Chapter 8

Why the hell did I do that? I didn't shoot myself in the foot. I shot myself in the dick

You won't miss it. You don't use it all that much anyway. And how many times are you going to ask that question? I'm getting tired of hearing it.

'Til I get an answer I like.

Okay, try this. You're not as selfish as you make yourself out to be. You saved the kid a lot of misery down the road.

You already said that.

Really? I must be losing track. Then how about...You may look at the world through your zipper, but you really don't want to use what's behind that zipper.

No, don't like that one. And it's not true anyway. Try again.

There's only one left. And you're not gonna like it. It's the Real Reason. You knew he'd leave eventually anyway or you'd drive him away just like all the others.

Now that hurt.

The truth usually does.

I'm gonna have another drink. Want one?

No, thanks. I had enough two drinks ago.

Drink doesn't get to you, does it?

Kinda. The more you drink, the smaller my voice gets. How many is that anyway? Four? Five?

Four I think.

It's five, but who's counting? Did you get any dinner tonight?

You know I didn't. No lunch either.

So it's gona be a short night, huh?

Whaddaya mean?

I mean six is usually your limit. After six you don't stand up or walk too well. You're fun to watch though. Jesus, you're not even putting ice in the glass any more. It's gonna be a really short night.

Oh just shut up and leave me alone.

Can't do that, pal. We've got to talk.

About what?

You know damn well what. Randy...Hellooooo, did you hear me? We've got to tal...

I heard you! I heard you!

So what are you going to say when he shows up? 'Hey, nice to see you. Now get out of my life'? Or maybe 'I like you, kid, but I'm too scared to make it work'? Or how about 'Get out while you can, kid, 'cuz I've fucked up every relationship I ever had'?

That's it! Just shut the fuck up!

No can do, Bobbie Baby. I'm here for the long haul. You should be used to it by now anyway.

Besides, you're wrong. I didn't fuck up all of 'em. There was Tony. He left me.

Oh puhleeze. You were figuring out how to dump him when he upped and left. Saved you a lot of lying, didn't it?

Whaddaya mean?

Any of these sound familiar? 'I don't see enough of you.' 'You're not around half the time.' 'I feel we're drifting apart.' Jesus Christ! How lame! Every cliche in the book. That's way beneath you. It's a good thing you never got the chance to use any of them on Tony. He would have laughed in your face.

Well, they were true, so they're not cliches.

That's bullshit and you know it! You started working extra hours so you wouldn't have to face him. He wasn't around half the time because he had his own job and his own life. 'We' weren't drifting apart. You were drifting apart. Shit, you weren't drifting at all. You were paddling like crazy. And for what? 'Cuz you thought you had the hots for some brainless bagboy. And you dumped him before you even got to know him. With some kind of fucked up logic you convinced yourself that he couldn't possisbly be smart if he was that good-looking. Jesus! What a loser!

Are you crying? Are you crying? There's no crying in baseball! Sorry, just trying lighten the mood a little bit. You are so unattractive when you cry. Your eyes get even piggier and your nose runs and...What was that? I couldn't understand you with all the blubbering.

I said. You don't play fair. And he was not a bagboy. He was an assistant manager.

Yeah, right. Whatever. Let's get back to the original question. What are you going to tell Randy?

I don't know. It's been in the back of my mind all week, and now that it's in the front, I just don't know. What do you think? You're the guy with all the answers anyway, Mr. Hotshot.

Yes, I am. Here's a pop quiz for you. How serious do you want this to be?

Serious.

How serious?

The seriousest.

Jeez, you are drunk. Question #2: What are you willing to do to make it work? Presuming, of course, that Randy wants to make it work too.

I'll do whatever I have to.

I figured you'd say something like that. And that leads me to Question #3. Are you absolutely sure, positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that you can do a total 180 on this? I mean, we're talking massive behavior modification here. Take your time before you answer.

I can't say. I know I want to. Will you be willing to help me?

You don't need my help as much as you're going to need Randy's help. You're gonna have to ask him.

Whaddyasay?

Uh oh. Am I fading already? I said...oh, never mind.

Whazzat noise?

You just dropped your glass, dumbass. Have fun tomorrow morning with the spot remover.

Y'know, liked you lot more when you were a cricket.

