Destination, Wedding!

by Xavier Mayne

  He rubbed his eyes, wiped the wet tracks of tears off his cheeks. Having composed himself as best he could, he looked over at Kerry. She sat clutching the sleeve of her pillow/sweatshirt to her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks. She shook her head slowly, with an infinite sadness.

  “Hey, it’s not that bad,” Brandt said once he was sure his voice wouldn’t break. “Our story has a happy ending, remember?” He gestured around the deserted airport terminal to prove his point.

  “No, it’s not you—it’s a lovely story,” Kerry said in a shaky voice between sniffles. “But I had no idea before… I… I’ve seen it. I didn’t know what it was, but I’ve seen it.” She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, forcing out more tears. “In the dorm. Greg wasn’t the only one who struggled with it, sitting up all night on my futon searching for the words to describe the pain in his heart, the ache in his chest he would feel when a cute guy walked by. I thought they were scared about what their parents would say, about what would happen when they came out. But it’s worse than that, isn’t it? It’s about what’s already inside them, telling them what they feel is wrong, forcing them to believe they can’t possibly be in love with another guy.”

  “It doesn’t matter what your family will think if you can’t even think it yourself,” Brandt said quietly. “That voice in the back of your head is your worst critic, and it convinces you that you aren’t really feeling what you know you’re feeling. I talked myself out of loving Gabriel about a thousand times.”

  “I finally understand why it didn’t really matter how liberal or compassionate or open my friends’ parents were, or how many gay people there already were in the family. It was the voice in the back of their head that tortured them.”

  Brandt sighed. “I’m afraid inner turmoil comes standard with the Y-chromosome package.”

  Kerry nodded. “Never been happier to lack that optional equipment,” she said with a small smile. “I could make out with girls in college and not torture myself about it.”

  “Not sure that makes up for all the ways that women get fewer opportunities and more discrimination on a daily basis, but at least you get ‘I kissed a girl and I liked it’ rather than ‘I kissed a girl and now I’m in the throes of existential crisis.’ That shit is what makes questioning guys throw themselves off bridges.”

  Kerry gave a halting sob. She nodded. “It was pills, not a bridge. But the end result was the same.” She closed her eyes and let the tears flow. “I wish I had known what to say to him. I wish I had known what he was really struggling with.”

  Brandt reached across the small space they shared, and took her hand. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “I’m sure you were the best friend you could be. But even the best friend in the world doesn’t stand much of a chance against that inner voice. It’s not your fault.” He held her hand while she cried, a long while.

  As the night stretched into morning, they slept fitfully, exchanging half smiles when on occasion their eyes met.

  Middle of the night, a truck stop

  NESTOR LOOKED around the parking lot. “This is… not the airport.”

  “Oh heavens no!” Bryce replied. “It is just about impossible to get on a plane right now. It may be days before we could do that. No, what we’re going to do is far better.”

  “But all I see are the trucks.”

  “Exactly right. We want to get to the West Coast ASAP, and what better way to see the highways and byways of this great land of ours than by tractor trailer?”

  Nestor looked as though he would prefer to make the trip by pogo stick than truck, but he kept his peace.

  “Now, I did my research, and what I discovered is that truck drivers can be friendly and accommodating to travelers such as ourselves. Assuming, of course, that one is willing to offer certain favors in return. You know, sort of like when that nice pizza delivery boy gives us extra sauce. And then doesn’t charge us for the pizza.”

  Nestor nodded—this, he understood.

  “We simply need to find a likely fellow who’s heading the right direction and looking for some company. And who will be the least likely to throw us from a speeding truck once we’ve rendered our recompense. One would hate to end up in a shallow roadside grave—or worse, Kansas.” Both men shuddered.

  They stood near the truck stop’s diesel pumps and shopped for a driver to approach.

  “He look nice,” Nestor said, pointing to one of the candidates.

  “Mmm, I think not,” Bryce said appraisingly. “No one’s been wearing their jeans like that for months now.”

