Men of All Seasons Box Set

by R. W. Clinger

  That strange and feminine word tumbled again through my mind, a certain word that I really didn’t like using in any of my critiques, a haunting word that I loathed and thought ludicrous: enchanted. But I had succumbed to an understanding of its meaning during that moment with Tuck, perhaps lost under his touch or spell or vague wonderment. Truth was I thought the word appropriate for the very first time, describing our mutual closeness in the middle of the night.

  We eventually separated and he went into the house through the front door, climbed the stairwell to the second floor, and ended his day inside his bedroom. I walked to the left side of the house and climbed the aluminum ladder, taking rung by rung with care. Once inside my attic room, I listened to my cellphone chirp, which told me that the man who lived beneath me had texted me, Good night. Great time with you.”

  With a smile on my face I texted him back, I had a better time with you. Good night back at you. Then I undressed, climbed under the summer sheet that covered my bed-for-one that night, and made a grueling attempt to cross from the real world into a dreamland state, but failed miserably due to insomnia, wide awake.

  * * * *

  Sleepless, after two hours crawled into three hours of critiquing a short novel called The Desperate Affair, a literary piece by Rosamond Franklin that read like desperate drivel, I climbed into bed, stared up at the ceiling, and couldn’t get the pianist out of my mind. My hands discovered the bare private parts between my legs, caused some swelling to occur, and…

  I imagined that Tuck was the type of a man who could make my mind and body relax, positioned next to me on the bed, and cuddled against my side. Didn’t I want to test that theory, letting him manhandle the private parts between my thighs with his mouth or hand, willing me into a state of tiredness and sleep? I thought so. And such a good thought it was.

  But Tuck wasn’t next to me. He was downstairs in his own room, snoozing the night away, and leaving me alone with a sticky stomach and hands. Eventually, I fell asleep and dreamed of a blue and white plane flying out of control and twisting down from the sky, shattering into a million pieces. I heard screaming but didn’t know who it was.

  It was only a dream.

  A dream

  Chapter 10: Lumberman Carl

  October 10, 2015

  “I’m an asshole,” Carl said, walking me through heaven-high piles of beautiful lumber of many different sizes and textures. There were oak bundled boards, maple plywood, and chestnut beams. The lumber yard was massive in size, over four acres long and just as many acres wide. Employees in green aprons had asked if we needed any help, which we didn’t. Together, we walked from a galvanized woods world to loose pieces of lumber in a secondhand area, misfits in the menagerie of wood.

  “What do you mean you’re an asshole?” I asked him, taking in the forklifts, metal carts, and Lumberman Joe’s logo (two pine trees hugging), which was plastered everywhere.

  “I should have kissed you by now.”

  “But we’ve just recently met. There’s time for that later.”

  He checked out a piece of lumber that was longer than his truck, eyeing it to see if it was straight and not bowed. “What if I don’t like the way you kiss? It would be kind of awkward to ditch you later for something that I can find out about you now. There’s really no purpose to wait.”

  “So, you’re saying that if I were a bad kisser, you wouldn’t be my friend?”

  “Or boyfriend…or lover. Someone of that stature.”

  He was teasing and I knew it. As I had already known, Lumberman Carl wasn’t at all boring, and entertained me. “I’ll tell you what, Carl, I want to call your bluff.”

  He stopped concentrating on the vast piles of wooden boards around us and directed his full attention at me. “My bluff?”

  I nodded. “Of course, your bluff.” I pointed at him with an index finger, waved the tip of it next to his chin, and added, “Kiss me right here and right now. I want to prove to you that I can do it, and win you over.”

  He rolled his eyes and jovially responded, “Young writers never win me over. Don’t even waste your time.”

  Playing, caught up in the fun with him, I quickly grabbed him by his chest-clinging white T-shirt, pulled him towards me, and smacked my mouth against him, performing a lip-numbing and heart-melting kiss with the carpenter; a certain kiss that maybe knocked the wind out of him and caused him a brief state of dizziness.

  Once the kiss was finished, I pushed him away, chuckled, and asked, “What did you think of that?”

