American Dreamer

by Shawn Wesley Ballenger

“I’m Trevor, by the way.” The Target held his hand out to Brandon.

  Brandon quickly wiped his face clear of sweat, then wiped his hand on his shorts before he took Trevor’s hand. “Brandon.”

  “You’re in really great shape.” Trevor’s eyes scanned him.

  “Thanks.” Brandon rubbed his sweaty hands again on the towel, turned them over, and stared at his palms. “Hands are slick.” He chuckled.

  “Yeah. Don’t want any accidents.” Trevor laughed.

  The two men found themselves in awkward silence as they stared at each other for a few moments before Trevor spoke again. “So, is that your Corvette outside?” He pointed at the window towards the parking lot beyond.

  “Yeah. It’s mine.” He said as he corrected his slumping posture.

  “Cool car.” Trevor turned to him.

  “Thanks, man.” Brandon nervously bounced his leg.

  So worth the sixty grand, he thought.

  Trevor moved closer until he was standing beside Brandon, turning and looking to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation.

  Brandon felt himself getting aroused once again as the smell of Axe Body Spray filled his nostrils.

  “I think you’re really hot,” Trevor whispered, his eyes darting around as if he were making some sort of street-corner drug deal. “I’m looking for a new Sugar Daddy. I think we could have some fun together.”

  “Huh?” Brandon jerked his head back.

  Axe Body Spray didn’t smell so great suddenly.

  “I take Venmo or CashApp,” Trevor added as he leaned in closer.

  Brandon stared straight ahead, letting that sink in. It took a moment to register what the guy was saying, but once Brandon put it together, his face turned red. His eyes were squinted as he turned his head towards Trevor.

  “You mean you want me to pay you to be my boyfriend?” He asked more loudly than he had intended.

  “Chill, dude,” Trevor responded, no longer trying to whisper either. “If you weren’t interested, you shouldn’t have acted like it.”

  “Acted like it?” Brandon’s voice became even louder, underlying his offense at being mistaken for a man looking to become a Sugar Daddy.

  Trevor looked around the gym as the encounter began attracting unwanted attention from other patrons. “Dude. You’re making a scene.”

  “Making a scene?” Brandon’s jaw dropped, not believing the nerve of the guy.

  Finally turning, Brandon yelled: “Just get fuck away from me!”

  He snatched his towel from the bench press machine.

  Trevor laughed as he strutted away toward the ellipticals. “Fucking old perv. Probably can’t even get it up.”

  Brandon’s heart sank. The bastard cut him right in his psychological Achilles’ Heel. Is this what coming out as gay at fifty would be like? Am I only going to have guys who are looking for Sugar Daddies interested in me? He asked himself. Brandon had realized a long time ago that the only guys he really found attractive were younger. He always felt as though, mentally, he never grew up, and the guys his age were just too…old. He didn’t want to talk about work, investments, retirement funds, and having ‘formal dinner plans’ with other couples his age. He wanted to talk about music, go dancing, ride rollercoasters, go to rock concerts, and stay out all night and then eat breakfast at Waffle House at four in the morning. Even the way men his age dressed—khaki shorts, sandals, and polo shirts—turned him off. Give him a pair of old cargo shorts, Converse sneakers, and a geeky t-shirt. How many gay men dress like that at fifty? He lamented, feeling like his whole life had been wasted being the person everyone thought he should be, instead of who he wanted to be. Now that he was ready to live the life he missed out on, everyone his age had already been through all that and was ready to ‘settle down.’

  Brandon slumped down on the shoulder press machine and started to push the bar as his mind reeled. He stared into the mirror on the wall ahead of him and picked at a few strands of grey hair, and ran his fingers over his Crow’s feet. Face it, Brandon. He said to himself. You’re old, and no matter if you find a young guy that wants to be with you or not, it’s not going to make you young again. You’ll just look pathetic.

  He stood up and sighed before grabbing his towel and heading back to the locker room with his head hung.

  Why does it matter anymore, anyway?

