by Brandon Witt
There was no sign of any sexual activity in the bed, and I even checked the bin in the bathroom for used condoms. It was low of me. Very, very, very low. But I was cheered to find nothing sinister in the white receptacle.
Patrick’s note was calling to me like a beacon, so I hurried down to the laundry at the back of the house.
Dear Jake,
• How was your weekend? How did your sister do on her exams?
• What’s your second job? I found myself wondering during the weekend, so if you can enlighten me, I would appreciate it. Please?
• To answer your question from Friday, I don’t have a car because I don’t know how to drive. For some reason I never learned. I’m glad you pointed it out to me, because it is something I should’ve done before now. Learning to drive will be going to the top of my “Things In Life To Do” list.
Patrick.
I felt a curious sensation in my chest when I read his note. He’d been thinking of me over the weekend and had asked about it. And he’d asked about my sister. I was chuffed that he remembered Maria’s exams and had bothered to ask. Chuffed? Oh, my God! I was definitely crazy about the guy if I used words like “chuffed.” What’s next, macho man? Calling him honey pie and making his favorite dessert just to cheer him up?
I worked extra hard at Monday’s set tasks, making sure everything was perfect to make up for the bad news I had for him. I reminded myself that it was my bad news and that maybe it wouldn’t affect Patrick at all. After all, perhaps he had asked me to dinner only because he felt sorry for me.
Dear Patrick,
Bad news, buddy. I’m going to have to cancel dinner tomorrow night. I’m really sorry and believe me, I feel really bad about it. You asked about my second job? I work at The Coolgardie Tavern over in East Fremantle—washing up and tending bar and things. That is, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights from 6pm to 1am.
So I have to cancel dinner because I managed to score myself a third job over the weekend. Nothing too crazy or too well paid. I’m going to be delivering newspapers on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. It sounds great—they’ll give me a scooter to use and everything. They say it should take about three hours, so that doesn’t give me enough time to make dinner for us. I won’t be finished until nearly 7pm, and it will take me longer the first couple of times to do the route, because I need to memorize the map.
So that also means can I ask another favor? My contract with you is for six hours a day, five days a week. I was hoping to leave about 2pm on Fridays. So can I either start work an hour earlier on Fridays, or can I work an extra hour on Thursdays or something?
Let me know if another day suits you for dinner, and let me know about the hours. I’m feeling really bad about the dinner, so let me know if Wednesday suits you instead. I can visit Ellie and Skylah and dash back to do dinner.
Also, thanks for asking about Maria’s exams. She’s doing really well with them. Two more this week and she’s finished.
I’ve noticed Gregor has chewed or ripped his doggie bed. Did you know?
See you soon,
Jake.
I soon discovered that delivering newspapers is boring and repetitive and there are a heck of a lot of vicious dogs in the area. I was nearly mowed down three times by soccer mums in their big 4WD vehicles reversing out of their driveways without looking. I also had a lot of fun playing “dodge the tree.” The scooter that I borrowed from the newspaper was a gutless wonder. I was sure I could’ve ridden my bike a lot faster.
I rode with my left hand, throwing papers on front lawns and driveways with my right arm. By the end of the three hours, my biceps were killing me and I had a lot of respect for the guys who did this every day for hours.
That night I sat down and went over my finances again. It was slow going since I only had pen and paper to do my calculations. Plus, it wasn’t like I had a finance degree or anything. I worked out how much extra money I had from delivering newspapers, then added in the extra money I was currently giving to Lizzy on a weekly basis so she could make it week-to-week without starving. With her exams over, she could pick up some more hours at the café where she was now working, and maybe even find a second job. If Lizzy could get a job using her degree in the next couple of months, she would be able to save enough for a decent place, and even maybe pay me back some money in a year’s time. But until then, I really had to work out a way to get some more dough.
