Words
By Paul Alan Fahey
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Copyright 2014 Paul Alan Fahey
ISBN 9781611526738
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All rights reserved.
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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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Words
By Paul Alan Fahey
My condition started some time ago. It could have been weeks, months, or even years. I have no idea. At least, that’s what I think on a good day; I don’t have too many of those anymore. So I rely on the present, what I experience in the here and now, and do my best to live in the moment. Because once it’s gone, I forget.
I’m sitting now in the orchestra section of a theater, waiting for the overture to a huge critical and audience success—just read this in the program, so it’s still fresh in my mind. The handsome, elderly man sitting next to me must have arrived late; at least, I didn’t notice him when the usher led me to my seat. He took a while settling himself in, then started flipping through the Playbill.
We are so close. Our arms brush against each other. I have the feeling I know him. He lightly jabs me in the elbow. “A lot of musical numbers for a two hour show.” Then he glances at his watch. “Three minutes to curtain.”
I nod. The lights go down and the overture begins.
Words. I want to tell this stranger my problem, share a confidence. Tell him how I’d be home at the window staring out into the garden, or sitting in a comfortable chair reading by the fire, and wonder how the hell I got there. So much is locked inside me. I suppose it could have been a stroke, but I don’t recall being in a hospital for any length of time. It seems I turned over in bed one day and woke up like this.
Meanwhile, the show begins. The nice-looking elderly man turns to me and says, “I can’t wait to see what happens next.”
Next? I laugh and he takes my hand in his. He raises an eyebrow. His eyes crinkle around the edges, and they tell me he’s concerned, worried. Is it for me? There’s something in his touch, the papery roughness of his hand, a communicated security in the way he gently weaves his fingers through mine.
“What do you think, Stanley?”
Stanley. He does know me. I’m Stanley.
“Play…good.” He’s still holding my hand. I like it. Don’t let go, I want to say.
I reach up and touch his cheek. He doesn’t seem to mind. “What…happened?”
“Shush. Later,” he tells me.
I hope I remember to ask him. After.
* * * *
They met in 1978, though neither could remember exactly where. People often asked, “Was it one of those summer parties at friends of friends?” In truth, it was more likely a popular cruising spot along the waterfront.
That first night, Stanley—or Stan, as he preferred being called then—was too looped to do much of anything other than concentrate on navigating from the car to the front porch. “The key’s somewhere in my pocket.”
Blake’s hand went immediately to Stan’s crotch.
“Nope. Don’t think you’ll find it there.”
Stan inched a bit closer to the tall man, who was equally inebriated. He stuck out his hip. “In this pocket. Dive in.” Then, “Right. You’ve got it. I can feel it.”
“Sure it’s the key you feel?” Blake’s erection brushed against Stan’s hip.
“Later. For now, open the damn door. I gotta pee.”
Once inside, Blake found an accommodating wall and leaned against it while Stan set off down the unlit hallway. Blake’s hand found a light switch and the living room came to life. Bookshelves lined four walls; an occasional easy chair, window, a small desk with typewriter, and a sofa interrupted the literary flow. “What are you, a serious bookworm?”
“Writer,” a voice answered from somewhere down the hall.
“Written anything I might have read?”
“Doubt it. Unless you read obscure lit mags.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing to worry about tonight. What’s your name?”
“Blake, last time I checked.”
The sound of footsteps echoed on hardwood, then disappeared.
A hand wrapped around Blake’s waist and a warm body spooned into him. “Where’d you come from?”
Stan put a hand behind Blake’s head and ran it down Blake’s neck to his shoulder. “The kitchen. Took the short cut. I’m Stan, by the way. Follow me to the bedroom, and I’ll show you plenty.”
Blake took his hand and, for a moment, they were both aware of a spark, a flash, a connection between them. Neither could describe it later, but on some almost telepathic level, they knew they were about to experience something extraordinary—a feeling that went lightyears beyond momentary sexual gratification.
The two shed their clothes and, once in bed, nestled comfortably in each other’s arms with lots of slow kissing.
“What do you like to do?” Blake asked breathlessly.
“I hate that. Can’t you be more original?”
“I’m not a writer like you, but I can be direct?”
“Yes, that works.”
Blake whispered what he wanted in Stan’s ear. Then he went back to kissing and tugging on one of Stan’s earlobes with his teeth.
“Oh, God, no. I never do that. Haven’t done it and won’t do it. Ever.”
“Really? Never?” Blake propped himself up on his elbows, his ardor apparently cooled by the softening of his erection.
“Come here.” Stan reached out and pulled him back. “But I’ll definitely do this.” He slid down and rested his head on Blake’s groin. “Prepare to be thrilled.” Then, unfortunately for both of them, he fell into a deep sleep.