  Thirty minutes later, Brandon pulled into his driveway and hit the garage door opener. He waved to the kid pushing a mower around the tree in his front yard. As he watched from his rearview mirror, the teen killed the mower, popped one of his Airpods out of his ear, stuffed it in his front pocket, and started towards Brandon’s car. As he got closer, he pulled the shirt hanging from his back pocket out and wiped his brow.

  Brandon rolled down his window and killed the engine, watching as the kid walked happily towards him as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Brandon felt his usual twinge of jealousy when confronted with carefree teenagers. As the kid finally approached, he placed his arms on the roof of the car and leaned lazily forward to peer inside. The pungent odor of grass clippings, gasoline, and sweat hit Brandon’s nostrils as he looked up at the boy

  “Hey, Corbin. How’s it going?” Brandon asked the complete relaxed teen.

  “Not too bad, Mr. Daniels. It’s hot today, though.” He stood up and wiped his shirt over his sweaty torso, then stuffed it in his back pocket again before propping his hands against the roof of the car once more, exposing his armpits.

  Brandon wished there was an air freshener in his car.

  “Yeah, pretty warm,” Brandon replied with a smile as Corbin’s eyes darted longingly towards the car’s speedometer.

  “How’s the car fund coming along?” Brandon tried to sound upbeat as Corbin’s eyes shifted from the dashboard to him.

  “Umm.” Corbin’s eyes rolled upward as he ran the numbers through his head. “With the money from today, I’m about half-way there.”

  He smiled and looked back down.

  “Good for you. You’ll have that car by the time you turn sixteen.” Brandon said, thinking about his own first car.

  The car had been a hand-me-down from his mother—a 1976 AMC Hornet. Also known as ‘The Brown Bitch’ amongst his friends, so nicknamed for its tendency to not want to start at the worst possible times. He recalled the time he, Tommy, and some friends drove three hours to Atlanta to see the premiere of Back to the Future without their parents’ knowledge. The car broke down, and they ended up having to call his father. His ass was sore for a week after his Dad was done with the belt.

  “I suppose. Wish it weren’t two years away.” Corbin replied, jarring Brandon out of his fond memories of being sixteen.

  Without thinking, Brandon said the first thing that popped in his head. “Corbin. Take the advice of an old man. Stay a kid as long as you can, because being an adult sucks.”

  Corbin was taken aback.

  “Umm…sure, Mr. Daniels.” He looked confused before he put his arms down and tilted his head to the side. “Everything okay, sir?”

  “Yeah.” Brandon stared at his house as he thought of the utterly humiliating experience at the gym earlier. “Just having a bad day.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Corbin placed his arms on the roof again.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Brandon made a dismissive gesture, forcing himself to smile.

  There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Corbin switched to business. “I couldn’t get along the fence on the side because of the markers.” He stood back and pointed towards the privacy fence on the east side of Brandon’s house.

  “What markers?” Brandon asked as his brow furrowed at this new development.

  “The ones that run from just inside the fence to the back corner.” Corbin moved his finger, tracing a path along the fence line.

  Brandon looked towards his fence. A couple of wooden stakes that stuck about six inches out of the ground started about two feet on the visible side of the fence, and
according to Corbin, ran the entire length inside.

  Brandon’s eyes narrowed, realizing immediately who was responsible for the markers. That fucker is at it again, he thought to himself, his nostrils flaring with anger.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Daniels?” Corbin asked as he stepped away from the car.

  “Oh. Yeah.” Brandon faked a smile as he turned his head to face Corbin once more. “Just something I need to take care of.”

  Corbin nodded as an awkward silence ensued.

  “Oh! Almost forgot.” Brandon forced another smile as he pulled out his wallet, extracted two twenties, and held them out the window.

  Corbin smiled and moved to grab them right as Brandon jerked them back.

  “Wait,” Brandon said as he extracted another twenty and held out all three bills to Corbin with a genuine smile for once. “A little extra for the car fund.”

  Corbin’s eyes lit up as he wrapped his sweaty palm around them. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Corbin. Glad to help.”