* * * * *

Why oh why oh WHY do I do that? I woke up on the couch with my head inside some kind of throbbing turbine engine. Just sitting up straight made me woozy and the turbine thrummed a little louder. I stood but didn't move right away; I would have gone down like a giant sequoia. My feet felt like they were the size of loaves of bread. Falling asleep in a sitting position will do that to you.

Only one thing could help me now. Massive amounts of vitamin C and plenty of food. Okay, that's two things, but two is just a very large value of one. The people at Intel understand that.

There was a full carton of grapefruit juice in the fridge. I killed a fourth of that right from the carton. But there was no bacon, no sausage. Shit! I looked in the pantry and found my salvation. Corned beef hash. Dog food for humans. As long as you don't look at it, it's okay. I put half a can in a bowl, threw in some cajun seasoning, dropped an egg on top and put it in the microwave.

Usually I set up the coffee pot the night before, but I hadn't been in any kind of a mood last night to do that, so I had to build it from scratch. More grapefruit juice disappeared. There was a loud FWOOP from the microwave and I knew immediately what had happened. Now I was going to have to scrape exploded egg inside the microwave. The third time I got the carton of juice, I was a little too anxious and it spilled down my front. All things considered, it was a pretty good morning. Lord knows, I've had worse.

Cleaning the microwave and finishing off the dog food with a cup of strong coffee got me fairly awake, except that I still felt very, very tired. A couple of aspirin and a shower would help. The aspirin would take a few minutes to work their magic, but the shower was almost immediate in bringing me back to the world of the living.

In the bedroom I dumped my clothes in the hamper and lit a cigarette. The answering machine on the nightstand was blinking its light patiently waiting for me to let it do its duty. I pushed the Play button.

"Hi,Bob; it's Kevin. I didn't think you'd be up this early, but I'm wondering if it would be okay for me to stop by this morning. I've got some questions for you that I hope you'll be able to answer for me. Talk to you later." Oh great! I hoped to God that he meant late morning. I'd need as much time as possible to recuperate. My watch said 8:30. My God, I must have slept ten hours. Okay, so for most of that I was just unconscious. Same thing.

With another cup of coffee I could focus my eyes without a concerted effort and I could stand and sit without the turbine making a repeat performance. I was going for another cup when I decided that I couldn't really deal with Kevin this morning. My head just wasn't into it. He'd be loaded with questions and I wasn't in much of a mentoring mood. But I didn't want to stiff him either. Well, I did want to stiff him eventually, if you get my drift. But today was not going to be the day.

I went to the computer and rooted around the hard drive for a file I knew Kevin would appreciate. I printed a copy of "The Tantric Handjob", folded it and put it in an envelope for Kevin. I wrote a note on the envelope telling him that I was out doing chores. Getting your head together on the morning after is a chore for just about anybody.

I left the apartment with a beach towel and a destination in mind. I knew where I could go to clean out the last of the cobwebs and get myself ready for the rest of the weekend. I drove north on Kennedy Drive, the wide divided street that borders the "front lawn" of the college. Three lanes in each direction keep the traffic moving smoothly except when there's a football game, and even then the traffic is never at a standstill. It's just slow.

In a couple of months, the trees in the traffic islands would be a riot of fall colors rivalling even the Taconic Trail in variety. Opposite the main entrance into the college grounds was the walled community in which various school dignitaries lived. Jefferson Place has some of the best examples of Victorian architecture to be found anywhere. Massive homes, all similar in style yet each distinctive, the kinds of houses with parlors and pocket doors, formal dining rooms and servant quarters, and all of them landscaped meticulously. Hank maintained some of those homes and that fact brought him more business from homeowners who aspired to quality. I just wished I could afford the heating bills on one of those homes.

One of the nice things about living in a college town is that there seems to be more than the average number of trees. Downtown and the college area might as well be an arboretum. But the farther away you travel from those areas, the more you see the result of urban sprawl even in such a small town. The closer you get to Northside Mall, the fewer the trees. The mall area itself is completely treeless since it was the first mall in the area. Across Kennedy from the mall is the strip shopping center where Hank has his nursery and shop. Hank's emerald green pickup was surrounded by a variety of vehicles. Weekends are "gravy days", as Hank calls them, when you're in the plant business. The early bird gets the worm. And the early worm gets the shaft.

