“I know,” Allen replied. He tried to step in front of Donnie.
With his forearm, Donnie gently pushed Allen back into his lane. “Don't do that,” he said.
“Sorry. I just—”
“Well, looky here, guys,” said a young man in the front passenger side of the truck, as it slowed to a stop. “It's our dainty little friend from the other night.”
The other men in the truck laughed, and made remarks disparaging Donnie's sexual preference.
“It's the guys who attacked me,” Donnie whispered.
“Why don't you guys move along,” Allen said. He tried to count how many men were in the truck, but it was too dark. He was guessing four.
“Why don't you kiss my ass, homo?” the guy shot back.
“Yeah, fag!” someone else in the truck shouted.
“You boys know all the words, don't you?” Donnie said. “Fag, homo, queer. They roll right so trippingly off your lips.”
“You better watch your mouth,” said the guy in the back seat.
“Sounds more like I better watch your mouth … homo,” Donnie replied.
Being called a homo by a gay man was more than that little redneck could take. The rear door swung open. Allen readied himself. He backed up to the edge of the seawall and looked down the steps. There wasn't much room for a scuffle. The front door swung open. Donnie clenched his fists and brought them up.
“Come on,” Donnie said, “let's see if you do better than the last time.”
Allen and Donnie backed down the sidewalk a few steps to give themselves more room to fight. The occupants exited the truck. Donnie stepped into the street. Allen remained on the sidewalk.
The guy in the back seat hopped to the sidewalk. He was a little guy, no taller than five seven. The guy who got out of the front seat was bigger—about Allen's height and weight.
From where Allen now stood, he could see that his guess was right; there were four of them. The other two guys stayed in the truck. Allen could see they were laughing.
“I got this girl,” said the smaller guy about Donnie.
Great, Allen thought, I guess that leaves me with the bigger guy.
“Oh, that's so funny,” Donnie said. “I'm gay, so that makes me the same as a girl. I get it. Very original”
“Kick his ass, Tim!” the driver hollered. He opened his door and got out.
This prompted the fourth man to climb out of the big Dodge dually.
Allen glanced both ways, up and down the street, hoping a cop would come along. He wondered why he was so nervous, while Donnie seemed to be fine with the whole situation—even making jokes and egging on his antagonists.
The little guy took two steps toward Donnie. Donnie brought up the toe of his brand new sneaker into the little fella's balls. He followed it up with a smashing right to the side of the head. Timmy cork screwed into the pavement.
“Who's next?” Donnie hollered. “Come on!”
The two men on the passenger side looked at each other, and then at Allen. Allen brought up his fists and took a fighting stance. The guy closest to him, near the back of the truck, went for Allen. He swung his right fist. Allen tried to block it but missed. The fist barely caught the tip of Allen's chin. His head snapped around, and he took a few steps backward. He rubbed the tip his chin with the back of his left fist. He checked for blood; there was some. Son of a bitch. He glanced over at Donnie, and down at Tim. Tim hadn't moved. The driver was kneeling next to Tim.
Allen's opponent came at him again. This time Allen swung a right. The guy blocked it. Allen threw a left. Blocked again. The guy swung a left. Allen ducked and came up with a right into the guy's sternum, taking away his breath as well as his bravado. He stepped back onto the sidewalk to give himself some breathing room. He stumbled backwards, falling flat on his back, and Allen was on top of him.
Allen straddled the man, serving him a right to the head, then a left and another right. The guy was trying to parry the blows, but was growing weaker with each punch. Allen got in about five good punches before receiving a kick to the side of the head from the other guy.
Everything flashed white. In that fraction of a second Allen was amazed that yes, you really do see stars. He rolled off the guy and down two of the three-foot concrete steps of the seawall. His head smacked against the third step and he let out a moan. He was on his back staring up at the dark sky. A seagull flew over him, and he thought, please don't shit on me, bird.
