by Rick R. Reed
He turned to look at Patsy. She still had her face angled toward her cup, but she was smiling, and that made Truman feel good. “Good night, Mom.”
“See you in the mornin’!” she said cheerfully. “You make sure you give Seth Wolcott a buzz or shoot him a text, let him know you’re okay. Do it now.”
“Yes, Mother.” Truman went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He pulled his cell from his pocket, briefly fingering its face, considering. But in the end he tossed the phone on the bed.
He’d talk to Mr. Wolcott tomorrow.
And he knew exactly how to approach the conversation.
Smiling and chilled at the same time, Truman threw himself down on his back on the bed.
Chapter 12
MIKE FINISHED hammering the set’s largest piece into place, a multicolumned flat that represented Chumley’s Rest, where poor Elwood P. Dowd and his imaginary pooka/rabbit sidekick, Harvey, were supposed to be left. Abandoned was more like it, Mike thought. Just because someone is a little different, people wanna shut ’em out.
Mike leaned back on his haunches, looking up at the large black-and-white piece, proud of it and of his simple work on it—the painting, sawing, and hammering. It didn’t look real but suggested the place in a kind of cool way.
He’d come in early to complete the piece. Most of the other set-building was done. The show was scheduled to go on in just two weeks. Mike had also come in early because he’d wanted to avoid the cast and his fellow stage-crew members. These days he just wasn’t feeling sociable. Besides, it seemed that Tammy Applegate had developed a crush on him, and he felt like Girl, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Still, even though he mostly ignored her, she’d follow him around like a puppy dog, always looking for ways to help. She smelled like an ashtray. Even if he was inclined toward her kind, that alone would stop him. His dad’s secondhand smoke was enough for him to contend with.
And then there was Truman. Mike’s heart hurt a little every time he saw him. He wanted to talk to him, to explain why he’d stood him up on that night not so long ago when it seemed like things just might be getting off the ground with the two of them.
But was there really an explanation? A good one? Mike wasn’t sure himself why he’d blown Truman off—and not in a good way. He knew only his decision came from a deep place, one where shame and self-loathing grew.
Mike just couldn’t see how knowing Truman could help him settle in and be accepted in this little backwater. He didn’t need the shame and ridicule his interest would engender in this hateful place. He wished he could return to Washington. It seemed like people were more liberal there, more open-minded. Mike wasn’t as afraid to be who he was.
He shut his eyes for just a moment, though, savoring the silence before all hell broke loose and all the other kids came trooping in. And when he did, Truman appeared there in the darkness behind Mike’s eyelids. He smiled, and there was something both alluring and comforting in that smile. Mike wanted to look up to it, down on it, to see it next to him. Maybe on a pillow? He wanted to touch that face, move it closer to his own. Closer….
He shook his head and opened his eyes. Tammy was just heading in, and Mike groaned inwardly.
“Hey, Stewart,” she called cheerfully—she always used his last name—when she reached him. “You need some help with that?”
“It’s done.” Can’t you see that? he wanted to add, but that would just be mean. From the smell of her, it appeared she’d just had her nicotine fix. “I think they need some help with the lights.” Mike nodded toward Timmy Simms and Hal Obrecht, who were struggling to place a large spotlight on the grid above the stage.
“Sure,” Tammy said, sounding both defeated and disappointed. Why did she care? Mike wondered. He’d offered her absolutely no encouragement.
He was sliding the piece he’d just finished into place on the stage when he noticed, behind him, all the laughter and talking among the cast and crew coming to an abrupt and sudden halt. Before he even looked, the hairs on his neck prickled as they rose up, and Mike felt a chill, the kind his grandma would ascribe to someone walking over his grave.
He turned slowly and was surprised to find his were not the only pair of eyes trained toward the back of the auditorium. No, the truth was everyone was looking toward the back.
Oh God. No.
There stood Truman, framed against the double oak doors. He was in full Myrtle Mae mode: belted black dress with tiny purple polka dots, white gloves, hat, and even heeled shoes. From as far away as the stage, Mike could see Truman’s full makeup—lipstick, rouge, mascara, the whole nine yards.