Not until you're past the interstate going north will you see more trees. At that point you're in "the country". Two miles past the interstate is the road that leads to Hank's house, and ten miles past that is the entrance to the Dettmeier Nature Area and Lake Lillian.

About halfway to the public beach area and campground area is an unmarked turnoff that looks like little more than a service road, just a narrow opening among the trees. That little road leads to a small open area almost halfway around the lake from the public beach area. This is the road to Bareass Beach, as the locals call it. The road was never improved and was little more than two ruts that grass and weeds periodically tried to reclaim. The authorities decided not to even out the road when they learned that the Brotherhood were using the area for "encounters". That didn't stop us; we just bought SUV's to find true love. Or a quickie.

At this hour of the morning, I knew it would be deserted, which was fine by me. A quick dip in the lake would hopefully bring me back completely to the land of the living. A Jeep Cherokee was parked at the near end of the beach area. Two kids were splashing around in the lake. They were wearing shorts, so I figured I'd do the same rather than bare it all. I didn't want to scandalize anyone or embarrass myself by displaying too much of my body.

At the farthest end of the beach area I backed the car to the sand's edge, got out and stripped to my boxers. A couple of boats skimmed the surface but they didn't seem to be aimed in this direction. I looked at the kids again. They were at least 200 feet up the beach and far enough out in the water that they weren't going to pay any attention to me, so I dropped the boxers too. What the hell, it's not like I'm out here trying to find a date.

I'm not that great a swimmer, certainly not a sprinter and definitely not an endurance swimmer. To me, swimming is pretty much staying alive in the water. Being in Hank's pool is one thing, but out here in the "wild" and alone, I won't go out farther than where the water is neck deep. I like to be able to touch bottom and still breath.

Still the lazy swimming to and fro, occasionally exploring the bottom to see where the man-made sand beach met the natural weedy bottom of the lake--my natural boundary--helped to bring me out of the alcohol-induced fog. To this day I don't understand why skinnydipping seems to amplify the senses. It's not just the hydromassage in the groin area, but your chest and legs and even your feet and toes feel more sensitive to the flow of the water around your body. It might be because there is more blood flowing from the exercise, but I couldn't say. I just know that I love the feeling.

After about an hour of this, I felt ready to face the world. Enough oxygen had been forced through my system to get my brain working right. I stood in the chest-deep water scanning for the two kids, but couldn't see them without my glasses. It was time to get on with the day.

At the car I toweled myself dry, and after I put on my glasses I could see the two kids at the far end of the beach. The seemed to be trading off taking pictures of each other. They were posing like bodybuilders although neither one of them had the bulk needed for those poses.

I drove slowly along the beach road. A couple of late-morning cars were making an appearance. One of the drivers definitely gave me the eye. He was my age. Sorry, pal, not interested. Why would I ever want to date someone my age? Come to think about it, he probably didn't have "dating" on his mind at all. Sorry again, pal, still not interested. I had just gotten off the beach area proper when I heard someone hollering, "Hey, Bob! Wait up!" In the rear-view mirror I saw one of the kids running to catch up to the car, his wet shorts working their way down to his pubes. Don't kids today buy any clothes that fit right?

It was Stick Hudson, and when he was even with the car, he took a deep breath and let it out explosively like that would regain his wind in one shot. He smiled in recognition, "I thought it was you. Howya doin? Listen, Toby wants to know if he can come over today to see your darkroom. He's getting his shoes on right now." He looked off behind the car where Toby was gaining on the car clumsily. One of his shoes didn't want to cooperate. Stick said in a voice loud enough for Toby to hear, "He's pretty much a wuss, you know."

He hoisted his shorts to a respectable level as Toby slugged him in the arm. "I've got your 'wuss' swingin', dude." He turned to me and asked, "Hi, Bob. Would it be alright if I came over today and used your darkroom? I've got a couple of rolls finished and I'd like to see how I did."

I checked my watch and told him, "Why don't you guys come over for lunch? I'll throw together some sandwiches and then we can hit the darkroom."

Stick chimed in, "I've got a list of things to do for Hank, but I can stop by when I'm done."

