets.  The idea of some horny adolescent jacking off in the room next to our virgin daughter freaked her out so much that we stopped participating in the program.

            The reverend from the sponsoring church opened the program by thanking the school district for use of the facility, thanked the audience for being there and extended a personal invitation to each and every one of us to attend the church, and finally introduced the director, whom I had all ready met.  The director explained a little bit about the choir.  It was an auxiliary of a small private el-hi school for underprivileged boys.  The school was located in Omaha and they toured the country every summer.  He also mentioned that they always welcomed donations, and then stepped aside as the curtain opened.

            I’m not a big fan of choir music but I had to admit that they were good.  The most remarkable thing to me was the range of their voices.  Although many were obviously older teens none had a voice lower than tenor, and most were altos and sopranos. They harmonized well and they had obviously spent years in practice and training, and despite my generally apathetic attitude towards this type of show I really enjoyed the evening.

            Later on, in bed, my wife commented about how hard it must have been to come up with boys that old with such high voices.

            “A couple of hundred years ago it was easy,” I said.

            “Huh?”  She asked.

            Back then they just waited until a boy had the right voice and then lopped his nuts off,” I explained.

            “Your shitting me, aren’t you?” My wife said.

            “Nope.  It was common practice back then.  A lot of boys were castrated to sing in the operas and church choirs.”

            “Well speaking of balls, let’s see if yours’ still work,” she said, turning out the light.

            Three hours later I abruptly awoke and sat straight upright in bed.

            “What’s wrong honey?”  My wife asked.  “Bad dream?”

            No,” I answered.  “I just remembered something.  Go back to sleep.”  She dozed off after a few minutes, but I remained awake most of the night.  I had suddenly remembered where I had seen a tool like the one in the bundle on the bus.  The local farm supply store had them on display.

            I went back out to my shop the next morning on the pretext of catching up on some paperwork, but instead I got out my old bus keys and took another look inside the bus.  Trailways and Greyhound both used master keys so that any mechanic could access their buses for service, and I had a set.  I went back to the storage locker and unrolled the bundle again and took another look at the tool I had found earlier.  No doubt about it.  It was designed to castrate farm animals.  As an afterthought I also examined the larger bed, and discovered that four eyebolts had been installed, one at each corner.  Interesting.

            “Hey Ron, it’s Lee,” I said, after Ron picked up the phone.  “You and the choir boy want some company this evening?  Sal’s hosting a hen party tonight and I have to get out of the house.”  Ron had mentioned last night that Mary had the duty this weekend.  Her mother had fallen and broken a hip a few months ago and was confined to her home in Riverton.  She had a live in caretaker that took Saturday and Sunday off, so Mary and her sister alternated weekends tending to the old gal.

            “Sure, come on over,” Ron answered enthusiastically.  “He has an afternoon performance, then I thought we’d pick up some pizza and spend the evening watching a couple of movies or something.  Come on over about six or so.”

            “What’s the kid like?”  I asked, knowing the boy was at the school singing.

            “Oh, he seems okay.  He’s sixteen but he sounds like he’s about twelve.  Must be a late bloomer or something, but he’s easy enough to get along with.”  Ron answered.

            I showed up at Ron’s place packing a magazine and a half case of beer.  Ron eyed the beer hungrily, and made room in the refrigerator.  Mary, his second wife, was pretty churchy and didn’t allow alcohol in the house.  Ron went along with her religion crap just enough to keep her happy, but deep down he‘s the same old Ron that he’s always been.   He is always careful to hide all the evidence and to cover his tracks, but he likes to indulge himself a little now and then.  He placed the hot pizzas on the coffee table, popped the top on a beer, and called the kid to supper.

            Nathan, or Nate, as he preferred, was a tall thin stringbean of a boy with a high reedy voice of either girl or a boy much younger.  He was almost totally beardless, with just a hint of fuzz gracing his cheeks.  He had long, delicate fingers, a perfect acne-free complexion, smooth, hairless legs, and as Mary has said, was a nice young man. 

           “Have a beer, Nate?” I said, offering him a can.  

            “Mr. Wilson says we shouldn’t drink.”  He blushed slightly with embarrassment.

            “ Then you should make sure that Mr. Wilson doesn’t find out about it,” I pointed out.  “Go ahead.  It’ll put hair on your chest.”  Whatever else he was, he was also a teenage boy.  He accepted the can, popped the top, and took a deep swallow, them belched and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

            “Thanks, that’s good,” he said, and set the can down and dug into the pizza.   The kid ate sparingly, as if he was a woman on a diet, and Ron and I finished most of the pizza ourselves.  Nate finished his beer, and asked for another, and by the time Ron and I were done eating he had also downed it.

         “There’s a really good article in there about the fall football lineups.” I said, passing him the Playboy magazine I had purchased, as if any kid ever really read any of the articles in Playboy.  He sat down on the couch and started paging through the magazine.  I watched him carefully.  He gave the pictures only a cursory glance and didn’t even open the centerfold, and the crotch of his light cargo shorts revealed no sign of arousal.

