"This is silly; it's a dream, that's all."
"Is it?"
"It's a story, a fiction, a mere tale."
"Ah, yes, but who is the teller?"
"What do you mean?"
"Life is what we perceive it, what we teach ourselves it hath become."
"Then why am I telling myself this?"
"It's pretty obvious," the other boy said.
"Not to me," Roger answered.
"You wanted everything different, if you were like me. You'd established a role, a persona, and you found you didn't like it anymore. Yet you were stuck with it. You didn't like much of anything. And so you escaped."
"Then I must be insane, just like my moth—"
"Nay, thou art not. You can stay here if you wish."
"Oh, yes. Knowing as little about it as I do, still I want to stay. And besides—" Roger felt suddenly very shy.
"Besides ... what?"
He decided to blurt out what he felt. "It's you."
The boy laughed. "What about me?"
"I like you. I like you a lot; I could learn to like you a whole lot more."
"Aye, and me thee."
"Why do you do that?" Roger asked.
"Do what?"
"Change your whole manner of speaking. From modern to archaic and back again. Why do I do it, for that matter?"
"I told you, I'm pretty new here myself. And so I was sent to meet another newcomer. Someone like you. I ..."
Roger noticed the other young man was hesitant. In the moon's glow, his face seemed to have reddened. "You ... what?" Roger asked.
"Okay, you were honest with me, and I'll be honest with you. I too was looking for a friend. A very special friend, if you get my drift."
Roger chuckled, a deep masculine sound. "Of course, I do. And I'm glad."
"So you'll stay here?"
"I ... I don't see why not." Roger shook his head. "What am I talking about; it's not real."
"Oh, but it is. You'll see. Except you'll have to decide for certain. They tell me that once you've made the choice, there's no going back. And slowly the other life seems to be the one that's simply a fiction, an unreality. Already it's happening to me. So weigh it carefully, my friend. Weigh it very carefully."
"I want to stay; I definitely want to stay." Roger heard his words and knew that they were true. Still he wasn't convinced it wasn't a dream, a story his subconscious was somehow fabricating.
Paul still insisted that it was reality.
Roger eventually came to believe him, for he did stay in the new land, and it was wondrous. He and Paul grew to love each other deeply, and most of all nobody cared, nobody looked down on them because of their love for each other as might have happened in the universe from which they came.
With their own four hands they constructed their home, a rough-hewn cottage with a thatched roof. When they weren't there making love, they were out slaying dragons, rescuing young lads and damsels in distress. And it came to pass that what had seemed only a story became Roger's sole reality.
Because he and Paul were among the newest arrivals in the land, they had the responsibility of greeting other newcomers. And when they did, here is what they told each one:
Moral: Fiction is truth then, stranger.
A FRIEND IN KNEAD
Once upon a time in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, lived a man named Thomas Templeton. Now Thomas had two very good friends, Paul Paulson and Pete Pennington. For years Thomas worked as head chef at an exclusive restaurant in McKeesport, but found that he really didn't make much money, despite the fact that his cooking drew patrons from as far away as Philadelphia to the East and Indianapolis to the west.
No matter how hard he worked nor how many extra hours he spent on the job, he simply couldn't make enough money even for the essentials, like cruises to Montreal, winter vacations in Madrid, nor even Rolex watches.
What could he do? he wondered. At age twenty-seven he felt life was passing him by. In a few more years he'd be thirty and from there it would be all downhill. He'd be entering the twilight years of his life without having really lived.
Besides, beef Wellington reminded him of gigantic lumps of baked larva, cherries jubilee of burned bugs in a sand pile. He hated food, hated the sight of it, the smell of it. In fact, he had become a walking, breathing stick figure, who ate only enough to keep him alive—and then things like sardines out of the can or shoestring potatoes. All in all, he was a very unhappy man.
One day he decided he simply had to change his life. When he arrived back home, he reached for the phone to call his good friend, Peter.
