by Jay Quinn
Steve gently pushed me away, wet hands on my shoulders, and stooped to lick and kiss my nipples, each in turn. Then he licked up my neck and caught and held the choker in his teeth and pulled away from my throat. Dropping the choker, he looked in my eyes and said, “You want to see your other present now?”
I smiled and nodded at him, disgustingly wide-eyed for someone my age. I was now 49 years old, and Steve was opening me up to new experiences and making sex new and pleasantly dirty all over again. Whatever was around my neck was sure to be okay, but what he’d just done to me made me feel 14 again, and that was magical.
“C’mon then, my dirty little boy,” he said. “Come see your birthday present.” With that, Steve took my sticky hand in his own and pulled me toward the bathroom. For once I didn’t mind being tugged and pulled along.
In the tiny bathroom I looked into the old mirror as Steve stood behind me with his dick pressing into the small of my back, his hands on my shoulders, and a lopsided grin on his face. The chain was made of solid rectangular links that looked to be a little less than an eighth of an inch thick and a quarter inch long. They linked to each other in their corners, which made the choker flexible but gave the impression of a nearly unbroken line draped around my neck. The weight and color suggested they were the real thing, not cheap gold plate.
“It’s a baht chain,” Steve said. “It’s how the people in Thailand measure gold’s weight and value. This one is 22-carat gold. I forget how many baht that translates to, but you’re worth every ounce of it, Chris.”
“Steve, it’s wonderful. Where did you get it?”
Steve put his hands on my waist and turned me to him gently. “My father bought it for my mother when he was in the service. Besides her engagement and wedding rings, it was the only piece of jewelry he was ever able to give her. It may be the only piece of jewelry I’m ever able to give you. I hope you’ll accept it knowing what it means to me. It’s the best I can do for you. I hope you’ll take it as a promise and I hope you’ll keep it as one to me.”
“Steve,” I whispered. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t know how you can trust me with something so precious.”
Steve pulled me closer and put his chin on top of my head. If his eyes were open, I knew he was looking at his own reflection when he said, “I make promises for the long haul, Little Bit. I’m counting on you to do the same.”
I moved my head from under his chin and reached for his stub- bled face. I cupped him in my palms and rubbed my thumbs over his cheek bones as I looked in his eyes. Their blueness dissolved to almost clear at the pupils in the light coming from the bathroom window. Dawn was gone and the sun was up now, hot in the pale sky outside. There was a whole universe under his black lashes. I bent his head down as far as I could and strained upward onto the balls of my feet to kiss each darkly limned lid in turn.
Done, I looked at him and said, “Big Man, You great big- hearted man, where did you come from to sew up my heart and make me believe in love again? I ain’t got nothing to give you but myself. I am stunned you would want me this way, that you’d treasure me this way and give me anything at all. Nobody has ever kept their promises to me, but I believe in you, Steve. You can’t outgive me. I promise you that. Whatever you give me, I’ll try my damnedest to give you back twice as hard. I promise you that. I swear to God.”
Steve smiled. “That’s good enough for me. Now unless you want me to fuck you again, you better quit and get in the shower.”
“I want you to fuck me again,” I said. “It’s my birthday.”
“We gon’ party like it’s your birthday. Is that what you want? You want to party like it’s your birthday?” Steve laughed as he picked up the tune and sang the lyrics of the 50 Cent and Beyoncé song. “C’mon back to bed then, we gon’ party like it’s your birthday, you little bitch. I’m gon’ fuck you like it’s your birthday.”
He slapped my ass. I grabbed him by his stiffening dick and we made it back to bed with the National Weather Service announcer predicting a very fine day on the beach.
Cathy was very pregnant now. I could hear her discomfort and impatience through the open door to the waiting room. Her temper had grown shorter with the people she had to deal with over the phone in the past week, and someone was on the receiving end of her ire as I walked in the office just after 10. Dr. Tony was short with me because I got in late, and gave me a shortish sermon on responsibility.