"Hank actually trusts you guys with the Cherokee? That's unbelievable! He doesn't even let his friends drive that car. You two should feel honored."

Toby related how Hank had let him drive part of the way when he first came to town. He also told us how Hank would meet him in the driveway whenever he returned home and seemed to be inspecting the car on the sly. I tried to reassure him that Hank was probably more concerned with Toby's well being rather than the car's. "Yeah, right," is all he said and I dropped the topic.

I drove off as the boys returned to gather their gear. With my head finally cleared and something definite planned for this first day of vacation, this could turn out to be a productive day after all.

I had forgotten how quickly and how much teenagers can eat. Two braunschweiger and bacon sandwiches were on Toby's plate, but by the time I made my own sandwich, there was less than half a sandwich on his plate. Even with a pint of milk to wash them down, he seemed to be scoping the kitchen for more food.

"You want another?" I asked.

"Uhh, no thanks. I'm pretty full."

"How about some cookies for dessert? And maybe some ice cream?"

"Okay. If it's not too much trouble." There's always room for cookies and ice cream. Ask any guy, not just a teenager. Three scoops of ice cream and six Oreos later he sat back in his chair with the satisfied look of a seasoned gourmand.

"So, Toby, how are you and your dad getting along after your first month together?"

He moved his spoon around his empty bowl. "Oh, pretty good. I guess. At least we haven't yelled at each other yet." I gave him a questioning look and he added, "It seems like the kids at school are always talking about fights they're having with their parents. I just figured Hank would be that way too."

"So when you go back to school, you can tell those kids how well you and your 'old man' get along. Might raise a few eyebrows and make them think." Instead of raising his eyebrows, he frowned instead. Did I say something bad? Something a teenager would think is, like, totally clueless?

"And you know what else? It's like he's watching me all the time. I don't mean 'watching me' watching me. That makes him sound like a perv. Which he's not, even though Mom says he is. But he's always right there. It's like he doesn't want me out of his sight. It's kinda weird," he said shaking his head.

"Well, take a hint from Mr. I've-Never-Been-A-Father-But-I-Know-All-The-Answers. In other words, take it for what it's worth. I've known your dad for fifteen of your sixteen years. Not a day has gone by that he hasn't thought about you or talked about you. Has he showed you his picture albums?" Toby shook his head. "How about the attic? Has he showed you that?"

"No, he hasn't. What are you talking about anyway?"

"I may be talking out of turn here. If he wants you to see them, he'll let you see them. But he might never do it. It might embarrass him and he doesn't like to be embarrassed, even to those few who know what he's really like.

"So, listen. Your dad has missed out on seeing you grow up, and here you are now almost a man in your own right. He's probably trying to cram fifteen years' worth of just looking at you into one summer.

"Maybe both of you need to set some personal space. What did you have planned for the summer besides swimming and taking pictures?"

"Nothing really. I didn't know what to expect when I came down here."

"Okay, well if you were still at home what would you have done this summer?"

"I dunno. Hang out mostly. Maybe look for a job." He was almost desperately looking for more melted ice cream in the bowl.

"So why don't you look for a job here? It'll be only for a couple of months, but there will be plenty of college students coming back when you have to leave. Employers around here are kind of used to short-term workers."

"You think he'd let me do it?"

"There's only one way to find out. Ask him. Just have all your reasons lined up why you want to do it."

He was looking at me now rather than at the bowl and his eyes were more vibrant. "Yeah, I could do that. It'd give me a chance to make my own money, meet some new people." He held his forefinger up as inspiration overtook him. "And I'd learn financial responsibility! Mom loves that stupid phrase." Okay, two out of three ain't bad.

Still, I liked his enthusiasm. "You got it, Ace! You are the one!" We high-fived and smiled like it was a done deal. Then he caught me off-guard.

"You and Hank are pretty tight, right?" Was he talking about my kissing Hank by the pool last week?

"That goes without saying. He's one of only a handful of people I'd trust my favorite hunting dog with if I had one."

He screwed up his face, obviously wondering if he'd been wise to start this line of questioning. "Would you promise not to tell him something if I asked?"

"Not a fair question, Toby. Not without knowing more details anyway. If you tell me something that's going to compromise Hank or compromise you, I would be duty-bound to tell him. I don't want to see him or you get hurt, and I'd do whatever I have to do to prevent that."