"I've had it," he said, when Pete answered. "I simply can't go back there. I hate the very sight of a kitchen. You know, I've changed my own kitchen into a mini gym and thrown out the stove and refrigerator."
"I realize that," Pete answered. "I hesitate to give advice, but I think you definitely should consider a career change."
"But what can I do? I don't know anything else than cooking?" Thomas plopped his feet up on the table and leaned back in his chair. "Any suggestions?"
"What are you interested in?" Pete asked.
"I don't know."
"Well, think about it, why don't you? I really must run now. Henry and I are toddling over to the Big Apple for a few nights of theatre."
Thomas sighed and replaced the receiver. What was he interested in? He couldn't think of anything. Idly, he picked up the local gay rag and leafed through the pages. Near the back he came across the classifieds. And he began to get excited. There were all sorts of ads placed by masseurs. Now that was something he might like doing, giving massages.
Not only would he be able to set his own hours and his rates, but he'd be his own boss. Besides, he'd be doing something he enjoyed and something that would make others feel good, as well. And since there were so many ads in the gay papers for masseurs, there must be a big demand for their services.
He decided to call his friend Paul and feel him out, so to speak, on the idea. "Yes, lovey," Paul answered.
"Hello, Paul," Thomas said, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Of course not, Snookums, I was only in the midst of talking to this big hunk I picked up in front of Three Rivers Stadium into letting me take him to bed—"
"I'm sorry, Paul. I'll call back later."
"Really, dearie, do be realistic. When was the last time you've known me to pick up any hunk? When we reach the age of ... well, suffice it to say beyond mere girlhood (Paul was all of twenty-eight, Thomas knew), why it's difficult to find a willing body who isn't positively ancient." He laughed, "It's my little joke, Tommy, that's all. But that isn't why you called, is it? To hear me prattle on?"
"Well, no."
"What is it, sweetie? Do I detect a note of despair?"
"I'm sorry to burden you with my problems."
"Oh, pish, Tommy, what are friends for?"
"You're sure?"
"Of course, I'm sure."
"It's my job. I hate it. I loathe it. I can't continue with it. And ..."
"What, Thomas? You can tell me."
"You might think it's silly, but I've decided I'd like to be a masseur."
"And run your hands over all those nude bodies? Well, heavens, yes, I can see why."
"You don't understand, Paul. I'm serious."
"I can see you are. So why not do it?"
"I suppose I'd have to go to school, take a class or something at least."
"So do it."
"It isn't that simple. I can't afford—"
"Now we'll have no talk like that. Money—I even hate to utter the dirty word—should be of no concern. If you're serious about this, I'll lend you what you need. And more than that, since Julian moved out, there's a whole empty room here."
Thomas felt overwhelmed. "I wasn't hinting—"
"Of course, you weren't, you silly boy. I know that. Besides, maybe you can practice your techniques on me. I mean ... May we be perfectly honest?"
"Of course."<
br />
"Well, Tommy, you know I've had—should I say it? Yes, I should. I've had this thing for you."
Thomas couldn't believe it. They'd been friends, ever since high school in Latrobe, both coming to the city at the same time, keeping in touch. And always Tommy had a crush on Paul, though he never knew Paul felt anything at all for him—anything romantic.
At any rate it was all arranged, and soon Thomas had given up his apartment and moved to Paul's mansion.
While Thomas learned his new trade, he was content to allow Paul to foot the bills. But he vowed that as soon as he was prepared to begin work, he'd set a goodly portion of his earnings aside to repay Paul, as well as assuming his share of the household expenses.
One day near the end of his studies, he called Pete, whom he hadn't spoken to in months, not since that fateful day when his whole life had begun to change.
"Thomas, how are you?" Pete asked. "It's so good to hear from you. So what are you doing now? The maitre d' told me you'd left the restaurant. And I've wondered and worried."
"I followed your advice."
"Oh?"
"Yes, I've been working on becoming a masseur."