My mood was so great, I took the dressing-down cheerfully but showed the proper amount of remorse. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “But I had a lot of trouble getting to work this morning. Today’s my birthday, and I had two calls from my kids in Raleigh. They both wanted to make sure I started the day off right. And my marlin- killer gave me my present this morning. I am sorry—please believe me. I hope you’ll be patient with me this once.”
He seemed a little taken aback when I apologized so profusely. Mumbling something about how it was really okay and how he understood, Tony made an embarrassed escape. As I settled into my desk and checked the few phone messages from the weekend, both he and Cathy appeared at the half wall separating my area from the hall.
“Chris, forgive us—” Tony began.
“I had the day marked on my calendar,” Cathy interjected, “but I put it under September instead of July. We would have given you something besides a chewing-out when you came in.”
“Happy birthday, Chris,” Tony said. “We just want you to know how fond we are of you and what a great job we think you’re doing.”
Big tears spilled from Cathy’s eyes and over her cheeks. “Oh Chris, I’m so sorry for being so irritable. Birthdays are a big deal in our family, and you’re like a part of the family now.”
I stood and walked to the wall between us, and gave each of them a gentle pat on the hand. “I want you two not to beat yourselves up like this. You’re both on your last good nerve with this baby so close to coming, and it’s no big deal. I didn’t tell you guys my birthday was today, and to tell you the truth, I should have been more considerate knowing the stress you both are under right now. Okay?”
When I finished, I handed Cathy a tissue and gave them each a great big grin.
They looked at each other and said, almost simultaneously, “God, I miss sex.”
I laughed until they did.
“How does my appointment calendar look?” Tony asked.
I walked back to my desk and checked it. “You have clients from 10:30 straight through until noon, as usual. Then, you’re clear of clients, but you have a meeting at the hospital from 1:30 until 4.”
“That’s not enough time to go out to lunch,” Tony said.
“Let’s order in! I could fucking murder a pepperoni pizza with hot peppers all by myself,” Cathy announced.
“Okay, but just get a small one for yourself,” Tony said. “There’s not enough Zantac in the world to get me through the afternoon’s meeting if I eat that. What do you like on your pizza, Chris? Is pizza good for you?”
“Absolutely. I can’t think of anything I’d rather have, come to
think of it. How about just plain cheese? We’ll split one.”
“Excellent!” Tony said. “Pizza for all my people!” He pulled two 20s out of his wallet and handed them to me. “Can you handle ordering it so they’ll be here no later than 12:15?”
“Of course Chris can handle it, Tony. For God’s sake.”
“Down, Cathy! Down! I just meant I’ll need to eat and run, I’m not attacking his competency. Sheesh.”
Cathy gave her husband a pat on his ass and walked back toward her office as the outside waiting room door opened. “Sorry my pet,” she said to Tony. “The evil bitch Cathy is coming out more frequently. I’m going to go vent on Aetna now.”
I handed the doctor his first client folder and smiled at him. “Thanks, boss,” I said. “Now, that should be Mr. Ellison.” With that, I slid the open glass window to reveal Mr. Ellison himself. “Well good morning sir, we were just getting read
y for you. How are you on a Monday?”
Mr. Ellison began a mumbled lithium litany of sorrow and wrote out his co-pay check. Tony walked the two steps to the reception door, opened it, and invited the client back to his office.
With Tony busy and Cathy on the phone, I turned my chair, put my elbow on my desk, and rested my head in my hand. I stared out the window, feeling the happy weight of gold and new promises around my neck. I felt at once very tired and very elated. I hadn’t smoked pot in over 20 years, but the languor that overtook me at that moment felt not unlike being high. I knew—thoroughly fucked and very much in love—I could waste the entire day at my desk, staring out the window. For once I didn’t care: That was exactly what I intended to do.
Thursday after work, Steve looked at me and shook his head disgustedly. Standing in the street in front of my house, it looked worse than it really was. Still, it was ugly—all vehement black paint, hurriedly sprayed and left to run in thick drips down the front of the pilings facing the street and writ large on the set of French doors on the deck. “You’d think the fucker would learn how to spell. Doesn’t faggot have two g’s?”
