The Advent of Hope

by Emery C. Walters

  I tuned him out. I heard him add something about the various themes for each Sunday and decided I need to pee, so I sneaked out the back door—another plus for sitting in the back.

  Then I wandered outside. It was still snowy, although now there was slush, and there were dirty heaps of gray snow by the road and parking lot. The sidewalks had been shoveled, but shortcuts had been taken across the once pristine fields, leaving chewed up paths hither and yon. It was still beautiful, but cold. And I felt cold, too, in spite of my warm jacket. I remembered sliding down the hill and across the river, and smiled. How in hell was I going to live through this crush? What if he found out about it? What if anyone here found out about it, about my being gay? Would I be kicked out of school? Or just humiliated until I left on my own? Maybe I should start looking into other…who was I kidding? There was only one semester left.

  People started trickling out of the chapel. They were talking about the Christmas party—no need to call it a holiday party here, right? Although I’d heard that in the outreach classes, there were eight different Protestants, two different types of Mormons, an agnostic, and a Jew. But we regular students were all, well, regular.

  And that’s when I got the idea. The gift exchange. If only I could get Tory’s name, and then think up something to give him that would tell him how I felt, or indicate it, so that he sort of got the idea. If he didn’t want any part of it, I could deny that’s what I meant. Holy shit. That wasn’t going to be easy, but I had to do something, I just had to. I owed it to myself, if nothing else.

  It took me a week to get the right name. I lied my way through it like a champ. No remorse—I was on a mission. When I held the slip of paper with his name on it my hand, I realized I had only three short weeks, less, actually, to figure out what to get him. It had to be perfect—obvious but subtle, very subtle, cancel obvious. And I also had to study for exams.

  Finally, I asked his dorm mates what his main interests were, and they said he liked art and history. That helped sort of, somewhat, in that I had an area to search on the Internet. It had to cross three genres—art, history, and religion, and, well, homoerotic art, gays in history, and gays in religion. Or something like that. I had to hide my computer screen from my dorm mates. And time was shrinking fast.

  One day, after an all-morning exam, I took the bus into town. I’d heard there was an LGBT bookstore down on Fourth Street and decided to look there. If nothing else, it would be a nice change of scenery, and I could see what the gay bar I’d heard about was like, at least from the outside. I didn’t dare go inside in case someone from school saw me. Bad enough to go into the bookstore, but I could always tell someone that was an accident. And I was desperate.

  I looked and looked. Finally, way in the back behind the small bathroom, I found a section for adults only. It was behind a curtain. I was an adult, right? I looked around—no one was watching me—and slipped behind the curtain.

  I’d assumed most of the books would have some sexual theme to them, but they didn’t. I suppose some must have, but there were mysteries with a gay character, and romance between lesbians, and books for kids with titles like My Two Dads or Daddy Dresses Pretty. Things like that, and I was afraid to open too many of them. They just didn’t do it at all.

  But now, expecting nothing but really raunchy porn like an old adult video store or whatever (I only knew something about these from movies), I found a book titled Gay Themes in Greece: Historical Instances of Homosexual Art in Religion. It was big, old, and ratty, and I grabbed it—it was perfect! I didn’t even look inside. I went up front, pulled out all the cash I’d been saving, and with it safely packaged in a plain brown wrapper, I tucked it under my arm and went back to my dorm. Then I had to try to find a place to hide it.

  Next Sunday, I was late for service and had to stand in the back. Just in front of me was Tory, so it was well worthwhile. As the choir started in on, “Lo, He comes with clouds descending,” all I could hear was Tory’s magical tenor as he sang, “Lo, he comes, pizzle ascending, bent over Judas as…” He was drowned out by the organ, which cracked me up. The organ—ha ha ha! I had to leave. I stood outside once again, pretending to cough to hide my laughter.

  Another student peeked out, asked, “Are you okay?”

  All I could do was smirk and nod. I was going to Hell anyway for just being who I was, but possibly I wouldn’t be there alone. A moment later, Tory came out, also coughing, only I could tell his was truly laughter.