He suddenly got very animated, waving his hands in front of him. "Oh no! No, it's not about hurting Hank at all. Well, maybe it is. I mean I don't want to hurt his feelings, you know, or get his hopes up too much. That's why I wanted to ask you instead of him.

"If I told him that I wanted to stay here rather than go back to Mom, do you think that he'd let me?"

"Well, that was a surprise question. Not what I was expecting, but then I don't know what I was expecting. Let me ask you this. Do you want to stay here? I mean, you've only been here a month."

"That's just it. I'm not sure. Yet. I'm just thinking about it and I'm wondering what Hank would think about it."

"I can tell you right off that he wouldn't think about it. He'd say 'Yes' right away. Then he'd think about it. There's your mother to deal with, you know. And that won't be an easy thing to do. For anybody. He's been fighting with her all of your life.

"Why would you want to move from the big city to a little podunk college town anyway? Life too exciting for you in St. Louis?"

"No, it's not that. It's just, well...I don't know yet. It's just something I'm kicking around."

"You keep thinking about it, and if you want to talk some more, give me a call. I'll hold off talking to your dad about it until you say it's okay. Okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Bob; I appreciate it."

"Alright then. Let's get you set up downstairs then." Toby's a quick study. He pretty much organized everything the way I laid it out and he asked pertinent questions about the chemicals and how old the paper was. I showed him how to make an enlarged contact sheet so he could see more detail in the pictures to avoid wasting time and paper.

Just before I went back upstairs, he asked, "You're not set up for color work, are you?"

"No, I don't have the patience for it or the temperature control. I use a custom lab for any color work I do."

"Do they do, uhh, any special processing?" The way he emphasized "special" rang a tiny alarm bell.

"Just what do you mean by 'special'?" I asked.

"I've got some nudes on a couple of rolls and I'd like to see how they came out." He certainly wasn't shy about it. He said it as casually as if he had taken pictures of his pet. They must teach photography a lot differently nowadays.

"Uhh, what kind of nudes are they? Have you been sneaking pictures in the locker room again?," I teased with a mock serious voice.

He smiled and said, "No, nothing like that. They're strictly artistic stuff. Nobody's got a hardon in any of 'em." What has this boy been up to?

"I don't know how Bernie would feel if he knew that a minor was taking the pictures. I'll check with him and let you know. If worse comes to worst, we can always send them in under my account. Now I'm going upstairs. If you need anything, the front door upstairs will be unlocked."

I went back upstairs to clean the lunch dishes. With that little chore out of the way, I checked my answering machine and a large red "3" was flashing impatiently. Kevin sure is insistent, I thought, as I pressed the Play button.

"Hi, Bob. It's Kevin. It's almost 10:45 and I'm outside your front door but you're obviously somewhere else. I've really got to talk to you. I'll call back a little later. Oh, and this hand job letter looks pretty interesting." Beeeeep.

"Bob, it's Kevin again. Listen, Shoe wants me to go with him out to Dettmeier this afternoon and I really, really need to talk. I forgot to tell you that I've got my cell phone with me and this time it's turned on. Pleeeease give me a call, Bob. Thanks." Beeeeep.

"Hi, big guy! How's it...in' today? Thought...ive you...all this ...ning and let...know...my way. ...have no...where I...Somewhere betw...stin and Dall... I should be...Oh shit!" Ohmigod! Even with the static and dropouts I could tell it was Randy. And he was on his way back here already.

I hit the rewind button hoping that his message would come through clearer, that maybe the problem was in my machine but of course it wasn't. I was immediately on edge as if I had just been reminded that company was coming in fifteen minutes.

My brain went away for a few minutes. I should have started planning things for the upcoming week, but my brain had gone into flashback mode. I saw Randy's quarter-sized nipple just before my lips made contact. I could feel his hands on the sides of my face as his lips held me captive. I saw his magnificent chest freeze below me as his orgasm exploded from his loins.

My half-hard reverie was broken by a knock at the door. I grabbed the newspaper from the coffee table and let it hang in front of me as I opened the door. Mr. Casual. Mr. Cool. Mr. Hard As A Rock! Please God, let it be Randy! It was only Stick at the door evidently finished with his chores already.