Allen rolled to his stomach and slowly got to his knees. He felt the back of his head—more blood. Son of a bitch! He used the step above him to steady himself and climb to his feet. He could hear Donnie and the other men hollering. And there it was, a four foot piece of driftwood, about three inches in diameter. Allen picked up the limb and tightened his fingers around it. He climbed the two steps to the sidewalk. The man Allen had been fighting was sitting on the curb with his back to the ocean. The driver stood behind Donnie, pinning his arms behind his back. The man who had kicked Allen in the head was socking Donnie over and over again in the gut and ribs. Cars were backed up in both directions, but no one had left their vehicle to help.
Allen walked past the man on the curb. He came up behind the guy who'd kicked him, and swung. The dead branch shattered against the side of the guy's head, and he went down just like his buddy Tim.
The driver let go of Donnie and took a couple steps back. Donnie doubled over with his hands on his stomach. Allen reached down and picked up the largest of the many pieces of driftwood. As he moved toward the driver, Donnie rose up.
“Stop,” Donnie said. “He's mine.”
Allen handed Donnie the branch. Donnie waved him off.
“I don't need that,” Donnie said. He rubbed his belly as he turned to face the driver. “Two of you couldn't do it.” He took a step forward. “Four of you couldn't do it. Are you coming back tomorrow with six assholes?”
The driver didn't respond.
Donnie put up his fists.
The guy who was sitting on the curb stood up.
“Sit down,” Allen ordered.
The guy did as he was told.
Donnie and the driver circled. Someone in one of the cars honked their horn. The driver jabbed with his right. Donnie knocked it away. Donnie deflected his left jab too. The driver tried a haymaker. Big mistake. Donnie stepped back, avoiding the punch. At the end of the swing, Donnie leapt into the air and performed a spinning back kick against the driver's right temple. He staggered to his left. Donnie steadied himself, and then delivered a roundhouse kick to his left temple. That one brought him to his knees.
“Would you like me to stop?” Donnie asked.
“Screw you!” yelled the driver.
Donnie delivered a front kick to the man's chest, driving him backwards to the pavement. He stood above the man, looking down at him.
“Just ask me to stop,” Donnie said.
“Screw you!”
“You wish.” Donnie kicked him in the ribs as hard as he could. “I can do this all night,” he said.
“That's enough, Donnie,” said Allen.
Donnie kicked the man again.
“Donnie, he's had enough.”
“Has he?” Donnie asked. “Have you had enough?” He looked over at Allen. “Has he had so much, that he'll never do this again? Will he just keep driving the next time he sees a fag walking along the street … minding his own business?”
“I don't know, Donnie,” Allen replied. “Come on, let's go.”
Donnie stared down at the beaten man. “Don't do this again,” he warned. He turned to see Tim getting to his feet. “And you,” he said, pointing, “You'll be a lot happier when you finally figure out who you are.”
Tim chuckled nervously. “What's that supposed to mean, man?”
“I think you know what I mean,” Donnie replied.
The rednecks shuffled their feet and cast suspicious looks at each other. Donnie shot Allen a wink that said, The seed of doubt has been sown.
<
br /> Donnie noticed the backed-up traffic for the first time. “Nothing to see here, folks,” he said. “Just some rednecks getting their asses kicked by a gay man.”
“A gay man and his friend … who isn't gay,” Allen added.
Donnie shook his head. “Just had to get that in, didn't you?”
Chapter Nineteen
Allen stood in his bathroom Saturday morning, leaning against the sink, and staring into the mirror at the scab on the tip of his chin. He thought about going downstairs and asking Crystal if he could bum a Band-Aid, but he'd end up spilling the beans, and in five minutes it would be all over the motel that the mystery writer and the gay man (which sounded to Allen like a bad sitcom) had been in a brawl. He reached back and felt the lump on the back of his head. The lump had a nice scab on it as well. He pushed on the lump.
“Ow,” he whispered, and winced.
Donnie had emerged from the fight with no visible injuries. He had commented that his stomach and ribs hurt pretty bad. Even more so when he and Allen laughed as they recapped the encounter afterward.