"A masseur!"
"At any rate, I'm living with Paul now. You remember Paul, don't you?" Thomas asked, and as soon as he said it, he realized his mistake. The two men simply didn't get along. In fact, they despised each other.
"I see," Pete said, his voice distinctly cool.
The two of them talked, uncomfortably, a few more minutes and then hung up.
A few weeks later, Pete called. "He isn't there, is he?" Pete asked when Thomas answered.
"Paul?"
"That person, yes."
"No, he's not here. He's working." Paul was an interior decorator, constantly in demand.
"I called to apologize. We've been friends too long for me to let my petty concerns get in the way."
"I appreciate that, Pete. I don't want our friendship to end either."
"So how is it going? Are you ready to massage the world, or a goodly portion thereof?"
"Yes, yes, I am. I'm all finished now and ready to begin my new life."
"Well, good."
"I want to pay Paul back as quickly as possible."
"Well, it's none of my business, but if I were you I wouldn't have—"
"He's been good to me, Pete."
"Yes, I suppose he has. So, would you like a customer?"
"A customer?"
"Yes, yes, a massagee, I suppose you could say."
Thomas laughed. "Well, certainly."
"How about me? We'll make it a weekly thing. Schedule a regular appointment."
"Look, Pete, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't. But Sheridan, my regular, is moving to the East Coast, and I do need another masseur. And there isn't anyone I'd rather ..."
"Thanks, I'll call you." As he hung up, Paul came into the apartment.
"Was that for me?" he asked.
"No," Thomas said, "it was Pete; he called to see how I was doing?"
"Oh." He turned and left the room.
After dinner Paul said he wanted to talk. He and Thomas went into the living room.
"Of course, it's your business," Paul said, "but I don't understand what you see in that man."
"We're friends, that's all."
"I see," Paul answered.
"Besides, he asked me to be his masseur."
"And you agreed!" Paul sounded incredulous.
"Why not?"
"I really wish you wouldn't."
Thomas felt his face flush. "Why not?"
"I told you. It means a great deal to me."
"Well, I'm going—"
"You just think it over, all right."
Thomas was angry. He owed a lot to Paul, but he and Pete were also friends. Sure, once Thomas moved in with Paul, it had developed into much more than friendship. They found they complemented each other; their feelings for each other grew stronger. For the most part, Thomas respected Paul and liked him, and there was a love, though it wasn't the falling down head over heels kind of love.
Despite this, when he finished his schooling and was ready to begin work, Thomas found that at first it was difficult to attract customers. And he wanted badly to begin paying Paul back for all his generosity. So, despite mixed feelings, he did take on Pete as his first customer.
And that's all it was, a business relationship. And it continued until Thomas secured other customers and was able to make a decent living. Yet it was Pete who was most generous in his tips; it was Pete who thus enabled Thomas to begin repaying all that he'd borrowed.
Then one evening just after Thomas returned home, Paul came in, and Thomas could see he was furious.
"Well," Paul said, "I see you didn't take my advice."
"What do you mean?" Thomas asked.
"I didn't want you to continue to see that man. That Pete. He simply isn't good for you."
"My God, Paul, he's just a customer. That's all. A friend and a customer."
"But how good a friend?"
"Are you accusing me of something?" Thomas asked. "Because if you are, I wish you'd come right out with it."
It turned out Paul was accusing him. And the stronger the accusations, the angrier Thomas became. The argument was a violent one, both men saying things they didn't mean but couldn't take back.
"And I want you out of here first thing in the morning," Paul said, "and I don't ever want to see you again."
"That's fine with me," Thomas said, as he stormed into the bedroom to pack his things. "I'll even do better than that," he said. "I'll get out of your way right now."
He threw his things into his luggage and rushed out onto the street. Then it struck him; he had nowhere to go, nor money to live on since he'd given most of his pay to Pete.