  “The girl next to me hit me so hard with her elbow that I swallowed my gum!” he wheezed. “I told her pizzle was Latin for cloud, but I guess she knew better, the little hussy!”

  “We’re going to Hell,” I said solemnly.

  “No, we’re going to lunch! In town, at Joe-Joe’s. Ever been there? It’s on Fourth Street.”

  “Ah, no, I’m, er, not familiar with that area at all…” My face turned red.

  “Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” my hero said mysteriously.

  What the hell had I just heard?

  Behind us, I could just hear something about, “And the second and third Sundays of Advent both mean what? What color is represented here, purple, right? Not lavender, now, but purple! Ha ha ha! Purple symbolizes repentance and fasting. Purple is also the color of…”

  We ran.

  The problem was, we ran until we hit ice, and Tory went down face first. I landed on top of him, which, all in all, was great for me, but knocked his head harder into the sidewalk, which was slightly raised right there. He came up laughing but with a trickle of blood running down from his left eyebrow. I’d marked him. I’d destroyed the beautiful face of my loved one, my Adonis, my adored. He’d hate me now.

  He wiped the blood off with his middle finger. (Why do I notice these things! Why! Because I’m evil, that’s why!) I was ready to crawl on my knees for forgiveness, except my knees were bleeding, and it was only then that I realized when I’d fallen on top of him, I’d straddled him…nice ass, now that I thought about it.

  Anyway, he rubbed his finger on my forehead in the sign of the cross and intoned, “My father can beat your father at dominoes,” which took me almost two full minutes to get. And then we laughed.

  We stumbled along the icy sidewalks, hanging onto each other for dear life. I was annoyed that not only had I ruined my only good pants, but that if I’d been wearing jeans, I could be a lot braver and studly and wouldn’t be hanging on to Tory like a sissy. Then again, I wouldn’t be hanging onto Tory, and that was a wonderful feeling I’d never thought I’d have. I was praying, but please don’t think I’m all holy and stuff because I was praying for him to please be gay. Is that so much to ask? One little thing?

  We passed the gay bar, and I refused to look at it, even though it was good to finally know where it was. We got to Joe Joe’s to find it closed. The sign on the door read, Closed on Sundays for Church.

  “Welp,” said Tory, “You’ve got a choice. It’s the police station or Starbucks.”

  We turned as one and headed over to Main Street, toward the former local-run coffee house that now housed a Starbucks. Frankly, I thought it was an improvement, but I was in the minority. Nobody from campus really cared because they got free coffee at the cafeteria, but the thinking in town was of the no more box stores mentality. How quaint.

  We ordered and then went into the bathroom. Together. Giggling. Not because we might see parts of each other naked (oh, who am I kidding!) but because of what people might think. After all, we’d been in locker rooms together, right? Okay, so I had to turn my back toward the room every time, but still.

  We took care of his forehead first.

  Actually, someone knocked on the door and said, “I have some Band-Aids if you want them.” When I opened the door, an old man stood there, holding out half a dozen Band-Aids. “I come prepared.” He winked at me and pursed his lips. “Have fun, you guys.”

  I tried to look sober and intelligent, but I think I was drooling. I know I thought why co
uldn’t Tory have scraped his ass instead of his face? But that wasn’t very nice of me, was it?

  Tory interrupted my thoughts. “You’re drooling. You must really want your coffee.”

  I ignored him and grabbed one of the Band-Aids. It wasn’t a Band-Aid. It was a condom.

  We got some very odd looks when we came out, even though it was obvious we’d been in there, patching up damage. We were both sporting the Band-Aids, and the condom was in my pocket. It made me happy in several ways—one, to be recognized as a gay man entitled to have sex; two, the guy was a total stranger to me, though it did bother me how he had known; and three, now I didn’t have to leave town to buy condoms somewhere nobody could possibly know me.

  We got our drinks and found a small table to sit at. Tory looked like a pirate, and my knees hurt when I bent my legs, but we were warm and had our coffee. The old man walked by and placed a bag of cookies on our table, winked at us, and left.

  “We’ve never really talked,” Tory said. “Where are you from?”

