To the Max

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  “Yes, Mom, I do,” was my earnest reply.

  “Then let me do the laundry,” and that was all that was said at that point. The next day we went downstairs to find a place set for Richard for breakfast and my sister grinning at us in the most annoying way. At that time she was about thirteen and thought she was above using any sort of manners or decorum.

  “Maxie’s got a boyfriend!” she taunted me, sticking out her tongue all the way to the root. I started to push back my chair, intent on bare minimum pulling her hair—merely to get her attention, mind you—when my mother’s entrance put a stop to all that. She brought in whatever she had made for breakfast, told Diana to behave, and made a point of hugging Richard and giving him an extra large portion. If you’re baffled by this inexplicable behavior on the part of a woman who is in constant denial of my sexuality, then you are not alone. She adored Richard from the moment she met him. Everybody generally does, Amy being the exception, for obvious reasons. And yet she wishes I weren’t gay. Go figure.

  Anyway, once again I digress.

  This had been a particularly pleasant Saturday, and Richard and I had spent quite a bit of time adrift together on an inflated rubber raft in my mother’s amply proportioned in-ground swimming pool. I think that Johnny Weissmuller would have been at home in that pool. Juliet liked to refer to it as her “cement pond.” I told her she wasn’t funny. There was a soft comfortable breeze blowing across our bodies, clad as we were only in our manly swimming shorts and the sunscreen which we had slathered over one another. Richard, being a blond, is prone to burning, while I, being me, suffer from the same affliction. So we make sure we are well-protected before we venture out of doors for long periods. My mother not being home, I took the opportunity to crank up Tchaikovsky on her Kenwood stereo and open the doors. The hauntingly romantic “Romeo and Juliet” was playing, and I remember lying there in a half-dream state, one hand lightly resting on Richard’s chest, feeling the rising and falling of his even breathing, so completely enamored of him, and so completely content. For some reason, we wore sliced fruit over our closed eyes (no comments from the peanut gallery, please); I think it was something we had read in a magazine, but I have long since forgotten which one or what it was supposed to do for us, other than leave us smelling like British seamen.

  Normally Saturday night was our night to go dancing, to stretch our legs and show the world, well, part of it anyway, what we were made of. We made a good team, actually, and we had been working on several routines that never failed to impress people when we took them onto the dance floor. A regular Fred and Ginger we were—still are, if you want to know the truth—although the disco moves have had to be shelved for newer steps. Still, it’s all good.

  That day, though, we had decided we really didn’t want to do that, and we were satisfied to just float together in a blissful half-somnolence, a pitcher of margaritas beside us to quench our thirst, too lazy to talk, too lazy even to make love, happy just to be with one another. Until, that is, Diana and her gang of adolescent cutthroat ninjas appeared on the scene, wearing their pink- and yellow-flowered bikinis, clutching their cheery beach towels, their portable radios tuned to the worst music they could possibly find, and all screeching like Valley girls on steroids. Not that they intended to actually swim, mind you. Heaven forbid that they should get wet. No, they wanted to lie about and chatter and gossip. I opened one eye, watching the invading horde as it arrived. Richard paid them no attention, even when they clustered at the side of the pool and goggled at him openly, admiring his very nice physique. I could hear Diana in the background: “Don’t waste your time, they’re gay,” and the disappointed clucking of the hens around her.

  “Richard.” I rose up on one elbow, my fruit falling off onto the raft. “I think a road trip is in order.”

  “Why?” he asked lazily, rolling onto his side toward me, managing to never dislodge his limes. The man is the epitome of grace. I could just hear the sighs of the prepubescent bimbos as they watched his firm muscles ripple, and I suspected he would form the subject of more than a few romantic dreams that night. He moved closer to me, throwing one leg over mine, his lips brushing across mine. “You think of someplace new to make love in, sweet thing?” I swear he must have realized we weren’t alone and was showing off for my sister and her friends’ benefit. That man was and continues to be a major exhibitionist.