  “Or?” Nestor nodded toward a driver emerging from the convenience store.

  Bryce shivered. “A man who tucks in that shirt is practically a serial killer already.” He craned around, seeking more possible targets for his proposition. “Now, there is our man.”

  Nestor looked along Bryce’s pointed finger to find a driver younger by at least a decade than all of the others. His milky-white biceps bulged powerfully from the cuffs of his skintight T-shirt.

  Bryce nodded. “He’s our trucker. Why, he’s already given me a semi.”

  “Ah, si,” Nestor agreed. He looked the man up and down, then up and down again. “Let us put our thumbs up.”

  “Well, look at you, getting into the hitchhiking spirit. But I think the proper term is putting our thumbs out. Although,” he said, tipping his head as the man bent over to read the fuel gauge, “I’d put my thumb wherever he wanted.” Bryce turned to Nestor. “Are we agreed?” Not that he waited for a response. He strode elegantly over to where the driver was putting the cap on his fuel tank.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Bryce asked in his most importuning voice.

  “Yeah?” The man stood upright and squinted at Bryce. His voice was deep and slow, drawing out one syllable into at least three.

  “My friend and I are trying to get to the West Coast as quickly as possible. We were wondering if you might be willing—”

  “You and your friend?” the driver interrupted, looking from Bryce to Nestor and back again.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Bryce, and this is Nestor.”

  “And where, exactly, are you headed… on the West Coast?”

  “Actually, that’s a bit open-ended. You see, we have quite a long journey ahead of us, and simply want to get to an airport so we can fly our way across the Pacific to England.”

  The driver burst out laughing. Bryce was too distracted by the way his abdominals flexed into relief under the tight shirt with every guffaw to take offense.

  “Do you know where England is?” he finally was able to say once he caught his breath.

  “Of course I do,” sniffed Bryce. “Though the British would never admit it, it’s part of Europe.”

  “And you’re going to get there by flying west?”

  “Well, no one’s flying across the Atlantic at the moment, so we made other plans.”

  The driver squinted at Bryce but offered no judgment of this rationale. “It just so happens that I am heading to Long Beach. But I’m not allowed to carry passengers.”

  “Oh, dear,” Bryce replied, crestfallen.

  “Officially, that is. But there’s no way for them to know if I decide I might need some… company.”

  “Oh, oh! We can be very good company.” Bryce nodded emphatically, and Nestor added a subtle wink.

  The driver crossed his arms over his chest and nodded slowly. “Looks like I got me a couple of faggots here.”

  Bryce stiffened. “Now, there’s no need—”

  “Cut the crap. You two looking to provide certain services in exchange for my taking you to California?”

  Bryce stroked his throat delicately. “Why… yes, in fact.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” the driver erupted, face flushing with instant anger. “What the hell are you thinking, skulking around a truck stop in the middle of the night hitting on whoever comes by?”

  “I assure you, sir, we didn’t hit on just anyone. We chose very carefully.” />
  “Just shut up and get in the truck, and don’t let anyone see you.” He looked quickly side to side, scanning the area before turning back to Bryce and Nestor. “Don’t just stand there gaping at me—get in the fucking truck!” He stormed off to the cashier’s booth.

  “Well, isn’t he just a take-charge fellow? I knew we’d picked well,” Bryce said to Nestor as they climbed aboard. They stowed their suitcases behind the seat and settled in for the long haul. “Now remember our plan: I take care of anything that ends in ‘job,’ and you handle anything requiring lubricant.” He sprawled over to the driver’s seat to check the condition of his eyebrows in the huge side mirror and spied the driver returning from the convenience store with a small paper sack. “Oh, here he comes. This is so exciting!”

  The driver’s side door opened, and the trucker effortlessly bounded into the seat. He stuffed the paper bag under the seat and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, and he put the truck in gear.

  “Now, before we launch into the night,” Bryce said, laying a delicate hand on the driver’s knee, “will you do me a favor and promise that you aren’t planning to dismember us? Because I’m more than a little attached to my member, and would like to continue to be so.”