Oh no, Truman. No.
Inside, Mike groaned. Outside, he knew he was staring, mouth open.
Someone whistled.
There was a catcall.
And through it all, Truman simply posed against those damn doors, one hand on his hip, the other on the door. It was as though someone had hit him with a spotlight. Mike noticed a lace hanky stuffed into the wrist of the left glove and rolled his eyes.
Mr. Wolcott was the first to speak. Mike expected admonishment or at least a reminder to Truman that dress rehearsal was still at least ten days away. This just isn’t right. Seriously, dude, what’s wrong with you?
Mike leaned back even farther, away from the stage proper. For some reason he couldn’t readily explain to himself, he didn’t want Truman to know he’d seen him.
Backstage, though, Mike could still hear.
And what Mr. Wolcott shouted back to Truman wasn’t at all what he expected.
“Well, as I live and breathe! If it isn’t Miss Myrtle Mae Simmons. In the flesh!” Laughter rippled through the auditorium, and Mike couldn’t tell if it was mean-spirited and meant to ridicule or if it was good-natured.
Mike peeked out from the side of the stage, continuing to ensure he was hidden in the shadows.
Truman was sashaying—and that was the only word for it—down the center aisle, a big smile on his face, one hand, the one with the hanky, aloft, the other firmly on his hip. A couple of the kids applauded as he went by. From Truman’s smile, he must have interpreted the laughter as benign, because he looked almost—what was the right word?—proud of himself.
Mike shook his head. The display turned his stomach.
Why would he do that? Does he want to get bashed?
He jumped at a light touch on his shoulder. He turned to see Tammy standing next to him, also looking out as Truman made his entrance. “Can you believe that freak?” she whispered to Mike, leaning close. The smell of cigarettes on her was almost overpowering.
Mike would have thought he’d agree with her assessment; after all, he was thinking practically the same thing. It was as though she’d yanked the question from his own tortured mind. And yet he felt this odd need rising up, not to agree with her, but to defend Truman.
“You’re the freak,” Mike spat out at her. “Get away from me.”
She gasped and took a step back, almost as though he’d pushed her. Even in the dim light, Tammy’s dark eyes shone. Her lower lip quivered just the tiniest bit.
And Mike felt like a complete and utter ass.
He reached a hand out to her. “Hey, man, I’m sorry….”
She just shook her head and ran in the opposite direction. In a couple of seconds, Mike heard the slam of the stage door.
Great. She’s probably outside bawling her eyes out. You really know how to treat a person. Mike thought he should go after her but then reconsidered. She was the one who started things—by calling Truman a freak.
What? Did she think she had found a sympathetic ear with Mike? That he was a bigot, a homophobe too? That he’d agree with her assessment? That they’d laugh about their shared hatred for the freak and then maybe share a smoke outside?
He turned and watched as the cast assembled around Truman—kind of an amazing thing. It was as though they were all taking their lead from the very friendly and appreciative Mr. Wolcott. One guy even patted Truman�
�s back.
Breathless and a little sick to his stomach, Mike watched as the cast, as one, mounted the stage, ready for rehearsal.
Mike couldn’t stand it. He bolted for the stage door.
Outside, the night air was cold, brisk. Just the slap in the face Mike needed.
Tammy leaned against Mike’s pickup, smoking a cigarette. When she spied Mike, she started away.
“Hey, wait!” he called.
She stopped, keeping her back turned.
Mike was at a crossroads. One part of him was telling him to ask her if she could spare a smoke. Another told him to simply ignore the bigot. Get in your truck and head up to the park, where you can think.
He was leaning toward heading into the cool and shadowy embrace of the park when Tammy spoke. “What do you want?”
And Mike froze. What did he want?
He walked toward her. He got close enough to place one hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off, flinging her cigarette to the ground. The smoke she exhaled burned Mike’s eyes. He said again, very softly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She turned to him, and the gratitude in her eyes shone out. A small smile turned up the corners of her lips. “Thanks.”