The interest rate on the personal loan I’d taken out to cover Mum’s debts was killing me. For a moment I wondered what sort of money porn stars made, then laughed at myself. Who in the hell was going to hire me as a porn star? My employment history showed that I was really crap at taking directions from anyone, so how would I do in a porn movie? Yes, yes. That’s it, Jake. Lick me there…. No! I said lick! No! Don’t….
At the end of the day, the bottom line was crap. I was going to be in debt for a long time and there was no way in the world that I’d be able to afford a car or even move out of my crappy, shared flat anytime soon.
Feeling despondent, I cycled to work on Wednesday morning, barely glancing at the river views along the way. Patrick’s place was waiting for me, the house sparsely decorated and the garden amassed with pink flowers. It called to me in a way no other place had.
I unlocked the door, turned off the alarm, and looked up the hallway with hope, but no doggie footsteps came running to greet me and no half-naked, blond gods were lingering near the bedroom door. Pity.
I poked my head in each room as I made my way to the back of the house, checking to make sure there was no unexpected mess for me to deal with. It was mopping day, which meant I had to dust the furniture and vacuum all the floors before taking the mop out. I liked mopping day. It was a physical workout as well as a chance to crank the music and just zone while I worked.
In the laundry, I looked for Patrick’s note, but was unable to find it. I thought that maybe it had been dropped on the floor, or a breeze had taken it, but it was nowhere to be found. I was extremely puzzled and a little bit hurt. Patrick had never not left a note, even before I’d met him. Since the day he’d been sick, the notes had changed in tone. They were more friendly and less demanding, and even personal at times. But they were always there.
Confused, I retraced my steps and searched the obvious places. It wasn’t in the kitchen or the scan-and-read machine, and it wasn’t in the study where Patrick would’ve printed it off. It wasn’t anywhere.
Finally, I concluded that Patrick hadn’t left a note for me that day. I thumbed my mobile phone, and even considered sending him a quick text message to ask if he was okay, but I decided that contacting him went beyond the bounds of the employer-employee relationship. The man was probably fine, just too busy to write to me.
I reluctantly threw myself into the day’s work, not bothering to turn on my dance music, as I had somehow found myself in a blue funk. I needed a beer and a blowjob to cheer me up, and whaddya know? I couldn’t afford either.
Nearly three hours later, the house had been dusted, vacuumed, and tidied, and I was halfway through mopping my first room, when the phone in my pocket buzzed furiously and began to play the latest Tame Impala tune. I reached for it in surprise, only to go weak-kneed when I saw Patrick’s name flash on the screen. Patrick calling…. Answer?
Heck, yes!
“Hello?”
Patrick’s voice came back at me through the device, and I could tell he was standing outside, near a busy road somewhere. “Jake? It’s Patrick.”
“Are you okay?” I had no idea why the man was calling me and the only thing I could think was that he was in trouble. Had he been hurt? Was he lost? Was something wrong with Gregor?
“Sure. I’m doing great. Listen, are you at my house at the moment?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Can you do me a huge favor, Jake? I’m expecting a delivery at the house in about fifteen to twenty minutes. I don’t think they will need you to sign for it, but they need to hand i
t over to a person. Can you please grab it for me?”
“No problem.” The sound of his voice had lifted my funk. Sure, I was just a housekeeper and recipient of courier packages for him, but he knew I was alive. Pathetic, Jake!
“Thanks.”
The little imp inside me couldn’t let it just go at that, though. “Can I run the package through the scan-and-read machine? Just to hear what it says?”
Patrick’s throaty chuckle reached through the phone and ran on a direct course to my groin where all the blood in my body soon followed. “I don’t think you’ll want to do that with this package. Wait to see what it is before you try. See you soon.”
The phone gave a little beep and I looked down in amusement at it. The man had hung up on me! Not that I needed him to say good-bye and blow kisses at me over the phone—although that would be nice. I shook my head and went back to mopping, suddenly realizing that there was a permanent grin plastered across my lips.
Pathetic, Jake! Absolutely, fucking pathetic.