  The driver picked up Bryce’s hand and placed it roughly back in Bryce’s lap as he merged onto the freeway.

  Bryce looked down at his rejected hand and cast a confused look at Nestor, who shrugged in his accepting way.

  “As I said,” Bryce ventured as the truck gradually lumbered to cruising speed, “I’m Bryce, and my companion is Nestor.” Met with stony silence, he continued. “And may I be so bold as to inquire whose strong biceps are so capably manhandling the wheel of this mighty vessel?”

  The driver turned and squinted at Bryce, then leaned forward to see around him. “Does he ever shut up?”

  Nestor shook his head with an adoring glance at Bryce. “Oh, no, no. If he stop talking, it mean he died.”

  Bryce returned the loving look. “You flatterer, you,” he admonished, with a playful pat on Nestor’s knee.

  “I may have to give his mouth something else to do, then,” growled the driver.

  “I see we understand each other,” Bryce cooed, sliding a little closer.

  “You gonna do anything I ask you to?” There was a taunt in the driver’s voice, as if challenging Bryce to specify the extent of his commitment to debauchery.

  “I would consider it the height of rudeness to deny a gentleman’s request,” Bryce replied with great dignity—and a glance at the tightly packed crotch of the man’s faded and worn jeans. “Whatever that request may be.”

  The driver nodded. He reached down to the exact focus of Bryce’s fixed gaze and gave a little tug of adjustment. But then he reached lower, down under the seat, for the paper bag he had brought with him from the truck stop convenience store. This he retrieved from its stowage and handed to Bryce.

  “A present?” Bryce cried. “You lovely man. I had no idea that gifts were customary in such circumstances. Nestor, we must remember this—we should carry something appropriate with us at all times.”

  “Open it,” growled the driver.

  “I can hardly wait to.” Bryce opened the bag and reached inside. He glanced excitedly at Nestor as he felt around for its contents. With a great flourish, he pulled out a stack of… paperback books. “Oh, a man of culture! How lovely.”

  “Read ’em to me,” the driver ordered.

  Bryce and Nestor exchanged a bewildered look. “You want me to… read to you?” Bryce asked.

  “That’s right. But first, I’ve got two things to say. One, you are a couple of complete idiots, cruising a truck stop parking lot and throwing yourself at men. You could have gotten yourself into some very deep shit. Some of those guys play rough, and they would think nothing of fucking you unconscious and leaving you for dead. You are lucky you picked me.”

  “I assure you, we have already had occasion to celebrate our good luck,” Bryce replied with another glance at the man’s crotch. “And we take your advice to heart. No more truck stops for us.”

  “Promise?”

  “Oh, I’d swear on my mother’s grave if she had ever done me the courtesy of dying. On that happy day, however, you shall have my oath.” Bryce crossed his heart solemnly. “Now, what was the second thing?”

  “Virgil.”

  Bryce looked at him, confused. “What was that?”

  “My name is Virgil.”

  “Oh, lovely! A name from antiquity, resonating with classical grandeur. We are so pleased to make your acquaintance, Virgil.”

  “Likewise. Now, get reading.”

  “Of course, it would be my pleasure.” Bryce consulted the paperbacks he held. “Which would you like to start with?”

  “I don’t care,” Virgil replied. “I just grabbed the three closest to the cash register.”

  “Well, let me see. We have shirtless cowboy, shirtless pirate, and shirtless… I’m going to guess… surgeon? The other details are a bit hard to make out. Is there a reading light of some kind?”

  Virgil pushed a button on the dashboard and a reading lamp illuminated over Bryce’s shoulder, casting a circle of light on the books.

  “Oh, heavens no!” he shrieked, dropping the books as if they’d suddenly turned into spiders.

  “What the—” Virgil asked, startled.

  “These books. They have….” Bryce took a steadying breath, but could only continue in a desperate, hoarse whisper. “They have… women in them.”