I had to laugh. I didn’t think proper spelling was the vandal’s point. His anger and my humiliation was the point.
“It’s not as bad as it looks, Chris. The paint’ll sand off the pilings pretty quick with my belt sander and it’ll scrape off the glass with a razor blade. The bitch of fixing it back will be painting the muntins on the doors and even that ain’t no big deal. I can get it all done tomorrow.”
“I’m tempted to just leave it,” I said.
“C’mon Chris. Don’t take it to heart,” Steve said dismissively. “If it had to happen, this is shit that is easily fixable. It would be a lot worse if they’d gotten in the house, or wrote all over the cars.”
“They didn’t have enough guts,” I said. “Frank and Schooner were inside asleep. The policeman that came this morning said it was probably some kids. Tourists, most likely. But I can’t figure out how a tourist would know a house full of faggots lived here.”
Steve reached in his back pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He offered me one and I took it. After he got them both lit, he gave me a squint-eyed look through the smoke and matter-of-factly reminded me of what I already knew. “Schooner and Frank ain’t exactly discreet sitting up on that deck. They ain’t flying no rainbow flag, but they can’t seem to keep their hands off each other, and this ain’t that kind of beach, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Fly to Boston and get married on Monday, fly home all moonish on Tuesday, vandalized on Wednesday night, take off Thursday for job interviews on Friday. They’re having an interesting week.”
“Oh man, you got that right,” he said. “I’m sure glad I ain’t 22 no more.”
I laughed.
“What cop did you say called you this afternoon to let you know he’d found the kids who did it?” Steve asked.
“He gave me his card this morning, but it’s up in the house. I think he said his name was Eric something.”
Steve nodded. “That’ll be Eric Preston. He’s a good guy. From off-island, came down here and married a local girl while he was stationed at Camp Lejeune. When he got out of the Marines, he stuck around.”
“Damn, it sure is a small town,” I said. “He asked me if I was your friend. I told him yeah. He was really nice, not an asshole at all.”
“Well, like I said, Eric’s a nice-enough guy. He sure put in some quick time finding the punks who did this. And I think he’s about to drive up right now.”
I looked toward the beach road in time to see an Emerald Isle police cruiser turn onto my street, closely followed by a GMC Envoy. Both cars pulled up and stopped in front of my house. Eric got out of the car first and opened the back door of the cruiser. With his assistance, a tall, scrawny kid of about 15 emerged, followed by a younger boy about 12. Both boys were dressed in board shorts and wifebeaters, and both were in handcuffs. Eric marched them to the end of my drive and nodded. “Chris, Steve,” he said. We shook hands and waited while a man Steve’s age and his wife climbed out of their SUV and came to stand at the foot of the drive with the boys and the cop.
The man shook his head and shot his wife a look of pure disgust. She held her head up, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she just looked at the two boys worriedly.
“Chris, these two boys have been identified by your neighbors down the street as the kids who vandalized your house last night,” Eric said. “When I confronted them with everything I had on them, including the paint on their hands, they confessed.”
The man stepped around Eric and the boys and offered his hand. I took it and shook. “I’m Arnold Holscomb, this is my wife, Janet.” The sunburned woman ducked her head nervously and tried out a weak smile. “I’d like to tell you I’m very sad and sorry for my boys’ behavior. I hope we can work something out.”
Eric ignored the man, woman, and the boys and addressed himself to Steve. “How much do you figure it’ll cost to get this stupid mess scraped off and cleaned up?”
Steve turned around, gave the house a long look, turned back, and thumped his cigarette off into the street. “Well, if you’re asking me if the dollars makes the difference between misdemeanor and felony vandalism, I suppose that depends on what Chris’s homeowner’s insurance has to say.”
“Mr. Thayer, I’m hoping we can settle this without a lot of fuss,” Arnold said. “I’ll be perfectly happy to write you a check to cover any cost of repairs. My boys owe you an apology, and I guarantee you they’ll be punished, but I’m asking you please, if we can keep this out of the courts. My boys acted stupid, but they’re not bad kids, I promise you.”
