Plato for Plumbers

by Francis Gideon

  "A chair."

  "Oh, that it? It's a lot of wood for just a chair."

  "And a bed. I want to test it out before I use it," Cal explained. "I've never built a bed from scratch before."

  They heaved as they put the last of the wood in the truck. That's when Matt's eyes seemed to finally notice the old blanket and pillow in the back, too, seemingly added just for this trip. The lights of the hardware store flickered and shut off. Though the June sun still hung low in the sky, the store was closing and everything else was shutting down.

  "Sorry you can't get any more supplies," Matt said.

  "That's okay, I think I have all I want right here."

  Cal didn't wait much longer. As soon as Matt caught his eyes again, he moved forward and placed his lips on Matt's.

  Ken leaned back in his chair, his face as flushed as his characters'. He didn't care how corny it all sounded; he really liked writing it. The more he read it over, though, the more his eyes scanned and found critical flaws in its design. Man, this was some hackneyed writing. Who just walked up to someone and kissed them? Who did that at a hardware store? It was always so much harder to tell in real life who was gay and who wasn't. Even the cruising scene had often eluded Ken. He had spent so many years focusing on words and their meaning, that the simple concoction of a fantasy—with two burly men hauling wood into the back of a truck (come on, how transparent could he get there?)—seemed like too much. He found himself laughing at his computer.

  The laughter slowly faded out as he began to fill in the blanks of Matt and Cal's sex scene. He made them both drive around to the back of the hardware store, just as the sun was setting, and strip off all their clothing. As Ken imagined the two men's bodies moving together, he found himself picturing Mark. His brown eyes, biceps, and yes—even the scar on his chin found a way into the story, as Cal held Matt's face in his hands and traced his tongue over the imperfection. Ken couldn't help it. He was so into the scene, that he barely heard the knock on his door.

  "Ken?" Mark asked. He lingered by the doorway, knocking again.

  "Gah!" Ken said. He hurriedly closed the laptop again, like a young kid being caught watching porn. "Yes?"

  "Sorry," Mark said with another smile. "I didn't mean to scare you."

  "No, it's fine. I was just in the middle of writing. Not a big deal."

  Mark leaned into the room a bit more. He seemed to bounce on the balls of his feet. "Must have been a good story, then. You were typing pretty fast."

  "It was."

  Ken looked up at Mark, his gaze devilish. They both stared, a knowing nod between them. Ken had been writing erotica, chasing that old dream, no matter how foolish.

  "I had a good time talking to you today," Ken said. He took of his glasses and set them on the desk, folding his hands over his chest. "I really appreciate you fixing that sink."

  "Not at all." Mark smiled again. His face, so soft and enticing, seemed to etch out more than words ever could—if only Ken didn't doubt his own readings. "I had fun, too."

  Ken nodded. He let out a light laugh, feeling way too much like a high school kid. He slid his glasses back on the tip of his nose. "Well, I have a deadline for my paper."

  "Right. And I have other houses to visit. I'm heading out now."

  "Okay."

  "The bill is there, on your kitchen counter. I need you to give it a quick signature before I leave, though."

  "Oh, okay."

  Ken shifted in his chair. Though minutes had passed since his sex scene was interrupted, he still felt the fire under his skin. His hard cock in his pants. He wanted Mark, and from the way that Mark didn't move towards the kitchen to get that signature, maybe Mark wanted him to.

  He was about to open his mouth, to offer Mark something else, but he never got a chance to finish. Mark moved from the doorway, right over to Ken's spot in front of the computer, and without any hesitation, placed his lips over Ken's. No cheesy lines, no innuendo, or hackneyed plot sketch. Mark just kissed Ken, their lips moving together as their tongues touched.

  A flash of philosophy came to Ken then: "Love is not a God at all," Plato wrote, "but is rather a spirit that mediates between people and the objects of their desire. Love is neither wise nor beautiful, but is rather the desire for wisdom and beauty."

  The thought soon passed as Mark's hands moved towards Ken's shoulders and down his back. Ken forgot about his deadline, his conference paper, and even the upsetting comments from David Lethbridge. He thought of nothing but Mark, of their bodies as they tried to put themselves together again.

