by Craig Moody
He was so kind to me last night. He even had me call my dad.”
Gauge looked at me, his worried expression melting into one of shock and interest.
“Really?” he replied, scooting himself higher against the stack of pillows he reclined against. “What happened?”
I spent the next ten minutes detailing the conversation with my father. Gauge listened intently, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape from his bated breath.
“Wow, babe,” he said smiling when I concluded. “Come here. I’m so happy for you.”
He closed his casted hands around me, squeezing me tight in his embrace. I pressed my face into his hair, slowly absorbing the comforting smell of his scalp with my nose. I couldn’t wait to finally lie beside him again, falling asleep with his gentle heartbeat thumping next to mine in a rhythmic lullaby.
“So, are you sure we can trust this guy?” he asked after a long silence, our arms still entwined.
“I think so,” I answered, pulling away so that I could see his face. “He was very generous with me, babe. I really think he just wants to help us.”
Gauge stared at me, the twisting of his thoughts spiraling around his pupils like renegade clock cogs.
“Okay,” he said after a long, thoughtful pause. “If you say we can trust him, then I will trust him.”
I smiled, wrapping my arms around his head in a playful embrace.
We spent the next several hours chitchatting aimlessly and flipping through the limited channels on the ancient television set that hung in the corner of the room. Just after lunch, the doctor finally came around to complete a final check on Gauge.
“Those casts of yours need to come off in another two weeks,” the doctor announced, rapidly scribbling over Gauge’s charts like a toddler just discovering an ink pen. “I was told that you will be seeing a private physical therapist afterward?”
Gauge looked at me before turning to answer the doctor. It was as though he were allowing me one final chance to dissuade the agreement with Paul. I gently smiled and nodded my approval.
“That’s correct,” Gauge replied, watching as the doctor carefully examined his casts.
“Be sure and follow through with the entire course of therapy,” the doctor ordered, peering down at Gauge with an authoritative glance. “From the X-rays, you suffered some serious fractures and perhaps some nerve damage. The only way to ensure the best chance of a full recovery is to work those hands the moment the casts come off.”
Gauge nodded obediently, a semi-smile cracking over his dried lips.
“Very well. I will send someone in here to discharge you soon. Take care, Mr. Paulson. I wish you a very speedy recovery.”
I looked at Gauge, a palpable nervousness filling the room. I could tell he was worried about his hands. Anything less than a full recovery would be a tremendous loss for him. Everything he excelled at, mechanics, cooking, art, it all involved the smooth fluidity of his hands. I knew he was terrified of not regaining that.
Once discharged, Paul led us to the small storage shed where the Indian was stowed. He handed me a key to his apartment, with the promise that he would meet us there later that night after his shift. Gauge eyed the transaction suspiciously but said nothing as we boarded the bike.
Kick-starting the familiar growl of the engine to life, we pulled out of the hospital parking lot and into the Las Vegas traffic. I could feel Gauge behind me, moving his head in every direction as we sputtered in complete sensory overload down the Strip.
Arriving at Paul’s apartment building, I parked the Indian next to a street lamp and assisted Gauge as he disembarked.
“Paul said there was a chain in his closet we can use,” I stated, unstrapping the giant knapsack from the back of the bike.
“Of course he has a chain,” Gauge murmured cattily as I unclasped his helmet’s chin strap.
“What does that mean?” I asked, collecting both helmets and the knapsack into my overloaded arms.
“Nothing, nothing,” he replied, shaking his head at his own words. “Let’s just chain the bike and get inside. You go get the chain from the freak’s bedroom, and I’ll wait here.”
I shot him an annoyed yet understanding glare before obeying his command.
Once inside the apartment, I unloaded the weighty baggage and drifted into Paul’s bedroom. Locating the closet, I slid one of the large paneled doors open and started in amazement.
There, amongst his tennis shoes and school books, was a vast array of leatherwear, masks, handcuffs, chains, and whips. The sight was so overwhelming that it took my brain several long moments to compute and process what it was seeing. I laughed to myself as I realized that Gauge’s catty accusation regarding the chain was correct. Shuffling through the impressive collection, I located an actual bicycle chain and lock. I slid the door shut and bounded out of the apartment and back to Gauge, who eyed me suspiciously the moment he spotted my smiling face.
“You were right,” I confessed, pausing before him with the chain proudly displayed in my hands.
“About what?”
“Our friend Paul is a bit of a freak,” I confirmed, squatting down to snake the chain through the spokes of the Indian’s front tire.
“What do you mean?” Gauge continued his inquiry, his face pinched in utter confusion.
“Whips, chains, masks, leather. You name it, he’s got it.”
I wrapped the remaining bit of chain around the streetlamp and clamped the large lock. I looked up at Gauge, who shook his head disapprovingly.
“Dustin, no,” he said, his face less amused and far more concerned. “I seriously have a bad feeling about this guy.”
“Oh, come on, Gauge,” I retorted, raising to my full height. “We can’t judge this guy based on his sex toy collection.”
“It has nothing to do with that, Dustin. I just have a bad feeling about him. I don’t know why. I just do.”