“I really could have used you in that fight last night, Frankie,” Allen said, walking back into the bedroom.
Frankie was lying on his back in the warmth of a rectangle patch of sunlight, where the late morning sun was shining through the picture window.
“Comfortable?” Allen asked the dog.
Frankie ignored him.
“Wanna go for a walk?”
Frankie was on his feet in a flash.
“I figured that would get your attention.”
Allen grabbed the leash off the table and opened the door.
“Come on, dog.”
The two went down the stairs and out the office door.
“Hey there, Jackie Chan,” Allen said, when he saw Donnie sitting in his chair, sipping a cup of coffee.
“Morning, Allen,” Donnie said.
“Morning, Allen? What happened to Blue Eyes?”
Donnie shrugged. “I don't know,” he replied. “We're friends now. We've been in a fight together. Calling you by a pet name just doesn't seem appropriate anymore.”
“I guess you got a point there. Say, what are you doing later tonight?”
“Probably turn in early.” Donnie paused for a second. “I'm thinking about heading out tomorrow.”
“No kidding. Going home?”
“No, I think I'm going to take a ride down the coast. I've never been further south than Virginia Beach. Maybe I'll drive down to Florida.”
“What about work?” Allen asked, figuring the man must have a job.
“I took four weeks off for the wedding, and I've still got another two weeks of vacation that I haven't used, so I don't have to be back just yet.”
“Well, if I don't see you before you leave, it was nice meeting you, and have a safe trip.”
“Thanks, Allen. It was nice meeting you as well.”
“I was kinda hoping you would be around a little longer to teach me some of that kung fu shit you did last night.”
Donnie laughed. “That was karate, Allen, not kung fu,” he said. “And it took me twenty-five years to learn that.”
“Yeah, I don't have that much time.” He paused a moment, then said reflectively, “You know, Donnie, I've been thinking. It must be rough, as a gay man, constantly having epithets thrown at you and getting into fights. Don't you get sick of it?”
“Sure I do. But like the great philosopher Ron White says, 'You can't fix stupid.' But you can mess with their feeble little minds. Right now, for instance, those peckerwoods from last night—especially Timmy—are scared shitless they secretly want to blow the old silent flute. It'll be a while before they call anybody a fag again.”
“I must say, I admire your attitude,” Allen said. After a moment, he added awkwardly, “Look, I want to say I'm sorry I said I'm your not-gay friend. It just came out. Guess I'm like a lot of guys, thinking I always have to assert my masculinity.”
“Water under the bridge.”
“And thanks for not kicking my ass earlier for being a litterbug.”
Donnie grinned. “Couldn't. It's way too cute.”
The two men shook hands. Allen clipped the leash on Frankie's collar and started across the parking lot.
“Morning, Allen,” said Jay, on his way to his truck.
“They got you working on a Saturday?” Allen asked.
“Not usually, but someone broke into the Ogunquit site last night and I gotta run up there and make a list of what was stolen.” Jay checked his wristwatch. “I'm supposed to meet the cops there at ten-thirty, so I better get my ass in gear.”
“Well, you have a fun day.”
Allen and Frankie crossed the street and stepped upon the sidewalk. They paused on the sea wall to have a look around. For the first time since Allen's arrival, there were no boats, jet skis, or surfers anywhere in sight. He knew that would change over the next hour as cars began lining up along the seawall.
After staring at the ocean and watching the birds for ten minutes, dog and master continued on up the sidewalk. After they passed the Anchorage Inn, Allen led Frankie down the steps and onto the beach. Allen reached down and removed Frankie's leash.
“Don't cause any trouble, or I'll hook you back up,” Allen warned the dog.
Frankie took off running after a flock of seagulls near the water’s edge.
“That's exactly what I meant by don't cause any trouble.”
Allen kept his eye on the dog as he strolled along. Frankie stopped to sniff every person he passed. Allen watched as a female jogger ran toward him. She had the same build and hair color as Mya. He hoped it was her. He hadn't seen or heard from her since the night before. He held his breath as the woman neared. It wasn't Mia.