  It took all of my self-control to not respond to his touch, but I was too well aware of the proximity of all those voyeuristic female hormones, and I especially didn’t want to hear about it from Juliet when she found out that we had put on some sort of sexual display for their edification and enlightenment. I could hear her sarcastic voice: “What did you think you were doing, teaching Gay Sex 101 for Prepubescent Teens?” I didn’t think I really wanted to listen to that particular lecture, thank you.

  I removed the limes and tossed them aside—they were dried out anyway—and said simply, “Look around you, my love.” He obediently did as I asked and flashed the giggling girls a brilliant smile, which only set them off all the more. His whole divine Buddha inner serenity thing made me suspect that he was well aware of what he was doing, the ham. Diana took this moment to enlighten those who might still be oblivious to just who we were. “That’s my brother Max and his boyfriend Richard,” she said in the manner of a tour guide, offering us up as some sort of special exhibit. You know those kind of tours, where you endure the humdrum and the mundane just to get to the sight you’ve been promised will amaze and astound you. I think that was meant to be us.

  I do believe that under other circumstances, Richard would have taken a bow. As it was, he fluttered his fingers gaily at the teenyboppers, and they all heaved a collective sigh. That was when I decided that enough was enough. “Want to drive along the river?” I asked, knowing that he would say, “Yes, of course.”

  “Can we stop and get a bottle of wine for the trip?” he wanted to know, and without hesitation I said “yes.”

  “Well, then, shiver me timbers! Let’s scuttle this dingy and set sail in the SS Monte Carlo instead, shall we?” And he winked at me as he assumed his best piratic demeanor. I couldn’t keep from laughing at him as we paddled the raft to the side of the pool, salvaging both the pitcher and the vessel. We cut a swath through the scurvy knaves who, although obviously disappointed at our defection, quickly got over our departure and resumed their enthusiastic cackling.

  Safe at last in the privacy of our room, having disposed of the empty pitcher along the way, we donned our casual summer wear—cut-off shorts and T-shirts—and repaired to my beloved automobile.

  That car was, and still is, my pride and joy. I had fallen in love with her the first time I saw her on the car lot, and when my mother agreed to buy her for me, I was in heaven. I’m not sure why it is that I have designated her as female, considering my sexual assignment, it would seem logical to view the car as a male, as an extension of myself, but I have always thought of her that way. She is my Queen. Not a play on words, don’t laugh. She has a gleaming black body that, in the proper light, almost appears blue. Her hood sweeps up impressively in the most beautiful curved lines, with maroon accent stripes. She has square double headlights, which I prefer to the single round ones, and my mother graciously allowed me to have a state-of-the-art Pioneer car stereo installed, with multiple speakers and a tape deck, which over the years has been replaced with a combination tape deck/CD player. I am fussier about her interior than I am about my own bedroom, and I even carry a waste container, although eating is normally verboten, and even Richard knows to be careful when I do allow him to eat inside of her. On the other hand, I trust him enough to allow him to drive when he wishes to, and tonight was one of those nights.

  He reached down and kissed me while taking the key ring from my hand. “My tour,” was all he said in his oh-so-mysterious Richard manner.

  It was not unusual for the two of us to simply get in the car and drive—back then the price of gasoline was much m
ore reasonable—and one of our favorite drives was along Highway 94, which winds through several Missouri counties, following the route of the Missouri River. This is the trail originally blazed by renowned explorers Meriwether Lewis and William Clark as they pushed westward into previously unexplored territory—unexplored by Europeans, that is—heading toward the Pacific Ocean. It isn’t surprising that I ended up buying a home along that same highway. For some reason I assumed that was where we were headed this lovely summer evening, but I soon found out that I was mistaken.

  Our first stop was at a local liquor store, a franchise which is now long dead but which at one time had stores all over the metropolitan area. Instead of wine, we opted for a bottle of apricot brandy instead. God, I loved the sweetness of that liqueur, especially on Richard’s lips and tongue, loved licking it from his bellybutton, off of his hard cock…. Okay, you see where I’m going with that. Anyway….

