by V. L. Locey
“Of course you can’t.” I bristled at the tone of his voice. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to see my father. I did. I just had this other shit going on, and it was court mandated shit. Seems like he would understand my plight. I threw another corn chip to Gilbert, who was at least grateful for my company.
“Chris, dude, come on. I want to see Dad I just have to do this. I’ll go to jail if I don’t show up.”
“Well, maybe it should have occurred to you that getting shitfaced—”
“I was barely over the legal limit.”
The man never lost his momentum. It was admirable. No wonder he made such a good basic training instructor. He could yell steadily and with great volume. Like Dad had before. Dad had been a gunny too, teaching future grunts to be killing machines. Chris and Jacob had loved the guns and the military life and the girls. Nate? Well, Nate was the freak who sucked dicks and played hockey and generally fucked up.
“…one embarrassing thing to another. Did you have to pose with that musician after winning the championship, his tongue halfway down your throat? No, you didn’t but Nate just has to ram his sexuality into everyone’s face.”
“Okay, fuck you. I’m not going to hide who I am. I’m gay. Deal. That don’t ask don’t tell shit might have been to your liking, but it’s not to mine.”
“Why the hell can’t you just show some decorum?”
“And why the hell can’t you just accept me for who I am?”
No reply. I waited for one, and then, like thirty seconds after my last comment, I realized Chris had hung-up on me. Gilbert stood on the patio, staring at me with his dumb bird eyes as I swiped at my dumb damp eyes with the back of my hand.
“Want to do a body switch?” I asked the gull. He tipped his head. “Picking through garbage has to be better than what I’m dealing with right now.” I flipped my phone to the table and fed Gilbert the rest of the stale corn chips. What I wouldn’t give to be able to simply fly away from the wreck that I called my life.
Chapter Two
Public transportation sucks.
I’d signed up for the Centro app last night, and now I’m standing on the corner where a bus was supposed to have been ten minutes ago. I’d been here, but the bus? Nope. So, what the hell was up? It wasn’t a holiday unless someone had christened June 16th as something and I’d not been told. I waited for another ten minutes and finally, a big white bus pulled up.
I showed the driver my phone, so he could see the time. Dude was not impressed and informed me that my mother had sucked his dick last night.
“Could be,” I tossed over my shoulder and made my way to the middle of the packed bus. Who knew what my mother was up to or who she was doing.
Some lady coughed on the back of my neck. A kid in front of me was picking his nose, and some pregnant woman to the left was stuffing cheesy fish-shaped crackers into her face while crying and reading a paperback. I slid down in the seat, pulled my Stallions ballcap down over my eyebrows and prayed that the bus would just drive into a nearby canal. Better that than having to do this ten times a week for the next three months. I wished I had my car. Then I could drive out to this Sunflower Acres Garden Center on Pumpkin Knoll Road.
But no, I had to catch two more buses and then walk the equivalent of a city block up a dusty dirt lane to reach Sunflower Acres. To be honest, the size of the place took me aback. There were greenhouses all over, mounds of steaming mulch, piles of landscaping gravel in white, tan, and red. A huge log cabin building that, I assumed, was where people bought their plants, and surrounding us was acres and acres of green stalks that were possibly going to be sunflowers when they bloomed. Not a clue. What I know about plants I’d learned in high school. They made oxygen. No, that was trees. Did plants make oxygen too or were they just doing that photosynthesis thing for another reason? Was photosynthesis the process of making oxygen or was that something else? Shit, I didn’t remember. I kind of skidded through most of my science classes. I was more a fan of athletics.
I strolled up to the door of the log cabin, yanked on the door that had the hours painted on it, pausing to read the hours, and shook my head at the notion that someone thought anyone would be up at six in the morning to buy a marigold.
Stepping inside, cool air rushed around me, chilling my bare arms and calves. Air conditioning was nice. Maybe I could chill in here and ring people out. That was doable.