  “Downriver,” I replied, which left a large choice of poor and rich areas both. I don’t know why I didn’t just say I was from the poor area south of Trenton and my parents only thought they were Big Shots.

  “So close and you didn’t go back for Thanksgiving?”

  “Ah, they had company. What about you?” I hedged.

  “Bloomfield Hills. My dad sells cars.”

  All I knew about that was there was a Ferrari dealership there. He must have come here because he was religious, and thus, probably, straight. My heart sank. Even if he were gay, he was rich, and I wasn’t. He’d never look at me twice. The fact that he had sought me out and had come into town for coffee with me just slipped out of my mind, so fearful was I of his friendship being lost to me, as quickly as it had come.

  “You didn’t go home?”

  He looked away. “Let’s have some of these cookies. They look great.”

  Oh. Uh, oh. Had I touched a nerve there? Were we going to descend into the what kind of music do you like and what’s you sign zone? Was there an area worse than the Friend Zone, too? I guess my emotions played out on my face because Tory patted my hand.

  “Let’s go back. Your knees are probably hurting, and I look like vampire-bait. Can you walk all right?”

  I stood up. And sat back down immediately with tears in my eyes. “If I don’t bend my legs, I’ll be okay,” I got out, but Tory wasn’t buying it.

  “Good thing you landed on top of me,” Tory said, his face showing how he was trying to make light of things. “Do you always get on top?”

  Somewhere behind me, someone coughed up coffee, and I realized that his remark had overtones. The coughing turned into laughing.

  Then someone said, “What about you—do you always land on your…you know what, never mind, but what I can do is drive you both home. You’re obviously not Mormons, so which campus?”

  After introductions, Professor Buell asked Tory, “I hope you didn’t bruise anything important. I mean, other than that head, of course.” Professor Buell call-me-Zane was older than my parents, maybe as old as Satan, but he was funny as hell, even though we both cringed. “Oh, I’m a bad old man,” he said, “Please don’t mind me. I’m a better driver than comic. I teach The History of Language here. I speak six of them. All badly, of course!”

  As we walked toward the door, Zane tapped Tory on the shoulder and said in Latin, “Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?” Tory looked blank, but I understood completely. He’d asked, Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?

  I replied also in Latin, “I’m hoping he’s happy to see me!” and was rewarded with a wink from Zane.

  “As you,” he poked me, “probably know, the word advent is from the Latin adventus, which means coming.” Another salacious wink. “And if you’re a good Catholic, you’d know even more about it.”

  “History and religion and language,” I said. “My favorites. No, I’m not even a good Protestant, but we go to Utopia College.”

  At his car, when Tory walked around to the other side, Zane said quietly, “You don’t even have to be a good, straight man to know Latin.”

  I blurted, “I just wish I knew if he was.”

  Then we were all inside the car and driving toward home.

  Helping me to my dorm, Tory held my arm, and I noticed he was pouting.

  “Does your head hurt?” I asked.

  “Yes. But we meet the most interesting people, don’t we? What was he saying to you?”

  I don’t know what made me lie—maybe it was how painful my knees were and how frustrating it all was. “He asked me out a date. He said he’d take me to the gay bar.”

  Tory almost fell down. When he caught himself, he was white. “The path is pure ice,” he got out. “What a nerve! What…did you…fuck.” Then he reddened, and I couldn’t tell if he was blushing or angry. He took my arm again and continued taking me back to my dorm.

  I was getting giggly. I think my coffee must have been spiked. Or at least I wish it had been. I couldn’t tell if going for coffee had been wonderful or horrible.

  Luckily, Jerome saw us and came out to help me inside. “Let’s get those pants off you,” was the first thing he said.

  I laughed so hard, I almost peed my pants. Then they’d really need to come off, wouldn’t they?

  Tory and Jerome looked at each other. I couldn’t imagine their thoughts. I could only laugh.

  Tory said, “This is all my fault.”

  Jerome replied, “There’s some medicine in the bathroom—it must have been left over from Thanksgiving. I’ll go get it.”