  “Dios mío,” gasped Nestor, fanning himself and looking heavenward.

  “Look, they’re right here on the covers,” Bryce continued in scandalized tones as he fished the books up from the floor of the truck cab. “Observe the way this cowgirl is staring at him with longing in her cheekbones. She’s clearly a slut. Then this piratical strumpet with the ridiculous push-up corset is undressing the swashbuckling captain with her eyes… or, finishing undressing him, I guess. And that nurse? Well, let’s just say she looks the type to whip out a needle and have her tawdry way with his defenseless, unconscious body.”

  Virgil burst out laughing. “Of course they have women in them. They’re romance novels. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one before?”

  Bryce looked blankly at him. “People read books about heterosexuals?”

  Virgil nodded, unable to speak through his laughter.

  “Oh my stars. What this country is coming to? It’s bad enough they do that sort of thing in the privacy of their own homes—and churches, from what I hear—but to force it on the rest of us this way? By putting a mostly naked man on the cover of the book to lure us in? Nestor, we have proof now of the heterosexual agenda. It’s real.”

  Nestor crossed himself and sank back into an attitude of desperate prayerfulness.

  “So pick one and start reading,” Virgil said once Bryce’s shock had ebbed and his breathing returned to normal.

  “I don’t know that I can do that,” he replied solemnly. “I mean, when you said you wanted certain favors for granting us passage, I assumed you meant normal things, like a back rub, or a rusty trombone, perhaps a manicure. I had no idea there was such depravity packed into those tight, tight jeans.”

  “Bryce, you are homosexual.”

  “Well of course I am,” Bryce replied. “Who isn’t, these days?”

  “And Nestor?”

  “Honestly, now, it should be obvious to even the casual observer that one is as likely to find a straight man here as in a public restroom in Congress.”

  “Well, that makes three of us,” Virgil concluded.

  Bryce stared, amazed. He moved his lips from sheer force of will, but try as he might, he could make no sound. It was Nestor who finally broke the silence.

  “I knew this,” he said quietly.

  Bryce turned, astonished. “You did?”

  Nestor nodded placidly.

  “Looks like your buddy has better gaydar than you do,” Vir
gil said with a laugh.

  “Pff. ‘Gaydar,’ I’ll have you know, is of no use in our modern world. It’s an artifact of an earlier time when we had to hide our sexuality and skulk about trying to determine who’s gay without being able to say it out loud. I refuse to engage in such self-loathing spy games meant to silence us and keep us in the shadows.”

  Virgil sat back under the force of Bryce’s pronouncement. “Wow. I hadn’t figured you for a gay rights activist.”

  “Oh heavens no, dear. Nothing like that. Activism far too often leads to tragic results, such as mug shots under fluorescent lighting. I simply prefer to assume everyone’s gay, and if someone I meet turns out not to know it yet, I am happy to show him the error of his ways. That way, I don’t limit people’s natural potential.”

  “Natural potential for what?” Virgil asked.

  “For getting blow jobs, silly,” Bryce replied with a roll of his eyes. “Honestly, Nestor, he says he’s gay, but I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “I guess you can call me the old-fashioned kind of gay,” Virgil said with a chuckle. “The kind that assumes everyone is straight until they get a little too drunk and a little too lonely and suddenly they’re ready to go to town on the first accommodating body they find.” He winked at Bryce. “That’s usually me.”

  “Are you telling me you get your straight buddies drunk and then assail their virtue?” Bryce asked in shocked tones.

  “Indeed I am.”

  “I knew I liked the cut of your jib,” Bryce said approvingly. “But how do you do it when you’re out on the road alone?”

  “Luckily, the company I drive for doesn’t pay for shit, so when we’re on long dispatch and have to take a mandated rest between routes, we’ll double up on a cheap motel room. We can’t roll until twenty-four hours after our last drink, so we slam down as much as we can swallow as soon as we’re out of the truck. Even the big burly ones get hammered when they bolt a fifth of something cheap.”