  The summer sun was already low upon the horizon as we floated down Highway 270 to the sounds of Linda Ronstadt singing her greatest hits. I assumed that we would exit at Lindbergh and make our way toward the Great River Road, the scenic highway that paralleled the river on the Illinois side, along which the famous Piasa Bird could be found. I handed him the bottle of brandy to sip from, taking it back when he had gotten his drink, being careful not to make it too obvious, but perhaps not as cautious as we should have been, for we were reckless with the spirit of youth which believes itself to be invincible and above the mundane laws of common man. But I was mistaken as we passed the exit and continued northward.

  Feeling very affectionate, I rubbed my cheek up against Richard’s shoulder, almost purring. “Where we going, loverboy?” I cooed at him. He returned my look with one of bemusement, brushing his right hand across my left leg. “You’ll see,” was all he said Other than “more brandy, please,” which I gave to him via the bottle, though it crossed my mind that I would prefer to do it mouth-to-mouth, but that since he was driving at top speed down the highway, it was perhaps not the best nor safest idea at the moment.

  “You know it’s too late to see the Piasa Bird, it’s already dark?”

  “Yes, I noticed. My, you’re a quick one.” He grinned at me, and I rolled my eyes at him, flushing.

  “Quick enough to catch you, Mr. Burke!” I rejoined.

  “And here I thought that I was the one that picked you, Mr. Montague?” he teased, stroking my leg softly. I swallowed hard, reminding myself that there would be time for that later. A lot of time.

  My attention was diverted as he exited the highway onto Riverview Boulevard. Now I was really confused as to where he was going. We never drove in that particular area. Said confusion only got worse when he pulled off the road and away from the line of sight of any passing vehicles. He turned to me, placing his finger against his lips. “Be vewwy vewwwy qwiet,” he breathed in a loud stage whisper, “we’re hunting wabbit.”

  I stifled a giggle at his semi-serious demeanor. “Before we go,” he said in a more normal tone of voice, reaching for the bottle and taking a good drink, then handing it to me. I followed suit, letting the sweet liqueur flow down my throat before capping the bottle and setting it out of sight, under the seat. “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now follow me,” he said, opening the car door and sliding out, clutching my hand so that I had no choice but to follow him or risk being dragged out, careful not to get caught on the steering wheel.

  “Careful there, you’re bruising the merchandise,” I muttered under my breath.

  Once I exited the vehicle, I found myself ankle deep in dirty weeds and undergrowth. What the hell? I wondered as I looked around me. For just a second, as he started to pull me determinedly in one direction. “Richard, where are we going?”

  “I wanted to show you the river from a different angle,” he said vaguely. I didn’t like the sound of that, somehow. But my mind was a little befuddled by alcohol, so I just clutched Richard’s hand and followed him, although I didn’t like the way that the plants we passed attempted to make a play for my bare legs. I wondered if maybe we shouldn’t have brought some mosquito repellant, convinced that before we left this place I would be a mass of welts. Not a pleasant thought.

  It wasn’t until we approached the rusty-looking chain-link fence that it all started to fall into place, and I was taken aback for a moment. “Richard?” I said uncertainly.

  He never slowed his steady pace even as he replied, “Yes, Max?” as we picked our way through the weeds.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “That depends. What do you think it is?”

  “The old Chain of Rocks Bridge.”

  “You are quite correct,” he confirmed my suspicions, “the one and only.”

  I instantly went on the defensive, beginning to pull back against his insistent pulling. “Richard,” I said in an unsure voice.

  He never slowed down, speaking to me as if I were a small child, “It’s okay, Max,” although he could not possibly have any inkling of what my concerns were, what was making my blood freeze even as I followed him rather unwillingly toward that old, dilapidated, ramshackle bridge.