I took him downstairs and let him in the darkroom when Toby gave us the all clear. I should have given one of them the key to the apartment, but my synapses were firing at random. I knew I had to get groceries. Did I need a haircut? I ran my fingers through my hair and decided I still looked presentable. Did I want to look just presentable? Maybe I should get a trim anyway. I looked at my watch. Not enough time. Randy was on his way. What I needed was a makeover. No time for that now. I wonder if Walgreens sells a do-it-yourself liposuction kit.

I was even worse at the grocery store. Food wasn't the problem. Knowing when to stop was the problem. Steaks, chops, roasts, potatoes, vegetables...not a problem. They all ended up in the cart. What about breakfast? What did he have for breakfast last week? He had me last weekend. And on the kitchen floor. Oh please! Not here, not now. The last thing I need is to show hard in the produce section. So, what did he eat? He ate me. On the kitchen floor. God, but that was wonderful! I pulled my cart back so a family could pass by and I felt myself blush when the cart hit my hardon. Let them think what they want. Wait, they're not going to think anything because of a grocery cart more than half-filled with food in front of me. I'll just have to be careful getting something from a bottom shelf. I certainly don't want anything popping out of my shorts. Now back to work; I'm on a mission from God.

I got all the breakfast basics just in case. Eggs, bacon, sausage, pancake mix. What if he wants waffles? Did I ever get the waffle iron fixed? The last time I tried it, it was dead in the water. I could go to Target and get a new waffle iron. I checked my watch. Not enout time. Randy was coming. Instead, I stocked up on fresh fruit. Maybe I'll squeeze some juice for him. After I squeeze his juice out of him.

The snack aisle put my brain into overload. Pretzels. Randy and me in bed. A can of nuts. They'd need a bigger can. A bag of foreskins. WHAT?!? Oh. Pork skins. I've got to get out of here. If I want a snack, I'll just snack on Randy.

And of course none of this happened in any kind of organized pattern. I must have used a couple of miles of shoe leather getting this all together, almost literally running from one department to another and back again. If anyone was paying attention to me--which I hoped no one was--they must have thought I was a complete novice at this shopping thing.

When I hit the bathroom aisle, my mind went totally blank. I couldn't remember how much of anything was left. I got toothpaste and a new toothbrush for Randy and deodorant and kleenex and toilet paper and mouthwash. I don't even use mouthwash. Maybe Randy does; he might want it. I bought bar soap; I bought liquid soap; I bought herbal shampoo; I bought regular shampoo; I bought band-aids. What the hell do I need band-aids for, for Chrissakes? Oh what the hell! Just buy the damn things! And get the hell out of here. I'm running out of time!

Greed is so unattractive. And that's exactly what I saw on the face of the checkout girl. She looked at my cart, looked at me and smiled. I could read her mind. Her look said, "I'm going to set a world record with this one!" As the total climbed, I imagined her taking home the Oscar for Highest Checkout Total For A Single Guy.

"I'd like to thank the academy and especially Mr. Schneider for his lack of planning and total mindlessness in a state of near-panic that made this award possible." And thank you, Heather, for being so tactful about it. I could swear she got on the P.A. system to announce the total. "That'll be $140.28," she said with a big smile.

I looked at the register screen and then at the mountain of bags waiting for me. All I could say was, "Really?" I looked at the total again and thought, What price love? And I swore I'd never pay for it. Hah! "Charge it," I commanded and started putting the bags in the cart.

I appreciated the bagboy helping me out to the car and loading the trunk and the back seat. "Gee, Mister, you sure got a lot of stuff here. You get robbed or somethin'? Hope y'all got someone to help ya take all this inside." I took a look at him for the first time. He must have been about 14 or 15 and was rail thin. He had what Papa called "wiener arms", no muscular development yet at all. His oversized dress shirt made him look skinnier than he really was and his buzzcut made him look like an Auschwitz survivor. His brown eyes looked much too large for his head. I bet he cultivates that look on purpose to get tips from the old ladies. It worked on me too.

"What's your name?" I asked.

He squinted at me deciding whether he should share that information or not, one hand on the top of the door and the other hand resting casually on his hip. "Bill," he stated flatly, but it came out 'Beeill'. Definitely a country boy.