The showroom was pretty, packed full of small garden statues, bird baths, and flowering plants all set up to be eye-catching. The smell of flowers and earth filled my nose. To the left was a smaller room with gardening implements hanging off the wall. I reached up, ran my fingers through my hair, and spun, my sneaker heel squeaking loudly, when someone called my name.
“Nathan Zinkan. You’re late.”
The man speaking at me was fine. Like, so incredibly fine. Older. Maybe mid-thirties? Dark hair cut short, gray-blue eyes, and the perfect amount of dark stubble. Lean, hard though, muscled, and tan with biceps and forearms that shouted physical labor. Long legs encased in worn denim and a white T-shirt with a smiling sunflower on the front. He was obviously in charge, admin just oozed out of his pores. Shame, really, because he was beautiful.
“Yeah, sorry. The first bus was late and—”
“Was it three hours late?” he asked, walking past me, his arms filled with bags of something heavy, the load making his biceps flex and bulge.
“What? Oh, no. What?” I knew I sounded stupid but…what?
He tossed the bags on a dark-wooden counter in the corner. I spied the cash register hidden behind some yellow flowers. There were handmade signs on the wall behind the register that directed people to the greenhouses, trees, and the community garden. Ugh. Old people and weeds. I just couldn’t wait to get started.
“We open at six,” Mr. Management informed me.
“No, it’s nine,” I argued because the paperwork I had been given distinctly said—
“Are you questioning the owner about his hours?”
I blinked. Well fuck, that sucked. He was the boss, not just some manager. Pity. A man that hot would have been a fine flirtation. Now I had to hate him simply because he’d start sounding like Chris.
“The papers from the court said to report at nine a.m. Are you the dude who’s keeping track of my hours?” I shoved my hands into the pockets of my cargo shorts.
“Yes, I’m the dude. And you’re already three hours late, so instead of getting out at two like the other morning shift employees, you can stay here until five. Which works out well because today is fertilizing day for the community garden and Phil called in sick.”
I bit down on my lower lip to keep myself from saying what I so wanted to say which started with a ‘fuck’ and ended with a ‘you’. “Cool, yeah, I’m good with doing my eight hours a day. So, point me to the gardens, Mr. Sunflower Acres, and I’ll get into the fertilizing.”
“Mr. Bran Cavanaugh.” Man the dude was tight, and not in that hip slang way meaning he was extraordinary, which he was but shit was he clenched. Dude had to be straight. Only straight white men who owned a business could be that controlled and chilly.
“Right, yeah, I remember. Mr. Cavanaugh. Show me to the gardens.”
He gave me a disapproving look but led me to the rear of the customer cabin, passing some chick who was watering flowers. She smiled at me as he asked her politely to man the register and ring up the Miller’s when they pulled around front to pick up their grass seed. Back out into the growing heat we went, him in the lead. I gave the rows and rows of trees in pots a glance, but my eyes stayed firmly on his ass. His jeans cupped his backside perfectly. It was a great ass. I’d peg him as a power bottom just by the way he walked. Bet he’d put me down as one too, and while I didn’t mind a good loud ass pounding, I much preferred being the pounder as opposed to the poundee when I—
“….as part of your community restitution ordered by Judge Cavanaugh.”
“You mean Judge Fatheaded Jerk,” I m
uttered under my breath. Bran stopped so suddenly I ran up his back and bounced off like a pinball. Damn the man was firm. Also, if the glower he was giving me after he turned to face me was any indication, he was also pissed off.
“Judge Cavanaugh is my uncle.”
Well shit. “This is awkward.” I gave him my best quirky smile. It worked on most people, chicks and dudes. Guess Bran Cavanaugh was an android because he wasn’t melting at all. His oddly colored eyes sparked with irritation.
“Let’s clear the air here, okay, Nathan?”
“Nate…call me Nate.”
His slim eyebrows were drawn so far into a V he looked like a pug dog. I kept that to myself. Talking shit about his uncle the judge was probably enough stupid to roll out of my hole for an hour or two.