Mike nodded. “Nobody should be called a freak,” he said pointedly. “Everyone deserves respect.”
The smile withered from her face.
Mike couldn’t help himself. He went on. “He’s not a freak, you know. He’s different. That’s all. You don’t score points with me by making fun of other people or sitting in judgment.”
She stared at him for only a moment. Then she directed her gaze downward, toward the ground. She moved one foot back and forth on the asphalt.
Finally, she looked back up at him. Mike hoped she’d maybe gotten a glimmer of understanding. But when she spoke, her words came out hard. “What? Are you sweet on him or something? I’m sure, if you want him to, he’ll suck your dick. I heard he gives real good hummers.”
“You need help.” Mike turned from her mean face, her small eyes, and the grin she’d managed to plaster on, as though her comment somehow gave her an advantage.
He hopped inside and started the truck up much too hard. The engine roared and backfired.
As he drove away, he could see Tammy Applegate holding her sides and laughing at him. And he had a weird thought, not about himself, but about Truman.
He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live in Truman’s world, day after day. He shut the thought out and simply drove through the night.
THE PARK was down the hill from the school, only a mile or so away. He needed the solitude he knew he’d find there among the shadows and the whispering sandpaper leaves of autumn. He wished he had a beer.
But the park wasn’t empty. There was one other car parked there, an old red Mustang, and as Mike neared it, he saw someone in the driver’s seat, just a black silhouette, really. He didn’t think anything of it, and wouldn’t have, but almost as soon as he noticed someone in the car, a head popped up from the driver’s lap.
Even though it was very dark, Mike could tell it was two guys. He’d heard rumors—guys at school making fun, really—that the park was a cruising spot. As Art Hoyle put it, “It’s where fags find other fags to suck cock and stuff. Lollipop Park, they call it!” Art’s words had caused a queasy desire to rise up within Mike, even as he laughed it up with the other guys in woodshop class.
Art’s dubious “recommendation” was one of the reasons Mike had started coming to the park at night. Hey, he was a teenage boy, and his hormones held sway over common sense.
Yet he’d never seen any evidence of cruising in the many nights he’d spent beyond the park’s entrance fieldstone arches.
Until tonight.
Apparently, the rumors had some truth to back them up. Mike was tempted to shine his headlights in the car but knew how mean that would be, how disrespectful. He understood how he could send these dudes into panic mode, even though what they were doing was, well, kind of sick, even if Mike did have half a hard-on.
He parked as far away in the parking lot as he could from the Mustang, hoping, in a way, he hadn’t ruined the encounter. What was the harm, anyway? There was no one else around—save for him. And he couldn’t stop the thought that rose up, almost unbidden, yet powerful. Maybe when that one guy shoots his load, I could cut in and get a little somethin’ myself. God knows I could use it. I haven’t had a mouth on my— Mike’s thought drifted back to Shoreline and to Aubry, his boyfriend back there. Aubry was a little guy, like Truman, but mixed race. His dark red hair clung tight to his skull, and right now Mike was imagining his hand on that coarse yet velvety-soft head as Aubry went down on him. It was magic. And Aubry would always let Mike come in his mouth because, as he said, he trusted him. And the trust was deserved. Aubry was Mike’s first. First guy, anyway. He’d gone through the motions with a couple of girls at school, but he never found any real satisfaction. Whenever those clumsy and awkward encounters were over, Mike always felt like he’d passed some sort of test rather than feeling grateful or satisfied.
But Aubry, with his tight little body like Truman’s, his green eyes full of mischief, and a sexual appetite that not only matched Mike’s but exceeded it, was a revelation. Aubry taught him maybe not what love was, but that two guys together didn’t have to be a shameful, dirty thing. It could be fun. A source of joy.
Mike undid the top button of his jeans and unzipped. He pulled out his dick, rock hard, through the fly of his plaid boxers and stroked himself. As he got more into it, he spat in his hand to make it slide more easily up and down the shaft, remembering Aubry and his smooth, almost hairless body, his uncut dick that curved to one side.