"Bill, how'd you like to make a big tip? I only live about a block and a half from here, but I'd sure appreciate some help as you say." I couldn't be sure if Toby and Stick would still be at the apartment when I got back, and if I had to tote all this stuff myself, it would take way too much time. "Whattaya say?"

"Mr. Meyer says we shouldn't leave the parkin' lot 'cept to git carts. I'd like to he'p ya, but Ah don't think Ah cayan. Sorry, sir."

"Listen, if Kevin Meyer says anything to you, you let me know and I'll take care of him. You can tell him I saw you rounding up carts at the far end of the lot and I asked you to give me a hand. And I'll make it worth your while."

He looked back toward the store but no one was watching us. He turned his squinting face back to me and said, "If you drive me back here, you got a deal."

I hit the door lock button and simply said, "Hop in." He was quiet on the short ride back, but then there wasn't really enough time to have a conversation. Plus, he was probably a little nervous getting into a car with a wild-eyed middle-aged neurotic. I know I would be. It turned out to be a good thing I asked him to help. The boys were in my parking lot standing at their car as we drove in.

Toby came to my door and told me he had finished all of the developing and some of the printing. He'd show me the prints tomorrow at Hank's place. He told me that he had put away most of the supplies. Stick was talking to Bill; apparently they knew each other. While listening to Toby, I heard Bill saying, "I really miss ya, dude. It's not as much fun there since you left. Gimme a call sometime and maybe we could, you know, hang out or somethin'." Maybe I was over-reacting, but his tone of voice told me he was saying something else. My gaydar kicked in and pinged so fast I thought I had tinnitis.

We got all the bags upstairs in three trips between the two of us. Well, I made three trips; I think Bill made five. He didn't hesitate at all and really hustled. He definitely earned his twenty dollar tip. I gave him my business card too just in case his boss gave him any static. On the short trip back to the grocery I asked how he knew Stick.

"He worked at the store till a few weeks back. He was the only one there who didn't pick on me and mean it. Most of the other guys are kinda mean since I ain't so big, but when Stick did it, it was like he was only teasing me and then saying, 'Okay, now you take a shot at me.' He's pretty cool."

I pulled up near the corner of the store. As he was opening the car door he asked, "Can I ask you a question?" Something told me this was going to be interesting, and he didn't disappoint. I nodded my head. "Is Stick gay?"

Boy, that came out of left field! "Why would you ask that? And why would you ask me?" I tried to keep my voice even so he wouldn't think I was upset with the question. Just surprised.

Was it just me or did his country boy accent become more pronounced? "Wayell, he was over to yer place and you've gawt thayat flag on yer bumper. Ah jes' thought...hayell, I don't know what Ah thought. Ah'm...Ah'm sorry Ah asked. Don't mind me none."

I put my hand on his forearm to get him to look at me. He was so embarrassed that he could have burst into tears with the wrong word. "Bill, you know about me from the flag. But I have to be honest with you. I don't know about Stick; we've never talked that much for the topic to come up. I'm sorry, but I just don't know." He nodded his head resignedly as if I had told him Stick was relentlessly straight.

"Since we're being honest here, let me ask you something. Do you want him to be gay?" I hoped he didn't see the trick question right away, and evidently he didn't. He looked back at the floorboard and barely whispered, "Uh huh."

"If he doesn't call you in the next couple of days, give me a call and I'll tell you how to get in touch with him. He's not staying at his house right now. Okay?"

He nodded silently and then turned to me and said, "Could I come over some time and, you know, talk about things? I got lotsa questions."

"Give me a call first. I've got...ahem...a prospective boyfriend visiting me this week. I wouldn't want to be rude to you after you've been so helpful."

His smile returned and he gave me a sidelong glance. "Y'all takin' applications?" he asked and arched his eyebrows.

I laughed deep and loud at that. He didn't have any hair to mess up, so I grabbed the back of his neck and shook him playfully. "Bill, you're good for an old man's ego. But by the time you're eligible for boyfriend status, I'll be back in diapers. I'll talk to you later, kiddo. And thanks again for your help.

"Now I've got to go make myself beautiful, and at my age that takes a lot longer than it used to. Seeya." I left him laughing on the sidewalk. It was then I realized that I had broken out in a cold sweat.