* * * *
The morning sun filtered its rays through the Venetian blinds. Stan woke to an empty bed. He slipped on his robe and padded down the hall and into the kitchen.
Blake was cooking breakfast.
“I thought you’d be long gone by now.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t the best it could be. Last night. I mean I wasn’t the best—”
“It was great. Slept like a baby.”
“Thanks, I deserve that.”
“I mean it. I was exhausted and waking up next to you is…well, the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a very long while. I mean it.”
“Really?”
“Mmm.” Blake put down the spatula to rush over and peck Stan on the cheek. “Don’t be silly. I’m not one of those guys who has to have sex on the first date.”
“That was a date?”
“Yep. Besides, I’m thirty-four, for Christ’s sake. I’ve outgrown all of that stuff…mostly. Trust me.”
“Uh-huh. Righ
t.”
Blake’s hand went south and he squeezed Stan’s crotch, then he drifted back to the stove. “Let’s see. We have eggs. Hope you like them scrambled.”
Stan nodded and headed for the fresh pot of coffee. He poured out two cups.
“No bacon, but I found some tomatoes almost on the way out and fried those up, and also a potato from the pantry that’s seen better days but works fine for a scramble. Hungry?”
“You bet.”
“Good. Because after we eat, we’re going to have a nice talk. I have a lot to say.”
“After one night together?”
“You know what they say about falling in love at first sight.” Blake hummed as he dished up their breakfast and set out the plates on the small dinette set.
“Are you always this damn cheery in the morning?”
“Yep, it’s a family trait. We’re all like this.”
“All?”
“Mmm. I hail from a rather large tribe. You’ll meet them. You won’t like them but you’ll meet them.”
“Wait a minute. You just said love at first sight.”
“I did,” Blake said.
“But how is that possible?”
“Another thing you’ll have to trust me on.”
“What if I say no?”
“No?”
“To everything.”
“You won’t.” Blake hesitated, then walked over to Stan and pulled him into a warm embrace, followed by a long lingering kiss. “We’ve got a lot of exploring to do, Stanley.”
“Not funny. I’ve heard that all my life. Why I shortened it to Stan.”
Blake laughed. He kissed the back of Stan’s neck, then slid his tongue upward until he reached Stan’s ear lobe. “Yummy.”
“What was that for?”
“Just testing,” Blake said. “Wanted to make sure I remembered everything correctly.”
“Did you? Remember everything correctly?”
“And then some.” Blake kissed him again. And then again, longer and deeper. “I do love you. Who wouldn’t?”
“About ninety percent of this entire town.” Stan drew in a breath and, trembling, let it out. S-l-o-w-l-y. “It’s not possible after only one night. We didn’t even have—”
“Mmm. But we will. And soon.”
“We’d better stop. This could—”
“It definitely could.”
“Should we let it? The food will get cold. You went to so much trouble and—”
“We should,” Blake said.
“Yes.” Stan brought his arms around Blake’s waist. Tight. Tighter. He felt that same spark flicker and glow inside him, and there was no stopping the fire it promised. “Most definitely we should.”
* * * *
By the early 1980s, the couple had settled in for the long haul. Stan—who now preferred Stanley because it had a more authorly ring—sold his first novel to a small press and started earning royalties. Blake’s salary as a counselor at the community college kept them financially afloat. There were infidelities on both sides, but nothing more meaningful than a quick trip to the adult bookstore, an anonymous blowjob in the park, or an awkward coupling in a car or behind a bush with a willing stranger.
Then in the mid-80s, the AIDS crisis reared its unwelcome and very ugly head in their small, waterfront community. Close friends and acquaintances became ill and disappeared with great rapidity. A week or month without a memorial service was a rare occurrence.
One night, Blake sat grading papers in a corner of their den.
Stanley came in late from his writer’s group and called out to him.
“I’m in here, honey. How’d it go? Did they like the scene? The one—”
“I’ve got it. I know I’ve got it.”
“Good, then. Success at last.”
“No, you don’t get it. Bad.”
“Come over here and tell me what’s going on.” Blake dropped the stack of student papers in his lap. “What is it?”
Stanley’s words came out in a rush. “I stopped off at the Elephant for a drink with Mitch and that’s when he told me.”
“Told you what?”
“He has it. AIDS. He has night sweats. Said he couldn’t eat. Everything just…comes up. Nothing stays down. You know how he runs around. He was bound to get it sooner or later.”
“Stanley, not everyone gets the disease. I just read an article in Time. Some people seem to be immune. They might live with the virus for—”
“Maybe you read it, but I don’t believe it. It’s just too new. How can they really know anything at this point?”