It was weird, though. Thoughts of Aubry morphed into thoughts of Truman. Truman naked. Truman going down on Mike. Mike, going down on Truman. In his mind’s eye, Mike saw the alabaster smoothness of Truman’s chest and torso and imagined his dick rising up from a thatch of wheat-colored pubic hair. He visualized the crack of Truman’s ass as he got on all fours on a bed in some semidark room, looking back to Mike, inviting. Or perhaps Truman would be on his back, legs drawn up near his shoulders, with a look that was almost pleading.
Mike, breath quickening, was getting very close when he heard, dimly, the thunk of a car door slamming. He snatched his hand away from his dick as though someone had shined a flashlight on him and rapped on the window. Caught.
He looked to his right and saw someone emerge from the Mustang. An older guy, maybe his dad’s age, stood near the passenger side of the car, zipping up. He had on a beat-up windbreaker and jeans. His hair was in a buzz cut, and he had a bit of a belly. He looked toward the truck, Mike thought guiltily, and then away. Mike slid down a little on his seat, not sure if the guy could see him.
He watched as the man lit a cigarette, exhaled, blowing a cloud of blue-gray smoke toward the star-studded sky. He seemed to look toward Mike once more. Then he started away from the car, toward the park entrance.
Mike sat for a few minutes, watching until the guy disappeared from view in Mike’s rearview mirror.
And then Mike hazarded a glance toward the Mustang. He could tell, from the difference in the darkness, that the driver had rolled his window down. A hand, ghostly white, hung just outside the car.
And the hand was beckoning. Come here, it seemed to be saying.
Mike stared down at his dick, still standing at full attention, and was tempted. But he also felt paralyzed.
Really, dude, would you actually do something like that? What if a cop came by? What if the guy’s some psycho?
Mike wasn’t sure how to answer his own doubts and fears. Part of him felt almost sick to his stomach—with desire. That part was telling him to just hop out of the truck, walk over there, get what the other guy had just gotten. It’d be a relief….
Mike craned his neck a bit, leaning toward the passenger window. He cranked it down so he could see better.
A face neared the
open window of the Mustang. Part of Mike hoped it would be the face of a creep—hideous, covered in sores, leering and toothless, with perhaps a line of drool leaking out of the corner of the guy’s mouth. The image almost made him laugh.
He knew why he wanted the guy to be ugly. To make it easy to put his hands on the key, still in the ignition, start the truck up, and get the hell out of there.
But the guy wasn’t ugly.
At least not from what he could tell from his admittedly compromised vantage point. One thing he was sure of—he didn’t recognize him. Like his friend who’d just emerged from the passenger side only minutes ago, he was an older dude. It was difficult to say how much older, but at least forty. Mike could tell that much from the guy’s dark but thinning hair, the glasses perched on his nose.
He motioned again for Mike to approach. A glimmer of a smile flitted across pale features.
Go ahead, a voice inside whispered seductively in Mike’s ear.
And he had one hand on his key ring, poised between wanting to snatch the key out or giving it a turn to start the engine.
His eyes had adjusted much more to the dark as he sat here, and he watched in dumbfounded surprise as the guy raised his hips up from the seat. His dick, erect, came into view.
Mike tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He could actually hear the blood pounding in his ears.
The guy stroked his dick.
Mike’s hand drifted off the key ring and down to his own cock. With only the slightest touch, he began spurting, covering his red Ohio State T-shirt with his seed.
He sat there watching his come pump out, as though the orgasm was happening to someone else. He felt a very strange combination of pleasure, release, guilt, and shame.
He waited until he was finished, then looked over again. The guy had gotten out of his car and leaned against it. His pants were open.
God, Mike thought, could that be me someday? He shook his head. His hands trembled as he groped around in the glove compartment for a tissue or rag to clean himself up with. He found some napkins from McDonald’s and began the task, trying to ignore the guy.