  He said exactly what I wanted to hear, being honest, “You’re making it easy for me to seduce you, Micah Berk. Quit me while you can, because you’re a sweet guy and I wouldn’t mind being caught by you.”

  Enough said.

  We both won.

  Chapter 11: I Wasn’t Alone

  August 8, 2014

  The Patriot Martini: 4 Parts Gin, 2 Parts Dry Vermouth, 2 Parts Fresh Orange Juice.

  Getting to know Tuck was probably one of the best points in my life. Understanding him was even better, realizing that we were different in ways, but compatible. Perhaps the best part of my fresh relationship with the Midwest man was falling for him. Slowly, but surely, it was happening, and I didn’t have any control over it. Getting him out of my mind was next to impossible, and lighting up with a blooming smile was hard to contain in his presence. Frankly, I didn’t know what love was, but I was slowly learning, relishing every moment with Tuck Martini, labeling him as my own.

  Separately, we carried out our own lives. He practiced his piano and I critiqued three novels, all of which were short tear-jerkers. Eventually we hooked up after dinner and he invited me to a strange lounge called the Martini Room. The lounge was located outside of Erie, almost in Ohio. Miss Kitty had a spare Mercedes, which was parked out back, behind the Tudor. She told me I could use it anytime I wanted to. So I did, driving Tuck and myself to Thun and the Martini Room.

  The Martini Room in the small town of Thun had a reputation of being gay, which it was. Shirtless and beefy waiters took drink orders at two-person round tables. Feathery drag queens entertained on the small stage, singing Celine Dion or Barbra Streisand covers. The floor was a burgundy carpet and the walls were a merlot hue and made of what I thought to be shag. Patrons included the young and old, but not every person in the lounge was gay. Cougars sometimes visited the place and straight guys (both college-aged and older) went in search of those women, sniffed them out, and enjoyed the lounge’s comforts.

  Of course the Martini Room was known for its martinis. For three hours we enjoyed an arrangement of different drinkable concoctions, ordering a few for each of us. Our list of chosen martinis included the Seventh Heaven, Sexy Devil, and Moll Flanders. We assessed the beverages, commenting on their tastes and aromas. And after a sequence of drinks, beyond buzzed, happy, we decided to call it a night and make the trip back to Erie and Mill Street.

  * * * *

  I’m not one to condone drinking and driving, but that’s what happened that night with Tuck. Looking back, I probably should have been arrested, put in jail for the night to sober up, fined, and had my license taken away from me for endangering our lives and those of other drivers and travelers on the road. To my surprise, then and now, I was not pulled over and given a sobriety test. Rather, I drove recklessly to Miss Kitty’s Tudor, zooming left and right in her Mercedes, speeding, and buzzed through stop signs and red lights.

  While driving, positioned on my right side, Tuck was the cutest thing on the planet. He giggled, blitzed out of his mind, rambled about wanting to be an astronaut, and entertained the two of us by singing a variety of verses of Taylor Swift hits. Adorable was an understatement to detail him. Sexy as hell seemed more appropriate, I drunkenly thought, horny for the guy.

  A wrong turn was made somehow and somewhere in downtown Erie. We became lost and I ended up parking Miss Kitty’s Mercedes in a dead end alleyway called Filbur. Confused, fully intoxicated, and exhausted, I told my drunken
sidekick, “We walk from here, man.”

  Like a puppy dog, he followed me home, mumbling about Andy Warhol paintings, sexy cowboys from Stockton County, Oklahoma, a place in Florida called Barefoot Beach, and wanting to get me out of my clothes so he could mess around with me. I tried to ignore his chatter, leading us back to Mill Street, which was a feat for any drunk.

  Unfortunately, we became lost near Crispin Park, circled the First Methodist Church of Erie twice, and hid behind a giant oak tree on Ploe Street, steering clear of a passing cruiser with two donut-eating cops inside.