“My business is one of over a hundred that signed up to allow offenders to work off their fines while they give back to the community that they’ve wronged. You’re here because you drove a car while drunk—”
“I was barely over the legal limit.” Needed to get that on my fucking hat or shirt or something. Maybe some new ink on the back of my hand.
“I really don’t care how far over the limit you were, that old gentleman whose shed you ran through is one of our gardening gurus. If he had been in that shed you would have killed him.”
My gaze dropped to my sneakers. I thought to speak up but just rolled a shoulder as a kind of message that I got it. Bran misread my body language obviously because he lit into me.
“Right well, you might not care if you killed Barney, but we do, and so does his family and the township. You should work on at least trying to look like you’re feeling a bit of guilt over your actions.”
That brought my gaze back to his face. “Look, Bran, you know nothing about me or how guilty I feel. And I’m not sure I want to discuss any feelings I have with you. Just show me where I go to pick the fucking potatoes and stop trying to lecture me. You’re not my father. You’re just some guy who has a Jesus complex or something.”
He bit back something really sour. His lips puckered, and he drew in a long breath through his nostrils.
“Fine.” He spun around and stalked off, leaving me to follow along. We passed a small shed, another greenhouse, and then went through a creaky garden gate with a hand-painted sign nailed to the wooden entrance that read “What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson”.
I stalled a bit after going through the gate and drank in the huge garden lying in front of me. There must be freaking acres of plots, each one tidy and tended. Old people shuffled along, some with watering cans, some with those wheeled shopping buggies the seniors used on grocery day.
“We have exactly four acres of gardens here for anyone in the county who wishes to participate,” Bran said, jarring me from my stupor. “The city of Syracuse sponsors us to a degree, and I donate to the program, as do several other local businesses. Senior transport brings gardeners in from all over Onondaga twice a week, so tomorrow it’s going to be busy.”
“Wow,” I murmured, still in awe of such a huge undertaking. “Do you own this land?” I jerked my chin at the gardens.
“I do, and so my word is law. And the law for Nathan Zinkan today is to start at plot one and weed.” I blinked at him stupidly. He was my height, so no one had to look up at the other. I suspected that would only add to the abrasion rubbing both of us already. “Grab one of those wicker baskets and get to work. You get a half hour for lunch. If I see you with a cell phone in your hand during work hours, I will take the phone and you’ll get it back at the end of your shift.”
He folded his arms over his smiling sunflower. I gaped openly. “You can’t do that.” I patted my phone lovingly as it sat in my front pocket.
“Yes, I can. My land, my garden, my rules. You’re here to work not play Diamond Drop or catch the latest YouTube video from the ghost chasing guys.”
“Dude, really, what are we in high school here?”
“You obviously are.” He walked away, grabbed a small basket, and then came back to me with the basket held out in front of him. “Get to work. Plot one. If you have any questions, ask Maggie, she’s the garden guru for the day.”
He pointed to an old woman in a purple shirt, pants, shoes, and floppy sunbonnet. The old gal waved a dirty gloved hand at us, the glove also purple.
“Well?” He pushed the basket gently into my chest. “Get to work, Mr. Hockey Star.”
I snapped the basket from his hand, gave him my darkest look, and stormed off to talk to the silver-haired walking eggplant. Nothing like making the first day on the roster shine. FML.
Okay, so lesson one Margaret passed along to me was that one didn’t pick potatoes, one dug them up. Who knew? Also, Margaret was cool. Way cooler than Bran the asshole. She was nice to me, like how a grandmother would be I imagined. She knew a lot about plants, such as weeding meant pulling only the weeds and not the stumpy tomato plants Gertrude had been so proud of. We hurried to replant Gertrude’s maters in plot four before they wilted and she promised to keep my secret.
“So,” Maggie said after another hour passed of crawling around on my knees yanking weeds. “Tell me about all your artwork.”
I sat back on my heels, pulled the back of my hand across my brow, and squinted up at the tiny old lady supervising my work. How was it she looked cool and I was sweating my ass off? Oh yeah, she was supervising, and I was working. I wondered how one got the garden guru badge, so I asked.