Eric scratched his head and gave me a long look. “Chris, it’s up to you. I’ve got no problem booking them. But Mr. Holscomb’s got a point. If you’ll be lenient with the two little … with the two boys, I’m willing to settle it here.”
I looked at the boys’ father. He had the pompadour of a preacher. Then I looked at the two boys, heads hung low and hands cuffed behind their backs. From them I turned to their mother. She was clearly fearful for her sons. It radiated out of her like waves of pain. I sighed. “Boys, what are your names?”
The youngest one looked at me guiltily and said his name was Dewayne. The older one defiantly looked at his father.
“The man asked you a question, son,” Arnold said.
The boy hung his head and mumbled, “Brandon.”
Everyone’s eyes were on me; everyone was watching and waiting to hear what I had to say. “Brandon, Dewayne, please look at me,” I said. The little fellow started to cry, but he looked at me. The older one threw me a blazingly defiant stare. “You know, one time I had a friend. He was walking to his car out of the grocery store one night and four guys jumped him. They called him a faggot and a queer and a peter-puffer. They called him a whole lot worse, but the bad thing was, all the while they were calling him those names, they were beating him and kicking him. One of the boys beat his glasses into his eyes so bad he almost went blind. You know the worst part of it? Nobody helped him. Nobody in that parking lot made one move to keep those kids from beating him half to death.”
The little boy was sobbing now. The teenager looked away. “Look at me, boys,” I said more forcefully. I waited until I had their attention once more. “I just want to ask you, how far do you think it is from spraying the word faggot all over one person’s house to kicking someone to death one night in a Food Lion parking lot?”
“Ah, man,” Brandon said. “We didn’t mean nothing like that by it.”
“Son, do you know where the word faggot comes from?” I asked.
“No,” he sneered. “We don’t go to school to learn about faggots.”
“Brandon, shut your mouth and listen to what the man has to say. Right now!” The mother was clearly out of patience with her son and was willing to listen to whatever I had to say to get him out of trouble. But I could tell
Brandon didn’t care and he didn’t really want to hear it either.
“Brandon, a faggot is a bundle of sticks tied together. It’s what the church used to stack around gay people’s feet when they burned them at the stake. Nice picture isn’t it? That’s why they call gay people faggots—because they burn so good. A harmless word doesn’t mean nothing, does it, kid?” The boy tried to stare me down, but he couldn’t.
Then I looked at Arnold. He couldn’t meet my eyes either. “Sir?” He looked back at me miserably. “Please give some serious thought to the difference between what you’re teaching them and what your boys are hearing.”
I looked at Eric. “Let them go, officer. Send them home with their mama and daddy. There isn’t anything more to be done here. Nothing I can do, anyway.”
“You sure, Chris?” Steve said. “I think the ignorant little bastards ought to at least apologize.” His words cut through the air like the real flashes of anger on all sides that remained unspoken.
“Boys, this man is doing you a tremendous good turn,” Janet Holscomb said. “I want you to act like you’ve got some sense and some decent raising. Tell him you’re sorry for what you did. Now!” Her voice carried far more sincerity and weight than her husband’s had.
The little fellow looked up through tears and snot, and apologized sincerely.
“Thank you, Dewayne. Apology accepted.” The little boy looked at his mother, who nodded at him gravely. He looked back at me and tried to smile. I gave him a smile in return for his efforts. There was goodness in this kid, I figured.
I looked at the teenager and met defiance in full bloom. He’d outgrow it—they all did—but he’d pay for a lot of harder lessons to get past it than I could give him. “You’re forgiven too, kid,” I said, “whether you want it or not.” I turned my back on him and addressed Eric. “Officer, thank you for all your help.” I stuck out my hand and Eric grasped it in a firm shake.
“No problem, Chris,” he said. “Call on us anytime. That’s what we’re here for. I think these boys don’t realize how serious this is.” I watched him uncuff the kids, and I started to walk away.