            He hesitantly asked if he could have another beer, then continued paging aimlessly through the magazine; just one of the guys sitting around on Saturday night, sipping beer and killing time.  Ron got up and went to the bathroom.

            “Hey Nate,” I asked, “When did they take your balls?”  Just your typical guy talk.

            “Huh?”  He asked, face darkening with embarrassment.

            “You know,” I answered, “How long have you been castrated?”

            “Uh, three years, I guess.  Mr. Wilson doesn’t like us to talk about it.”

            Ron came back into the room, zipping up his pants.  “We were just talking about Nate’s balls and how he lost them.”  I casually informed Ron.  He damned near shit a brick.  “Do any of the guys in the choir have testicles?”  I asked.

            “Uh, all the guys are like me except for Kevin and Josh,” Nate finally explained.  “They’re only twelve, so the director will do them pretty soon too, I guess.” He was slurring his words a little by now, probably as a result of the beer coursing through his young body.

            “Does he do it to all of the kids at the school?”  Ron asked, his curiosity aroused.

            “Naw, just the ones in the choir?”  Nate answered, yawning.

            “Did you just let him castrate you,” Ron asked, “or did he force you?”

            “We all let him,” Nate answered, not embarrassed by the personal questions.

            “God!”  Ron commented.  “How could anyone, even a kid, let some guy hack off his balls?  How could your parents let him do it to you?”

            “You don’t understand!”  Nate said defensively.  “You have a nice house and two cars, a good job, and all you want to eat and drink.  I didn’t have anything when I entered the school.  I was ten years old and living on the street, sleeping in doorways, and eating out of garbage cans.  My mom didn’t even care if I was alive, and I’ve never even seen my dad.  It was the best thing that ever happened to me!”

            “It seems to me like it must be illegal,” I said.

            “The director is my legal guardian,” Nate explained.  He told me that he’d always look after me, send me to college, and make sure that I always had enough to eat if I would agree to let him do it to me.”

            “Don’t the other boys in the school make fun of you?”  I asked.  A kid without nuts would have caught all kinds of shit when I was in school.

            “No.  The choir guys live together; separate from the other guys in school.  We never even see them.  Besides, I used to live in the other part of the school and I know what the older guys do to the younger boys at night.  I like it better the way I am.”

            “How does he do it?”  I asked.  “I mean, just how does he castrate you?”

            “Usually he does it at the school,” Nate replied.  “He gives you some drugs that make you real sleepy, then the other guys get together and hold you down, and then he clamps your ball sack with this thing three or four times.  It hurts a little for a couple of days, but after that it just gets kind of numb like.  Your balls get real soft and rubbery, then just kind of disappear after a while.”  That seemed consistent with the device I had seen in the bus.

            “Sometimes, if we’re on tour, he does it in the bus.” Nate yawned, then continued.  “He keeps the stuff with him all of the time, and when one of the guys with balls voice starts to change he does it right then, wherever we are.  If he does it on the bus he ties you down to his bed so you can’t roll around and hurt yourself. The guy can’t sing for a couple of days, but after that he’s okay again.  Is it okay if I go to bed now?” he asked.  “I’m really sleepy.”  He had finished the third can of beer and was obviously getting drowsy.

            “Sure, go ahead,” Ron said.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

            “Nice to have met you, Nate,” I offered, rising as he left the room.  Ron and I each got another beer and sat in silence for a long time, neither of us willing to discuss what we had just learned, until the sound of Nate’s snoring came through the door to his room. “He’ll sleep like a log with that load of beer in him.”  I offered, looking at Ron.

            “Yeah,” he said, as if reading my mind.  “Let’s go have a look.”  Ron got a flashlight and we both silently tiptoed into the boy’s room.  He had turned back the bed and crawled in, but had went to sleep before pulling the covers up and was lying on his back, snoring loudly.  Ron held the light so as not to shine in his face and I gently tugged the waistband of the boy’s boxer shorts down.  His groin was almost hairless, with just a shadow of light fuzz, much like that on the belly of a young puppy.  His penis was the size of my middle finger and was as pink as an infant’s.  Below it was nothing other than a wrinkled fold of skin.  He was indeed nutless.  I pulled his skivvies back up and Ron doused the light and we left him to his dreams.

            Ron and I finished the beer and then made sure we had picked up all the empties, then I went home.  Sal’s party had just ended so I helped her clean things up before going to bed.  I didn’t sleep well that night; I kept dreaming that twelve naked, nutless boys were holding me down, and that the director was trying to clamp me, but my balls were too big to fit in his clamp.  The boys were all singing and the director was phoning around to supply houses, just like I do for diesel parts, explaining that he must have a bigger clamp because he absolutely needed a baritone for his choir.

             I woke up the next morning exhausted, and I screwed around the house all morning.  Late in the afternoon I drove out to my shop to make sure that the choir bus had left town.  I was damned glad to see it and its passengers gone from my town.