  *~*~*

  At five the next morning, Ken woke quietly. He rose from the bed, covering up Mark's bare back before he walked down the hallway to his office to work on his paper once again. This time, there was no dripping from the leaky sink. Just the subtle sounds of flicking fingers on the keyboard as the words for his paper flowed out of him easily.

  "I would like to present you all with a paper about love. Love in the strangest of places," Ken wrote. "This is not about moral philosophy, like I pitched before. But I do not think that my new topic strays that far from my first topic. What is more moral than the human side of our lives, beyond the big ideas and empirical data? Love fits nicely here, in between Plato and Aristotle.

  "Do you all remember," Ken went on as he addressed an imaginary audience in his mind, "that Kant went for a walk every day? People set their watches by him. We look at this as boring and predictable, but people depended on him. Kant may not have travelled more than ten miles from his place of birth, but people found a way to need him beyond the big tomes of reason he produced. Do you also remember that the Greek Cynic philosopher Demonax spent his free time solving the squabbles of married couples? Moreover, he did this for free. He used his skill at philosophy and argumentation to fix the love that he saw crumbling around him. Who says love isn't for cynics after all?

  "The underside of these philosopher's lives is just as important as the theories they discussed and wrote about. Love is a moral objective; love is something we all need. And pleasure, another facet of that love, is something I believe we must consider in great detail in our philosophical circles. If love and pleasure makes us more human, why don't I see a thousand papers written on them for this conference? I see them in the undergrad and even graduate levels, but something happens, something important is lost, between these two places. I want to get that back again. Instead of our constant struggles between good and evil, why not focus on our end goals a little while longer? So much of philosophy is seen as one person's struggle to get out of The Cave from Plato's famous allegory. But what if we didn't just focus on ourselves? What if we decided to talk to the person next to us, also struggling to get out of that cave, and forge friendships, or relationships while we also search for greater meaning?

  "Perhaps this is not what a philosopher is for. But if not, then I beg you to consider: what is life for, if not to love and be loved, to be told stories, and hopefully, find a little meaning in between?"

  Ken smiled as he heard Mark shift in the bed in the other room. A low groan followed. Though they had only spent one night together, Ken could picture everything in the next room clearly: Mark's small smile, his lips extra pink in the morning like the sunrise, and his arms stretching over his head. He could smell the faint scent of melon along with metal. Ken could also feel every last kiss on his body from Mark, every last word and promise whispered through the night.

  He added a few more lines to his conference paper. When he travelled in a few days to present it, Ken knew that he didn't have to worry about how well it would be received because there would be at least one friendly face in the audience; Mark had already said he would come on the trip and keep Ken level-headed during the conference. He had even offered to field questions from the audience if things got too out of hand. But Ken knew he had already worked long and hard enough to get away with a paper like this. So maybe he might be the talk of the conference in small gossip circles for a few day
s afterwards. He was planning on spending much of the conference back in his hotel with Mark rather than at the bar anyway.

  After the trip, Ken would go back to writing in his small condo. This new paper would make a great final chapter in his book, even better than before. From there, Ken even knew what he would write next. There was no more fear at the in-between spaces, no more worry about a golden age or philosophy's true meaning. For the first time in a long time, Ken felt as if he could rest a little while longer.

  Ken saved his work and closed his laptop, moving back into the bedroom quietly.

  "Good morning," Mark said, his voice still sleepy. He blinked his eyes, just as Ken placed a kiss on his forehead.

  "Good morning," Ken echoed. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

  Mark nodded. He grasped Ken's hand and pulled it around to his waist, turning Ken into the big spoon in bed. They breathed together until sleep took them.

  Outside, without them, the morning rolled on.

  Fin

  About the Author

  Francis Gideon is a m/m author, editor, and essayist. He has appeared in Microscenes, Gay Flash Fiction, Love Lane Books, and in ‘To Hell With Dante: An Afterlife Anthology’ by Martinus Press. He lives in Canada with his partner, where he reads too many true crime stories and stays up way too late. Find out more about his work online: http://francisgideon.wordpress.com/