  They teamed up and poured it into my willing, if still slightly giggling, mouth.

  Tory said, “Let’s get these ruined pants off him.”

  Jerome blinked. “Uh, oh, yeah, okay. I guess.”

  I giggled and burped. If I hadn’t been drunk before, I was on my way now. I grabbed the bottle and sipped. Well, okay, I gulped like a starving man. I was to regret this in a few minutes.

  Tory’s hands undid my belt buckle and slid it open.

  Jerome undid the snap, and I heard the zipper retreating in fear, or eagerness. It could have been eagerness, like my dick. Oh, yeah, that had to get into the action, of course. Well, maybe it was just curious. I was horrified. So horrified, I almost stopped giggling. I gulped some more medicine. I started saying raunchy things in Latin.

  My pants descended. My dick did not. My underwear (thank God I’d worn clean underwear!) went with the pants, making my dick snap farther back to attention. I was giggling so hard now, I started to feel sick. I couldn’t remember what I was singing, or even why.

  “Oh. Oh,” said my heartthrob.

  “Ha-ha, he’s got a woody!” laughed my heartless roommate.

  So I threw up on him.

  Tory said, “Give me that medicine. It’s booze, isn’t it? Let me taste it to be sure.” I heard him gulping.

  Jerome grabbed for the bottle. “Pass it to me. This escalated rather quickly, didn’t it?”

  From the other half of the dorm: “What the hell is going on in there? I have a lady in here! Stop with the swearing, will you?”

  I was finally able to open my eyes. I saw Jerome raise his eyebrows.

  “A lady, is it—oh, sure, as if I didn’t know what they’re doing.”

  Tory replied, “Everyone on campus knows what they’re doing. At least with guys, they can’t get each other pregnant.”

  I saw their gazes change and then they were both looking at my dick. Along with the sobering of my mind, my dick gave up hope as well, and slowly, as if embarrassed, disappeared. I got very dopey after that and contributed nothing to the conversation or bandaging up of my knees.

  “Pull his pants back up.”

  “You do it. I’m enjoying this.” I had no idea who said this.

  This was Jerome, though. “You pervert! You leave my roommate alone. He’s as innocent and stupid as a newbo
rn lamb!”

  Tory answered, “Look, asshole, I’m probably his best friend here and want only the best for him. It’s my fault anyhow that he’s hurt.”

  “Yes, I imagine you are.” Jerome hissed this!

  This was fascinating. I moaned.

  One of them: “Now look, you’re hurting him.”

  Hissing response: “I can’t help it—his underwear is stuck to his dick! What did you do to him?”

  “Me? You’re with him every night.”

  Jerome, clenching my underwear in one hand so tightly it hurt: “What are you saying?”

  Tory: “Nothing, let me finish getting this over…ah…” I felt my dick spring back into its usual hangout. “There. Nothing to it.”

  I thought, what do you mean, nothing to it? My dick is magnificent. You should see…oh, wait, you just did. Well, fuck me.

  Tory again. “Look, let’s just get his knees cleaned up and some ice on them, and let him sleep, okay? We don’t have to be enemies over this.” Ah, my sweet beloved.

  Jerome: “Well you’ve had a knock on the head, and I’m a good Christian, so I’ll forgive you this time, but keep your hands off my innocent roommate, or I’ll report you. Now maybe you should go to the clinic yourself. Blood dripping off your face is disgusting. I have plenty of alcohol here, and he’s even got a book there to read when he wakes up.”

  Tory read the title out loud. “Gay Themes in Greece—Historical Instances of Homosexual Art in Religion. Is this one of yours, Jerome?”

  “Out. Get out. Go now.” I could barely make that out. Jerome was either whispering or hissing again, or I was fading out.

  I heard a last exchange of ‘fuck you, no fuck you, and you wish, and yeah, right’ and then I guess I passed out, for I remember nothing after that. Which was probably a good thing.

  One last week to go, then the party on Saturday and home for two weeks—well, those who had homes to go to and were welcome at them would go home for two weeks. I called the next day, after limping my way to class and taking one of my last few exams.