  “I’ll cut it again in a couple of weeks if that’s okay?” He smiled happily as he stuffed the cash in the front pocket of his raggedy shorts.

  “That’s fine, Corbin. Thanks.” Brandon replied, wishing his son was more like Corbin.

  “Oh. Thanks for loaning me those Patrick Troughton episodes of Doctor Who on DVD. They’re pretty cool.” Corbin grinned.

  “Glad you’re enjoying them. Troughton made a good Doctor. Wish so many of his stories weren’t destroyed.” Brandon replied, always ready to talk about his favorite TV show of all time.

  “Yeah.” Corbin frowned. “Me too. Maybe we can have another classic Doctor Who marathon sometime?”

  “Yeah. Sounds good.” Brandon thought back to the Sunday a couple of months prior when he and Corbin had binge-watched the show all day.

  It had been one of the few enjoyable days he’d had in quite some time.

  “Well, I hope everything works out okay,” Corbin said, his voice laced with concern for his favorite customer.

  “Me too,” Brandon answered as Corbin turned and jauntily walked back towards his mower.

  Immediately after parking his baby in the garage, Brandon jumped out and stormed towards his neighbor’s house. He stomped to the end of his driveway, turned left, and walked the few yards of the public sidewalk that connected to the red brick pathway that led to his neighbor’s front door. Walking up the path, he glanced at the brightly colored petunias and gazanias adorning each side of the walkway. Fucking flowers, he seethed.

  Reaching the door, he pressed his finger on the cheap plastic doorbell. A dog immediately started barking from the other side of the door. As he waited, he snarled at the daisies that sat in large, overflowing pots on either side of the door. He pressed the button again, his anger building with each passing moment. Just before he was about to press it a third time, he heard the latch being turned and the door opening.

  Glancing down, he saw the black business casual shoes, the knee-high-black socks, ghost-white legs, and the tan shorts of his nemesis—Mr. Gatliff. The mean old neighbor with the skeleton-thin frame, the wispy grey hair, the crooked nose, and the hateful expression on his face.

  "Yeah. What do you want?" Mr. Gatliff sneered as if he’d been waiting for this visit all day.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing coming on my property without my permission?" Brandon yelled over the barking mutt as he put one hand on his hip, then turned and pointed towards his house with the other.

  "I have told you that is my property. Your fence is two feet over the line. I have every right to be on my property." The man pointed to himself while using his left foot to push the schnauzer back from the door.

  Brandon felt his face grow hot. "No. You opened my gate, came into my yard, and put fucking stakes on my side of the fence."

  He punctuated each utterance of the word “my” with a jab to his own chest. Even after years of living next to Mr. Gatliff, knowing what a prick he was, he couldn’t believe the nerve of the guy.

  Finally, tired of battling the dog, the old man stepped outside, invading Brandon’s personal space, causing him to step back. The man turned and closed the door behind himself before turning back toward Brandon.

  "I had a survey done of my property, and legal lines are clearly marked. It is legally my property, and I want the fence moved off my property." Mr. Gatliff’s back straightened rigidly as a self-satisfied grin overtook his face, which only made Brandon want to punch him.

  Brandon folded his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to his left foot as his right foot slowly tapped the concrete.

  “That fence was there before either of us moved here!” Brandon pointed toward his house again, his mind flashing back to the day he and Marcia moved in twenty years prior. That was when sweet Mrs. Holcombe lived in Mr. Gatliff’s house, and she had brought over a homemade apple pie to welcome them to the neighborhood. She had been a sweet old lady and had been Brandon’s neighbor for ten years before she, unfortunately, had a heart attack. “What the hell would you do with two extra feet of property anyway?”

  “I want to replant my rose garden that your dog destroyed.” He smirked as he stared directly into Brandon’s eyes.

  “That was four years ago!” Brandon screamed and threw his hands up in the air in exasperation.

  Brandon recalled the day Echo had tunneled under the fence and destroyed Mr. Gatliff’s most treasured flower bed out of the two dozen he had on his property. Since that time, Mr. Gatliff had found any excuse to cause a problem.