I stared at him a moment, somehow comprehending the silence of his fear before brushing it off altogether.
“We don’t have much choice, Gauge,” I said, wrapping my arm with his. “He is giving us a place to stay, and he is going to work with you on your hands. You heard what the doctor said today. You know how important it is that you get this physical therapy.”
I looked at his face as we slowly ascended the stairway to Paul’s second-floor apartment. I could see that he was listening.
“How else could we afford to get you physical therapy? This guy is doing us a major favor by doing it for free.”
Gauge didn’t respond as we entered the apartment. He looked around, took in the limited detail of the space, and then sighed.
“Yeah, I know,” he replied, the sound of exhaustion and defeat trailing his words. “Still, there’s something about all this that just doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Yeah, yeah. For now, Colombo, let’s just clean you up and get you into bed.”
We didn’t speak as I helped him undress and climb into Paul’s full-sized bed, the springs revealing their wear with an audible display of squeaks, pops, and groans.
Kissing Gauge on the lips, I exited the room and returned to the living area to situate our belongings. I didn’t attempt to distract myself as curious thoughts surrounding Paul pranced around my head like a mischievous kitten.
As I neatly organized our pack and tidied up the small kitchen and living space, something inside me agreed with Gauge’s suspicions. Despite the outward kindness and generosity of Paul, there was an air of unease about the apartment I had not sensed the night before. There was something sinister lurking in the shadows of this humble home, and as I crawled into the bed beside a sleeping Gauge, I drifted off with an implicit knowing that we would soon discover what it was.
***
Three weeks later, Gauge was finally cast- free. Five days a week, he joined Paul at his practical lab, diligently following through with the physical therapy with zest and discipline. When he wasn’t at the lab with Paul, he was home sq
ueezing his multicolored set of rubber therapy balls, twisting a silicone hose, and practicing holding a pen. The pen holding became his staple. He would sit for hours doodling, scribbling, sketching, and writing. Curiosity finally got the best of me, so I flipped through his notebook one day while he was in the shower. I discovered countless letters written to Aunt Mert. He detailed every single facet of our experience since leaving home, providing a nearly weekly account of each and every occurrence and event. I was amazed at the quality and accuracy of the information. He recaptured everything, as if providing a frozen snapshot from his memory. I never realized he paid such close attention to detail, even the most minute and irrelevant information. Finally, one day, I admitted to seeing the letters and asked him about them.
“I saw your letters to Aunt Mert,” I casually admitted, busily constructing a twin set of turkey sandwiches. “Are you planning to send them?”
“Maybe,” Gauge replied, rotating a pair of therapy balls around in his hands.
“They’re really good,” I continued, avoiding eye contact as I completed my basic culinary task. “I think you should send them. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“I called when we first got to Tennessee. I promised her I would, so that’s what I did.”
“And that was it?” I asked, placing a sandwich before him on the wooden spool.
“Pretty much,” he concluded, dropping the rubber balls and carefully grasping the sandwich.
“I wonder if she ever speaks to my parents,” I questioned aloud, more to myself than to Gauge. “Doubt it,” Gauge replied, his mouth stuffed full with a chunk of sandwich. “She thinks your mom is a nut job. Aunt Mert ain’t about all that drama.”
I sat beside him, poking my sandwich with my finger.
“You should probably call her again. Or send the letters. I think she would like to hear from you.”
Gauge continued to chew, allowing his eyes to trail toward the sun-blazed sliding glass door.
“She knows I’m okay,” he finally replied.
“I’ll send the letters eventually.”
I took a bite of my sandwich, mentally recalling my return phone call to my parents. As promised, I phoned again, and once more my mother was not home but at another Bible study meeting. My father told me she only nodded when he told her of the first conversation and of my message of love and forgiveness. I was hurt and disappointed that she had no verbal response, no return sentiments, or no reply of love.
I didn’t plan to call again. I gave my father the telephone number to Paul’s apartment. I figured if my mother wanted to reach me, she would. I was home most days, and though I never really kept the thought at the forefront of my mind, I did secretly hope she would call.
I struggled to find work in Las Vegas. I applied to several hotels for housekeeping positions, a few restaurants for server or even busboy spots, but nothing ever came of it.
Paul was hardly home, but when he was, he made the most of our time together by preparing some of the delicious Mexican-inspired dishes his grandmother used to make for him. Gauge interacted with Paul the way two estranged family members would converse under the pressure and awkwardness of a family reunion. Their conversations were light and cordial. I could only assume that it was pretty much the same during their hour-long therapy sessions down at Paul’s university.
“We need to think about getting outta here,” Gauge stated, his eyes still lingering over the sunny street view beyond the sliding glass. “I’ve got about another week of therapy, so we should be good to go. How much money do we have?”
I swallowed the mouthful of turkey sandwich, confused and surprised at the sudden mention of the topic.
“Around five hundred dollars,” I answered, nervously fidgeting the sandwich in my hands.
“That can get us to California,” Gauge replied, turning his head to face me. “We’re close now.”