  For those who are not familiar with this particular bridge, which I assume to be most of you, it stands at the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. At one time it was a part of Route 66 and tolls were collected on it. But as often happens in this world, it was replaced by something newer and more modern, the new 270 bridge, and the old bridge was closed and allowed to fall into disrepair. Which should have meant the end of the story, right? Left alone to moulder, abandoned, unnoticed. But for some reason, certain people have decided that it is a place to hang out or climb up on and do God knows what, and apparently my new lover was one of these thrill-seekers. While I, on the other hand—cautious, staid, sensible Max—well, let’s just say that I have no love for heights, none whatsoever. Add to that an irrational fear of old bridges and then tie on a phobia regarding drowning… well, you see my dilemma, surely? But how to explain that to Richard without coming off as some sort of a crybaby?

  I couldn’t, and I knew I couldn’t, so I reluctantly followed my lover and shivered internally.

  And prayed that this wasn’t going to really happen.

  (Well, obviously it did, or I wouldn’t be talking about it now, would I? My three worst nightmares rolled into one. Gawd!)

  The bridge was closed off with an old fence, overgrown with all manner of ugly-looking vines. “Well, that’s that, we can’t get in,” I said brightly, prepared to turn about. And run. Premature, I was. Unfortunately.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” he assured me, and I should have known better. That if there was a way to get around something, Richard Burke would know what it was. He certainly knows how to get around me, that’s for damn sure. He walked me directly to a portion of the fence I hadn’t noticed before, mainly ’cause I didn’t give a big damn, where someone had apparently used something to cut through the rusty metal, leaving a bit of a gap, obviously what was being used as an entrance. I looked at the fence, looked at Richard, looked back at the fence.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I asked hopefully.

  He shook his head, holding back the chain-link for me. I sighed. And I squeezed myself through the opening, swearing as I cut my leg on one of the links. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Peachy,” I said stubbornly, refusing to limp, although it did hurt.

  He came through the gap as well and put an arm around my waist, hugging me to him. “I bet you’ve never been up here, have you?”

  “No,” I said succinctly, leaving it at that. And thought to myself that left to my own devices, I never would.

  As soon as we set foot on the bridge itself, I felt stronger misgivings. My instincts told me to just walk off, get away from there. But my heart led me to follow Richard.

  I could tell, even in the starlight that was our only source of illumination, that the bridge wasn’t in good shape, but I had known t
hat already, no big surprise there. The road bed was disheveled and torn, crumbled and decayed, and chunks were missing. Big chunks. It wasn’t until I accidentally kicked a piece of it with my foot, which sent it skittering, that I realized just how bad it was. The piece of concrete disappeared from view and after a few seconds, I heard a disturbing splash. Uh oh, I knew that wasn’t good.

  I kept a firm grip on Richard’s arm, and he laid a reassuring hand on mine as he guided me toward the railing of the bridge, skirting another gaping hole. I was between a rock and a hard place now. As much as I wanted to stay away from those holes that provided a direct route to the Mississippi, that much did I want to stay away from the edge of the bridge where I could look straight down into those terrible dark waters beneath us. Damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. So I compromised and held onto Richard for dear life.

  He stood fearlessly by the bridge railing, gazing out at the river. At least, I assumed that was what he was doing, as I kept my attention focused on his arm and very little else. So I guess I missed the little gleam in his eyes that would have told me what he was up to when he drew me into his arms and began to kiss my neck, running his lips along it in the most tantalizing manner.

  Of all the places to make out, this had to be the worst.

  Not that I didn’t appreciate his touch, mind you, and under other circumstances, I would have responded enthusiastically. And returned his attentions with passionate fervor. But considering where we were and my intense fear of falling through one of those gaping holes in the roadbed into the river below, I think it not unreasonable to say that I was not my most responsive. To be even more honest, I was scared out of my mind, which managed to clear my head of the alcohol I had consumed, so that I was stone sober and too well aware of where I was.

  But Richard seemed to have other ideas. Of all the places to choose to be amorous! I groaned to myself as he continued his exploration of my neck with his tongue, his hands beginning to roam into places best left unexplored under the circumstances.