Allen couldn't get it out of his head that Tucker must have said something to Mya that made her act the way she did the night before. But Mya didn't seem to Allen like the type of person who would give into intimidation.
What could Tucker have said? Allen wondered.
He thought about calling her, but he didn't want to be pushy. He figured she should call him after the way she acted. But maybe she didn't think she had acted funny. Maybe it was all in Allen's head. In that case, Mya was probably wondering why he hadn't called.
Allen nodded and said, “Good morning,” when the jogger ran by. She ignored him. She probably figured earbuds would make Allen believe she hadn't noticed him.
“Good morning, sir,” Allen mumbled to himself. “How are you today? Good. You?”
When Allen arrived at the stairs that led from the beach to the street in front of the Oceanside Store, he shouted for his dog.
Frankie was having fun chasing a screaming kid around seven years old. Allen hoped the fun was mutual.
“Frankie!” he hollered again.
Frankie stopped and looked toward Allen.
“Come on!”
Frankie sprinted toward his friend, and together the two went up the stairs to the street. When a driver finally came to a stop to let them cross, they jogged to the other side. Allen walked his dog up to the order window at the Oceanside Store and ordered breakfast. He ordered the exact same thing he'd ordered a week ago—coffee, two eggs scrambled, home fries, bacon, and white toast, and an order of sausage for Frankie.
“Your number sixty-one,” said the woman, handing Allen his receipt.
Being the only one seated at the picnic tables that morning, the breakfast came much faster than the last time. Allen stepped back up to the window and grabbed the two Styrofoam containers.
“Thank you,” he said, and he and Frankie walked back down to sit on the beach and enjoy their breakfast.
Allen sat down on the damp sand, and Frankie sat down beside him. Frankie stared at the smaller container, knowing that was the one that contained his sausage. The dog moved his body back and forth, and pushed up against Allen's shoulder.
“Hold on, dog,” Allen said. “Let me get situated here.”
Allen extended his legs out in front of him, unfolded a napkin, and placed it on his lap. As he readied his meal, his eyes kept searching up and down the beach. He knew this was a little later in the day than last week when he saw Mya, but he still hoped she would run by. He opened the small container and grabbed a sausage patty with his fingertips.
“Now, chew this slowly and enjoy it,” he told the dog.
Frankie snatched it like lightning.
“Jesus, dog!” Allen said, yanking back his hand. “You almost took my fingers off.”
Frankie had already swallowed the patty and was staring longingly at the to-go container again. He licked his chops and his doggie eyebrows twitched.
“Did you even taste it? Christ.”
Allen unwrapped his plastic fork and scooped up his scrambled eggs. As he shoved them into his mouth, he once again scanned the beach for Mya. He remembered joking with her a week ago about being a stalker. Returning to the beach with breakfast to watch for her was starting to make him feel like one. He laid his fork down, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed. Mya's cell phone went directly to voicemail.
“Hey, it's Allen. Just calling to say hi.” Just calling to say hi? he thought. That sounded stupid. “Anyway, give me a call back when you get this message.”
Allen finished his breakfast without tasting it, absently feeding Frankie his other two sausage patties. Afterwards they walked along the seawall back to the motel. When they crossed the street, Allen saw Cam and Mildred walking out of the office.
“Hey, Allen!” Cam shouted, waving his arm over his head.
Allen waved back. They met in the middle of the parking lot.
“We just walked up to your room,” said Mildred.
“Wanted to say goodbye,” said Cam.
“Goodbye?”
“We're gonna light out tomorrow morning,” said Cam.
“We just wanted to make sure we saw you before we left,” Mildred said. “And thank you once again for signing my books.”
“My pleasure,” Allen said. “I'm always humbled when a fan asks for an autograph.”
“Don't gimme that bullshit,” said Cam. “You know you eat it up.”
Allen blushed. “You have keen insight into human nature, Cam.”
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