  “Doesn’t matter. I want it moved.” The old man repeated as his chin rose arrogantly, and his arms came to cross over his chest.

  Brandon narrowed his eyes and stared at him. “Well, you’re shit out of luck because my ex-wife took all my money, and I don’t have the means to move it.”

  “Sell that fancy sports car.” The asshole nodded towards Brandon’s garage.

  Brandon felt like he was about to explode, so he decided to take a different approach to tell the man what to do. He crossed his arms again, leaned in, squinted his eyes until they were almost shut, and angrily sneered.

  “Fuck. You.” Brandon replied before dropping his arms, turning on his heels, and trampling through the man’s flowerbeds with his own self-satisfied grin, making sure to kick his toes out, sending blooms into the air.

  “I’ll sue you!” The man yelled.

  “Sue me, you dumb mother fucker! I don’t care anymore!” He raised his hand over his head in a one-finger salute as he pivoted onto the sidewalk.

  He stormed into his house, slamming the front door. Going directly to the refrigerator, he grabbed a can of beer, opened it, and tossed it back, killing the entire can in one gulp in front of the open refrigerator.

  A few seconds later, Back in Black screamed from his pocket. He reached into his slacks, pulled out his phone, and slid his thumb across the screen to answer it.

  “Hey, Tommy.” He grumbled.

  “Whazzup?” Tommy crowed, imitating the actors in the old Budweiser commercial. It had been his standard phone greeting for going on twenty years.

  “Same old shit.” Brandon reached into the fridge and pulled out another beer before popping it open and closing the door.

  “Steve take a dump in your chair again?” Tommy joked in an effort to cheer up his friend.

  “Yeah. As always.” Said Brandon as he trudged into the living room and flopped down on the couch, being careful so as to not spill his beer. He picked up the remote and flipped on the TV before kicking his feet up on the coffee table and taking another drink of his beer.

  “Dude. Why the hell are you still working there?” Tommy asked.

  He had never quite understood Brandon’s logic in staying with a job—and a boss—he hated.

  “You know why,” Brandon said as leaned forward to grab the bag of Cheetos off the coffee table that was left over from the previous night’s bin
ge-watching of Stranger Things.

  “Yeah, I know. Marcia and her money vacuum.” Tommy made a sucking noise. “Well, I’m going to cheer you up. Kathy and I are having a barbecue tomorrow night. Nothing big. Just going to be family and a few friends.”

  “And by ‘family,’ you mean your brother Gabe?” The thought of Tommy’s loud-mouthed obnoxious older brother made Brandon cringe.

  Brandon had known Tommy’s family since they had been kids back in Georgia. Tommy had twelve brothers and sisters. With that many siblings, Tommy spent a lot of time at Brandon’s house to escape the chaos that was the Burkhart house. After he and Tommy graduated high school, they both were awarded scholarships to the University of Arizona. Going to school on the other side of the country was Tommy’s idea. Tommy wanted to escape from his poor upbringing in rural Georgia, while Brandon just wanted to escape his father. Unfortunately for Brandon, the distance did nothing to stop his father’s interference in his life.

  “Gabe’s supposed to be here,” Tommy confirmed blandly.

  “I’ll pass then.” Brandon flipped to Netflix.

  “Dude. Come on. He’s changed. He’s been sober for three months now.”

  “Unless he’s had a complete personality transplant, he’s still the same asshole he’s always been.” Brandon snipped.

  He thought back to the last time he saw Gabe when Tommy invited him to go fishing with them. He’d already had several beers by the time they had picked him up, and would not stop bragging about his sexual conquests for the entire drive to the river. Once they were in the boat, he got completely smashed and fell out of the boat twice, the last fall flipping the boat and taking Brandon and Tommy with him.

  “He’s trying to do better,” Tommy replied, always defensive of his brother.

  “Still. I’ll pass.” Brandon said as he grabbed the pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the coffee table.

  “Dude. Come on. You need to get out. Since that bitch ex-wife of yours left, you don’t have a social life.” Tommy pleaded.

  “I know, man,” Brandon said as he pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it.