  Dizzy and elated, we kissed behind the oak tree. The embrace was sloppy and wet, and nothing to write home about, of course. What I recalled most about that night was how Tuck trusted me with him, leading him through the dark, summer night, returning him to Mill Street, and making sure that he was safe and sound from the damaging world around us. Although he was inebriated, just as I was, I felt that he knew exactly what was going on around him, and had a strong faith in me that I wouldn’t hurt him, or have anyone else cause damage to his world. Frankly, it was an odd notion, and one that I couldn’t explain at the time, or now. But it felt right for me, and maybe for Tuck; something I really never learned the truth about, and never would.

  * * * *

  We didn’t have sex that night. Nor did we make out like over-excited carnivores. Rather, somehow and someway, perhaps by the grace of God, we ended up inside his rented room on the second floor of the Tudor, stripped out of our clothes, and went to bed. There, tangled together in a cotton sheet, somewhat dehydrated and lost in separate dreams, we devoured the night.

  I wasn’t alone, though, or so I believed. Sometime around four o’clock in the morning I woke without any reason and thought I saw Tuck outside my window. Maybe it was just imagination, or maybe not. It could have been anyone—I wasn’t sure, and never really would be. If that was Tuck, he leaned over the top of the aluminum ladder and studied me in my bed. The action only took place for a few seconds, and then he was gone, quietly escaping down the ladder, returning to his second floor room. Was I dreaming? Of course, I was dreaming.

  Tuck was at my side the entire time. Next to me. Not part of my imagination.

  * * * *

  The strangest thought came to me, one that I couldn’t explain at the time: You’ll lose him. You can’t keep him forever. Even though you want to.

  Chapter 12: Fossil

  October 11, 2015

  “I have a little surprise for you,” Carl said, holding something behind his back, smiling at me like a child, being adorable and sweet and confusing all at the same time.

  “What kind of surprise?” We were inside my attic, chest to chest. I had just finished editing a chapter in my mystery, and was going to have dinner with him. The sun had yet to fully set and purple light danced around his frame.

  “A little gift.”

  “I hate gifts.” I shook my head and refused to take anything from him, playing.

  He laughed. “You’re a lousy liar, Micah. Now, close your eyes and open your hands.”

  I listened, excited. What did he have up his sleeve? And what kind of small gift had he gotten me?

  He set something metal, light, and cold on my palms and told me to open my eyes, which I did. I stared down at his little surprise, which was a six-inch, camo-colored aluminum box that said Fossil, 2003 on a sliding lid.

  “Open it,” he instructed. “It’s nothing big, but I wanted to surprise you with something because you’re important to me, and I rather like you.”

  There was a Fossil pen and pencil inside the box. Both were green and brown with brushed gray markings. They were bedded in brown, cushy Styrofoam, and were beautiful. “Writing utensils are always the way to go in giving gifts to a writer. I love them, Carl. Thank you.”

  “I saw them at a yard sale on the other side of town and thought you’d like them. Like I said, they’re nothing spectacular. I know you like green, and that you’ll use them. It’s just something small to tell you that I like you, Micah.”

  He was wrong, though. The set was spectacular, perfect, and it was so sweet of him to purchase the pair for me, thinking of me on his daily travels. I bubbled with a smile, hugged him, kissed him on his right cheek, and said, “You’re melting me.”

  “I hope in a good way.”

  “A very good way,” I said, released him, and removed the pen from its foamy home, ready to try it out, thrilled and falling for the carpenter, more than I really could begin to comprehend.

  Chapter 13: Betner’s Cliff

  August 9, 2014

  The Sea Creature Martini: 6 Parts Gin, 2 Parts Dry Vermouth, 1/2 Teaspoon Pernod, 1 Dash Orange Bitters.

  We had lunch together at a place called The Biscuit: chili dogs with loads of nacho cheese and greasy French fries. And we shared a chocolate milkshake, drinking out of the same straw, making funny and ridiculous faces at each other while sucking down the chilled and thick drink. The eatery was owned and operated by Triston and Gina Biscuit of North East, a town that specialized in an assortment of wine. The fast food place had been in the Biscuit family for the last thirty years and was well-known for its blue cheese burgers, which melted in your mouth after the first bite, and their chili dogs ruled the roost of the fast food/diner world in western Pennsylvania.