“Did Mitch take the test?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Well, there you are,” Blake said in his usual, not to worry, comforting tone. “It’s probably the flu. And that’s what you’ll get if you were near him tonight. Let’s try and nip it in the bud. I’ll make some fresh OJ, get you into bed, and you’ll be fine in the morning. Believe me. Just stay away from him, okay? Find out if he’s going to the next writer’s meeting and beg off. We can work together on a scene or two. You know I have writing talents.”
“Yes, but they’re way too…technical for my purposes.”
“Be careful. You’re beginning to sound like me.” He raised an eyebrow and Stanley laughed. “Come on. I know you’re stuck. Let me help.”
“Words, Blake. It’s all about choosing the right ones, and lately they seem to elude me. Goddamn it!”
“You’re working yourself up over nothing. We’ll figure it out. The scene, I mean. You and I. The way we tackle most things. Head on. We’ll find the right words together. Besides, you always tell me there’s no such thing as writer’s block. You just need to be there for the magic to happen, right?”
Stanley went quiet. A long silence hung between them.
“That’s all that’s bothering you, right?”
More silence.
“And now, on top of your writing worries, you’re afraid of catching the flu from Mitch.”
“No. It’s not that.” Stanley got up and started to pace the room. “There’s more.”
“You didn’t—”
“Last October. That conference in Oakland. We…met for a drink and—”
Blake held up his hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear the details.”
“But—”
“We have an understanding and have had for some time. Now and then, we meet people. It doesn’t mean it will change the way we feel about one another. That can never, ever happen. Okay?”
“No, it won’t.”
“Good. Then you’ve got to take the damn test. And do it tomorrow.”
“I’ll make an appointment with Edwards.”
“No, he’s impossible to see. Even on emergencies. Get up early and drive over to the county health. Want me to go with you?”
Stanley hesitated. “No. I’ll go alone.”
“Nonsense. I’ll reschedule my morning students. Appointments are easily juggled. No crises looming as yet. Too early in the semester.” He picked up the phone and left a message for the department secretary on voicemail. When he finished, he replaced the receiver and shifted the stack of papers to a nearby table. Then he reached out and patted his lap. “Over here.”
Stanley ran over and buried his face in Blake’s chest.
“You agree we should do this together. Right?”
Stanley nodded and wrapped his arms as tight as he could around his lover.
* * * *
The days after Stanley had his blood drawn seemed to stretch into infinity. He tried to write at home, but often found himself in bed napping or watching old movies on the VCR. Anything to make time move faster. He went for long walks along the esplanade or spent hours in the library telling himself he was doing research for his novel while, in fact, he poured over every newspaper and magazine article he could find on this new and terrifying disease. Information was fragmented and minimal. Words. Just meaningless words. With no cure in sight, most medi
cal professionals agreed death seemed the only possible outcome.
Then, one morning, while Stanley procrastinated about, plopping down at the dining room table and finishing the outline for Act II, the phone rang.
“Yes. This is…yes, Stanley Fowler…yes…my birthdate? Ten, twenty-seven, forty-four. I can wait.” He twisted the phone cord around his wrist. More waiting. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.” Stanley drew in a long breath, held it, then exhaled with relief. He put down the receiver, then picked it up again and dialed a number he knew by heart. By heart. Such a telling phrase.
“Blake. I’m…I’m fine. I don’t have it.”
“Wonderful. Now can you relax?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I can.”
Silence. Then: “Don’t hang up, Stanley.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t have it, either.”
“But—”
“I took the test.”
“How? When?”
“Dr. Edwards squeezed me in last week. I was worried I might have given it to you.”
“We need to try to be better,” Stanley said. “No more fooling around. With others.”
“I’m fine with that. Are you?”
“Yes, perfectly fine.”
And it was fine for a while. Blake and Stanley did their best to be faithful throughout the next two decades. But with the new refined tests, more potent AIDS drugs on the market, and all the talk of safe sex and using condoms, from time to time, they slipped back into old habits. They’d made it through the worst of the worst, and their relationship was stronger for it. Nothing could match the horror of those times. That’s what they thought. Then.
* * * *
In 2008, Blake retired from the college. Stanley was now something of a local celebrity, and with publication of several successful mainstream novels, he’d become a nationally recognized author. His books continued to be best sellers, and his royalties made a nice supplement to Blake’s pension. Everything was going smoothly until one morning, when Blake found Stanley wandering around the living room in a confused state, talking to himself.
“What is it, honey?”
“I…I don’t know. I’ve lost…but what it is I couldn’t—” He rifled through the magazines on the coffee table. “No, it…not there.” He ran his hand over the books on one of the shelves. He pulled one out, appeared to examine it closely, held it by the binding, and shook it. “No. Isn’t there…either. Blake, what…I…going to do?”
Blake watched his odd behavior from across the room, growing more anxious by the minute. He quickly led Stanley into their bedroom. “Time for both of us to get dressed. Can you do that and quickly?”
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