He could stay at a cheap hotel for a night or two, but that was all. Without access to a phone, he couldn't even continue his business. Slowly, he trudged down the street, walking on and on and on.
Moral: Don't rub Peter to pay Paul.
A LAVENDER TRIANGLE
Long ago in a far-off land lived a shopkeeper named Dexter who suffered a terrible quandary. He fell in love with two men. One man was a manual arts teacher in a junior high school. He and Dexter met in a gay bar where Maxwell had come to do his lesson plans, for he was a conscientious and good teacher, devoted to his students.
The other man whom Dexter loved was a poor but talented artist, totally devoted to his goal of bringing culture to the masses. To this end, Modred, for that was his name, worked day and night, finishing canvas after canvas, which he sold for meager sums with the stipulation that they be hung where the poor of the land could have access to them. Living by himself in a tiny cottage willed to him by his mother, Modred had little need of money and saved enough just to scrape by and to purchase artists' supplies.
The two men met one day as Dexter jogged through the park where Modred sought seeking inspiration for a large painting to be hung in the public toilets at the local mall.
In both instances, at the bar and at the park, it was love at first sight, at least so far as Dexter was concerned, he, a man who had never been in love before. A man, in fact, who scorned the idea of love, relegating it to fairy tales and romance novels.
Yet now, not only had he fallen in love, but with both men equally, and for the first time ever he realized his life was terribly incomplete. An only child by circumstances and a loner by choice, he had few friends and didn't miss having others because he felt he was self-sufficient.
Now all that changed. And thought he should be happy with Maxwell since Maxwell made it plain that he wanted to share his life and possessions—including scads of family money—with Dexter. Thus, the feelings Dexter had for Maxwell obviously were reciprocated since more than anything in the world, Maxwell remarked, he wanted Dexter to move in with him.
But Modred, who caused a welling up of the same sort of feelings. Hence Dexter's quandary.
> Dexter not only was proprietor but sole employee of a men's clothing store that had been passed down from generation to generation, but which, alas, would no longer pass on to family since Dexter was the last in the line, having no brothers, sisters nor cousins and himself disinclined to produce any.
But that at present wasn't his greatest problem. Like Maxwell and like Modred, he was dedicated. In fact, he was a workaholic, thus having little time to devote to two blossoming relationships, which, incidentally, he kept separate. If the truth be known, he lived with a terrible dread that Modred would find out about Maxwell or Maxwell would find out about Modred.
Dexter didn't like this at all. Even though no real commitments had yet been made, he felt dirty and guilty, as if he were somehow cheating on both the men.
This was further complicated when Modred, like Maxwell, began to pressure Dexter into moving in with him and establishing a monogamous relationship.
Dexter was so bothered by his circumstance, that he lost sleep, often unintentionally shortchanged his customers, and broke out into cold sweats at unpredictable times. What was he going to do? He considered walking away from both men, telling them that up till now his life had felt complete. But he knew he couldn't do that. Never again could he return to the solitude, the loneliness of his former existence.
Then the worst of all possible scenarios occurred. He'd gone to dinner with Maxwell, who, for old times’ sake, suggested they visit the bar where they'd met. As they walked in, who should they see hanging one of his paintings but Modred himself.
Modred turned and saw Dexter. "Dex," he said, "I wanted this to be a surprise. It's a painting I did for you. You mentioned you used to come here." He hurried on to say that it was now the second month anniversary of their meeting and he'd done the painting as a special surprise. He'd planned to bring Dexter to the bar the following day and show it to him.
Dexter could hardly get his breath. He glanced at Maxwell, whose face was drained of color, and back to Modred, who now was beginning to realize that Dexter hadn't come to the bar alone.
There was nothing to do but introduce the two men. "Max, this is Mod," Dexter said. "Mod, this is Max." He looked from one to the other, Maxwell, tall and muscular, Mod, shorter, powerfully built. The two nearly opposites, yet both appealing to Dexter, who now couldn't bear the thought that he might lose both of them.
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