“How did you become a garden guru?”
“I graduated from garden grunt.”
I snickered. “And I’m the grunt, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She smiled a smile full of dentures. “It takes years of working with the earth to reach this kind of exalted level.” She waved her dirt-caked little spade at herself. “So, your skin art. Tell me about this one.”
She bent over and tapped one of my older tats with her trowel, the one of a blue rose high on my right arm.
“My mom liked blue flowers Dad always said,” I replied, stood, and ambled over to the hose lying on the ground for a drink. When I tipped my head my hat fell off. I could hear Maggie’s hoots of amusement as I slurped.
“Look at that hair,” she shouted. I grinned and drank, my hat lying at my feet getting muddy and wet. When I was done, I bent down to fetch my sodden lid and waved it around to cool it before I crammed it back on my sweaty head. “I’ve never seen a young man with hair that color, or a sparkly gem in his nose. You’re far to pretty to be straight.”
“Maggie, that’s kind of offensive.” I chuckled before dropping back to my knees to start weeding plot five. Only a hundred and four plots to go. FFS.
“Well, it’s true. All the hottest ones are gay, just look at Bran.”
My attention flew from the plants in my hand to Maggie retying her sunbonnet. “Sorry what?”
“As if you didn’t notice.” She cackled wickedly. “I saw you checking out his backside. If I were fifty years younger…”
“And had a dick,” I added then glanced at the handful of green stuff in my palm. That tickled her. “Uhm, is this something important?”
I held up the weeds for her inspection. Her eyes flared. “See these little orange things?” I nodded. Sweat ran down my nose. “They’re called carrots.”
“Ah, okay, so they’re not weeds.” I tossed the non-carrots into my basket and hurried to jam the tiny little orange veggies back under the soft soil. “Got it.”
The rest of the morning went kind of like that. Weeding, talking about her memories of the sixties—mostly cultivating and smoking pot combined with rock concerts and a small stint in the Peace Corps—and her grilling me about all the inkwork she could see. We took a break at noon and ate lunch under a row of massive oaks that shaded part of the garden area.
I’d not thought to bring food because I was stupid. I’d assumed there would be a fast food joint or maybe some convenience store within walking distance. Wrong. No
thing but farms and old people and Bran the asshole cruising by periodically. Probably checking on my cell phone usage, the tense prick.
“Why is he so tight?” I asked Maggie after she had forced half of her cucumber sandwich on me. ‘A young man has to eat’ she’d said then passed me a butter cookie and a bottle of water to boot.
“Tight?” Maggie peeked around her sunbonnet to see Bran hustling by with some other dude at his side, both pushing wheelbarrows.
“Yeah, like uptight.”
“Oh, uptight. Well, he’s been a bit distant since losing Jim two years ago.”
I took a bite of the sandwich, which was pretty good, and stared at Bran’s wide shoulders as he rounded a greenhouse. There was distant and then there was downright hostile.
“Who was Jim?” I asked around the mouthful of cuke, cream cheese, mayo, and garlic on white bread.
“His husband.”
“No shit.” I chewed and pondered how a man as stiff as Bran Cavanaugh could entice another man to be interested in the long term. Sure, a fast fuck where he kept his mouth shut I could see. The man was prime. But to have and to hold? Nope. We’d kill each other right after the honeymoon sex was over. Not that I was doing the marriage thing for a long time. “Did they get divorced?”
“No, Jim was killed.” I glanced over at Maggie when her voice grew melancholy. “He was a good lad, Jim was. A lawyer, public defender for the city. Bit of a wild Willy like you with his long hair, earrings, and tattoos.”
“No. Shit,” I said again after swallowing. My mind refused to accept the info that Maggie was feeding it. “Man, I just can’t picture it.”
“Just goes to show that first impressions aren’t always right. I bet lots of people look at you and that psychedelic hair and body art and think you’re a drug dealer.” She gave me a wry sort of wink when I gasped in mock anger. “But you’re a sweet athletic boy who just needs to be properly cultivated to bloom.”