True to his word, the doorbell went about fifteen minutes later. I bounded through the house and flung the door open with exuberance… only to find a fifteen-year-old pizza-delivery driver standing at the door with a bright-red pizza bag balanced on his hip.
I looked past his skinny shoulders in confusion but could only see a Domino’s Pizza delivery car in the driveway. If the boy was driving he must’ve been at least seventeen, but he still couldn’t read because I had not ordered pizza.
“Ahh…. Wrong house, buddy. What address are you looking for?”
The boy blinked and consulted a sheet of paper. “Number seventy-six, Birdwood Circus. This is the right house.”
“Oh. Yes, well that’s the address, but I didn’t order anything.”
He looked back at the paper and asked, “Patrick Stanford?”
Now we were both confused. Was this some sort of reality TV show where we were being secretly filmed? “This is Patrick’s house, but he’s at work at the moment.”
To the boy that was enough. He ripped open the red bag, pulled out two pizza boxes, and thrust them into my hand. “Two pizzas for Patrick Stanford. They’re already paid for, so you just need to hold on to them until your boyfriend gets home. Have a good one, man.” He waved and raced back to his car, afraid that I might flag him down and try to give him back two perfect pizzas that were already paid for.
Silly kid! Doesn’t he know how long it has been since I have had pizza?
I closed and relocked the door, taking the steaming food into the kitchen. They smelled divine and I had no idea what to do with them. Who had ordered and paid for them? Would Patrick notice if one piece was missing…?
The doorbell chimed again and I hopped up to answer it. This time it would be Patrick’s delivery.
But the man on the other side of the door wasn’t a delivery driver. In fact, he couldn’t drive at all. But he was gorgeous and I would’ve grabbed him and kissed him senseless if it wasn’t for the fact he had a big dog with him.
Oh, and of course the fact that he was technically my employer.
“Patrick!”
He smiled a crooked smile at me, as if he was unsure of his welcome. “In the flesh. Did you get my delivery?”
I was staring dumbfounded at him. “Umm. It hasn’t come yet. I thought you were it. Don’t stand there, man! Get in the house! Why ever are you ringing your own darn doorbell?”
He was wearing some stylish sunnies that I’d never seen before and a well-fitted, tan suit that looked professional and sexy at the same time. He was holding a white cane in one hand and a handle attached to a nifty little harness that Gregor was wearing in the other. It suddenly hit me that this guy was blind. Disabled. I’d never actually thought about him in those terms before, but he was undeniably at a disadvantage.
I stepped aside to let him through and caught a glance of the yellow taxi leaving the driveway. I had wondered how he managed to get to work each day, and I guess I had my answer.
He moved inside, taking three steps before crouching to allow Gregor out of his harness. With practiced fingers he undid the buckles and slipped the contraption off before giving the dog a brief rub and pat. “Good boy. Off you go now.”
Gregor shook himself and trotted off obediently to check out his food and water dish. Patrick stood and put his hand out to the wall, found his bearings, then hung up his white cane and Gregor’s harness on the hooks just inside the door. He turned suddenly and I found myself in front of him with less than a foot between us.
My heart stuttered to a halt before suddenly racing, beating double-time as I breathed in the unique scent that was Patrick. I wondered if he realized how close he was to me and how easy it would be for me to lean across and just touch our lips together.
Of course, that would be followed by a swift fist into my gut and a phone call to Mrs. Martha West….
“I thought you said my delivery hadn’t arrived?”
“Huh? What?” My brain was not functioning on high definition.
“My delivery. I can smell it from here.”
I blinked and turned my attention away from the mesmerizing plumpness of his lips to sniff the air. “Pizza?”
His grin was like the sun breaking out from behind the clouds on a stormy day. “Lunch. You couldn’t make dinner, so I made lunch instead. Now you need to eat it all because I sweated ever so hard over making it for you.”
My lips couldn’t contain the answering smile I had for him. “You did that for me?”