I smiled and nodded, suddenly doubtful and uncertain as to the truth of his statement. For some reason, I could not foresee us leaving Nevada. At least, not anytime soon. Something inside me proposed a sense of unease and insecurity, the plan and dream of California now a nearly forgotten distraction.
“Aw, did I miss lunch?” a voice broke the silence. “Damn!”
Gauge and I turned to see Paul entering the room, several overstuffed brown paper grocery bags filling his arms.
I moved to assist him.
“Thank you, my friend,” Paul said as I relieved some of his burden.
“What’s all this for?” I asked, peering and poking over the tops of the bags.
“Tonight,” Paul announced, “is a special
night.”
Gauge and I stared at him, a look of boredom and disinterest frowning over Gauge’s expression.
“I’m having some friends over for dinner,” Paul continued, feverishly unloading one of the bag’s contents into the refrigerator. “I am hoping the two of you will join us.”
I looked over at Gauge, who only stared at me, his expression clear in its disapproval and frustration.
“Sure,” I responded, nodding at Gauge in defiance.
“Be nice,” I mouthed, watching him roll his eyes in reply.
“Perfect. Dinner will be served around seven.”
Paul smiled, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. My heart fluttered in response, a curious yet suspicious feeling seeping over my skin like a rare desert rainstorm.
I returned to Gauge on the couch. He stared straight ahead, sighing, signaling his annoyance with the entire situation.
“Why do we have to do this?” he asked an hour later as we stood in the shower together. “I deal with this guy enough. I don’t want to have dinner with him and his friends.”
“Gauge,” I replied, my voice stern and annoyed, “it is the very least we can do. Paul has been completely hospitable to us. Feeding us, allowing us to stay here, doing your therapy. And all for free. I’m pretty sure the right thing to do is to have dinner with him and his friends when he asks.”
Gauge sighed, closing his eyes as he backed his head under the hot stream of the shower water.
I smirked, watching in an aroused silence as the water trickled over his face and down his naked body. The past several nights had been filled with repeated lovemaking. We had gone weeks without so much as touching each other due to Gauge’s injuries and subsequent infection. Squeezing and groping every area of my body had quickly become one of his favorite forms of physical therapy. He was certainly out to prove that his hands were back in full commission, at least when it came to intimacy.
I moved toward him, wrapping my arms around him in the water. He returned the embrace, the heated tinge of the shower’s torrent enveloping us like a warm, liquid cocoon.
The first of Paul’s friends began to arrive just before seven o’clock. Each provided a contribution to the dinner, be it a food dish, some form of liquor, or even a dessert.
I smiled and warmly greeted each visitor as they made their way into the living space. Gauge was polite but certainly uninterested in conversing with any of them.
Paul announced that dinner was ready around seven-thirty. The dozen or so guests slowly migrated to the table in response. I had often wondered why Paul had such a large dining room table. It could easily sit ten or more people and dominated the tiny dining area like a bolder in a mud puddle.
From the natural flow of the ongoing conversations, it was clear that these men knew one other. Each appeared to be gay, but none presented themselves as a couple. Each man looked to be solo and familiar with the others. One thing was for certain, every guest was carefully curious and interested in Gauge and me. Several times already, I found myself meeting the shameless and inquisitive stare of one of the men. There was an uneasy energy in the room, at least to me. It felt as though Gauge and I were as much of an interest to each of the guests as the promised dinner meal.
“First,” Paul announced, standing at the head of the table with a wine glass in
his hand, “I would like to propose a toast.”
In unison, the various conversations ceased, and everyone turned their attention to Paul, holding up their own wine glass in response to his proposal.
“I have been blessed and honored to have two very kind, warm, and wonderful gentlemen staying with me for the past month. Both men exude such great love for the other, and I am constantly humbled and amazed to bear witness to their beautiful union. I can only hope and pray that the same blessing will someday be bestowed upon all of us.”
The eyes of the entire table turned toward us, the only two people without a glass of wine.
“Cheers!” the group chanted as a chorus.
I smiled nervously, and Gauge looked away. I could tell he was ready to crawl under the table from embarrassment.
“Oh dear,” Paul exclaimed. “I completely forgot your wine!”
He moved to the kitchen, returning with two half-filled cylindrical glasses.
“Cheers,” he said smiling, clanking his half- empty glass against each of ours.
I smiled and lifted the wineglass to my lips. I looked over at Gauge, who continued to stare at the floor. I allowed a giant mouthful of the warm red wine to slide down my throat before replacing the glass onto the table. I tapped Gauge with my knee, silently urging him to follow my lead, but he ignored me. He never touched his wineglass for the entire dinner.
After the meal, the group gathered in the living room, hovering around the massive wooden spool like eager schoolchildren on the first day of class. Gauge went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Paul presented a board game to the group, watching me as I followed Gauge.
“I don’t want to go back out there,” Gauge declared as I entered the room. “I did what I agreed to. I ate with them. But I’m done. I don’t want to be a part of this anymore.”
“A part of what, Gauge?” I asked, my voice filling with disappointment and slight anger.
“This gay shit,” he responded, nodding his head toward the living room.