  We sat outside at a picnic table for eight, half-concealed by a beach umbrella that was red-yellow-blue-white. The sun was hot but soothing on our bare shoulders and perspiration clung to the cotton tanks that covered our torsos. We talked about college and how I had obtained an English degree from Tess College. He always wanted to go Juilliard in New York City, but he couldn’t afford it, although he was accepted when he applied at eighteen. He admitted to hating Lincoln College when he was there, settling to go there, distant from what he had really wanted. Then we talked about our likings for cats, Halloween, and blizzards in the middle of January.

  Following lunch, stomachs full, and our bodies battling the summertime heat, I asked him, “Were you ever at Betner’s Cliff?”

  He shook his head, confused by my question, obviously having never heard of the place.

  “It’s not far from here. We can walk the two miles.”

  He agreed, and added, “I trust you, Micah. Lead me astray.”

  * * * *

  We tromped through a mile of moss-covered stumps, oaks, and maples, crossed the Dandifi River, which was narrow and almost dried up because of the summer heat. After a second mile of skirting through the Pennsylvania woods, we stood at the base of Betner’s Cliff, which was three hundred feet tall and comprised of sharp limestone. God-crafted steps climbed the side of the cliff like a Mayan temple.

  I led the way, taking command, zigzagging up and along the structure from its pine tree-decorated base to its sun-beaten apex. Both of us complained of feeling lightheaded from the accent as we climbed the smooth steps. I told him, “I used to play here as a child. War. Hunter. King of the Hill. Plunder. All those kids’ games.”

  “This place is beautiful.” He scanned the area with interest. “I would have liked to play some games with you here as a kid. We would have had a blast growing up together.”

  “Hide and Seek was one of my favorite games. We could have hid together and outmaneuvered the person who was It.”

  “I love that game,” he said, following me up the side of the cliff, making our incline together as the hot wind picked up, died, and lifted again.

  Approximately halfway up the cliff’s side I felt my right foot slide over a clump of moss and started to lose my balance, falling backwards. As if on cue, catching me again like on the night we had first met, performing in a play, Tuck reached his palms and fingers against my hips, and said, “I’ve got you, Micah. You’re not falling on my shift.”

  Truth was it was nice to be balanced by him, feeling his hands against my hips, bracing me from what could have been a horrible and skull-cracking fall. He stepped up to me and aligned his bulky chest with my back, securing m
e in place. Never had I felt so safe, next to a man. Not with any boyfriend. Not with any lover. No one.

  He nuzzled his mouth against my neck and whispered, “You’re always falling, Micah.”

  “And you’re always there to catch me,” I replied, catching my breath, protected by him. “I guess so. Not that I mind. It’s kind of nice to have you in my arms all the time.”

  * * * *

  We made our way up the remaining section of incline and stood at the top. Once there, we peered over the valley below, which was covered in pines, oaks, fallen maples, and an assortment of rocks in the distance. The air was thick and it felt as if we were in the clouds, even though they were thousands of feet above us. In the distance were the city of Erie, Templeton, North East, and the blue-green-gray lake. The lake’s waves were choppy and beautiful, and resembled something that I might have seen in a short independent film.

  “I’m exhausted,” Tuck said behind me, holding me in his arms. His chin was on my left shoulder and I felt his breath on my neck again.

  I pulled away from him and the spectacular view, spun around, and took him in my arms. On top of the cliff, we hugged and kissed, melting our worlds together, enjoying the afternoon and our perfect time spent with each other.

  Was it possible to see fireworks in the middle of the afternoon? I didn’t think so, but that’s exactly what I believed I saw behind my closed eyes. Bursts of purple and sparking blue. Pops of oranges and fizzles of greens. There were spirals of bright yellow and blooms of pink. And I felt lighter and breathless next to him, perhaps falling in love for the very first time, but unable to recognize it because I had never felt it before or been in that dreamlike state. Not once. From no one. Nothing like that.