Patrick turned and slowly made his way down the hallway to the kitchen. “Of course. It took me absolutely ages and everything. You do not know how hard I worked to make lunch for you.”
I couldn’t contain the chuckle that bubbled up from my throat. “What? It took you all of five minutes to ring the store?”
He aimed a grin in my direction over his shoulder. “Two. And that includes the forty-five seconds it took to verify my credit card details. Now hurry up and get some drinks out while I get the plates. There’s a pizza with my name on it waiting for me.”
I wasn’t joking when I said it had been absolutely ages since my last pizza, so biting into the melted cheese was pretty close to heaven. I moaned in delight and closed my eyes to savor the taste as Patrick chewed on his mouthful.
“Good?” he asked.
“Mmm hmm,” I replied. “Best lunch date ever.”
“Good,” he said and sat back with a satisfied look.
I chewed for a while before it hit me that I’d said, Best lunch date ever. And Patrick had replied, Good.
Good?
As in yes, this was a lunch date?
Holy happy-gay-men, Batman. This was a date?
But before I could think of a diplomatic way to ask that question, Patrick had kick-started the conversation with, “So how did your newspaper delivery go yesterday?”
We chatted about things as we demolished our meal. I told Patrick about Maria’s exams and Skylah’s swimming lessons, then asked about his work and research. He grumbled about a new employee at the perfumery who was treating him like he was made of fragile glass; then he asked about my job at The Tav.
“You should come down one night, Patrick. It would be great to see you down there. And I’m sure you’ll have a blast. The first two beers will be on me.”
He paused with his drink halfway to his mouth. “Are you serious?” His expression was puzzled and I stopped, trying to figure out what I’d said wrong.
“Ahh…. Yes? Why not? Are you allergic to fun or something?”
Patrick carefully placed his glass on the table next to his empty plate. “Jake, I’m blind,” he said, as if it explained everything.
I searched for the thing I’d said wrong. “Ye-esss…. And I’m gay. I don’t get the problem.”
“You want me to come to a crowded pub and have a couple of beers? And do what?”
I frowned. “I dunno, man. Do whatever. Dance for a bit. Pick up a chick. Have a conversation
with a stranger. Listen to the music. Have a couple of beers too many. Whatever you want.”
He blinked rapidly and cocked his head to the side before reiterating, “Jake, I’m blind.”
“So? Dancing, drinking, conversation. They all require mouths and bodies. Nothing about eyes.” I felt like I was talking to a four-year-old.
He sighed and shook his head in bafflement. “I can’t go to a pub, Jake.”
“Why not?”
He threw up his hands in astonishment. “How am I meant to get there? I can’t take Gregor to a pub. Not with all those people and music.”
I shrugged. “So? Get a taxi. Give me a call as you leave and I’ll come out the front and show you inside. Once you’re on a stool you can drink and chat. Then, if you want to dance, give me a yell and I’ll grab someone to show you to the dance floor. When you’re out there you just move and rub up against whoever and stuff. The pub is cool—no steps or uneven floors. The only problem I see is if you need to take a piss. I can help you to the shitter then.”
Patrick looked at me with incomprehension. “You want me to dance? You want me to—quote—rub up against whoever—unquote? Are you crazy?”
I took a while to ponder that. “Crazy? Oh, definitely. But stupid because I want my blind friend to come out and socialize? No way. Come on, man. It’ll be a blast.”
“Jake, I don’t think—”
I cut him off. “I’ll introduce you to a couple of mates who’ll take care of you if I’m busy. Luke’s a good guy, and so’s Davo. And Sav and Tony. And Gary. I’ll introduce you to Gary as long as you don’t go into the toilets with him. That man is a total slut, and if you look at him sideways he thinks that means you want to fuck him over the toilet bowl, and he’ll virtually drop his pants right there and then. So don’t go in the loos with Gary or he’ll give you more than you’d bargained for.”
