Calvin’s Cowboy

by Drew Hunt

  Brock looked embarrassed. “I kinda remember that.”

  “And then they’d brag about beating up the school fag?”

  Brock looked down at his half-empty bottle. His silence was answer enough.

  “We lived in different worlds back in high school. Everybody knew you and how many home runs or whatever you had hit the previous season. Whereas no one, apart from my fellow ‘drama geeks,’” he sketched quotation marks in the air, “knew about me. And that was just fine.”

  Brock shifted uncomfortably, Calvin had made his point, so he changed the subject to the reason for Brock’s visit.

  They had a walk through of the house, Brock pointing out things such as the odd patch of damp, crumbling masonry and the quarry tiles in the hallway.

  Going outside, Brock requested use of a stepladder so he could examine the roof.

  “See how many of the shingles have turned up at the edges?”

  Calvin was more interested in looking at the man’s ass than whatever was on the roof, but managed to make an affirmative noise.

  “They’re quite brittle, too,” Brock said snapping off a small piece. “When was the roof last shingled?” Brock got down from the ladder and helped Calvin put it away in the garage.

  “I was just going to college, so I’d say about seventeen years ago.”

  A new roof was added to the list of what needed to be done.

  When they were back inside, Calvin said, “I’m anxious to get the old place on the market and sold as quickly as possible, though still for a good price.”

  Brock nodded. “I’ve had a cancellation, so I could start next week, if you want?”

  Calvin did want. He doubted there had been a cancellation, but opted not to call Brock on it. He asked Brock to get some figures to him by the weekend. Though Calvin had decided to accept the quote; if nothing else, the eye-candy would be worth the few extra bucks. Also, throughout their conversation, Calvin’s gaydar had been pinging softly. He suspected Brock was deeply closeted.

  Their handshake and eye contact at the door were held a second longer than those of a straight guy. This gave Calvin further support to his growing theory that Brock was a kindred spirit.

  Once he had bid the tall drink of water goodbye, Calvin closed the door and rested his back against it. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!”

  Chapter 2

  Brock looked up from his drink and saw the last man he wanted to see. “Of all the motherfuckin’ gin joints in all the motherfuckin’ towns in all the motherfuckin’ world, he walks into mine,” he growled at Calvin.

  “And here was I thinking this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Calvin picked up Brock’s hat from the stool and sat down.

  “Why the fuck did you call him?” Brock asked Hal, the barkeeper.

  “It was either him or the sheriff.” Hal continued to wipe down the already pristine bar top.

  “Thanks a bunch!” Brock knew he was being an ass, but didn’t give a damn.

  He’d planned on going straight from the old Hamilton place to line dancing, but seeing Calvin and how rich and successful he’d become had put him in a bad mood, so after leaving Calvin’s folks’ place, Brock had pointed his truck at Hal’s Bar & Grill for a drink before going on to the dance. One drink had led to two, then…

  “So, Gary Cooper, ready to saddle up and mosey on back to the bunkhouse?” Calvin handed the Resistol to Brock.

  Brock put the hat on, annoyed that the fuckin’ New York asshole could be so chipper, when he felt like total shit. It wasn’t fair. He should have been where Calvin was now. All successful and shit. After all, he had been the fuckin’ big man on campus, star baseball jock with girls hanging all over him. And what had Calvin been? A fucking nerdy fag, that’s what!

  “Not fuckin’ fair!” Brock growled. “Give us another Jack for the road, Hal.”

  “Sorry, Brock, you’ve had enough for tonight. Go home and sleep it off.”

  “I said I want another!” Brock rose from his bar stool and wobbled.

  “Whoa there, cowboy,” Calvin caught him.

  God, he smells good, Brock thought. But he couldn’t—no he mustn’t—feel like that about another guy. Not in public anyway. “Get your fuckin’ pansy hands off of me!”

  Brock fought to get free. The barroom began to tilt. He fixed his gaze on the shelves of liquor behind the bar to steady himself, but the strong hands never left him.

  “Come on; let’s get you out of here before you draw even more attention to yourself.” Brock heard Calvin, but his voice seemed a million miles away. “Has he settled his tab?”

  “Uh, no. But I can get it from him later.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll take care of it, just tell me how much.”

  Brock, still with his eyes fixed on the shelves, leaned further into Calvin’s side. God, the man had good muscles for a swanky New York lawyer or whatever the hell he was.

  “Come on, pardner, time to hit the trail.”

  “Not your fuckin’ partner,” Brock mumbled.

  “Whatever. Come on, let’s get some fresh air. See if that will sober you up some.”

  Brock thought the idea was good, so he began putting one foot in front of the other. The room swayed and he felt himself pitching forward.

  “I got ya.” Calvin’s grip around his waist tightened.

  Brock leaned into the embrace. Calvin felt strong, safe. Whoa! Brock jerked free and almost cannoned into a guy just coming out of the bathroom.

  “Watch where you’re going!” the guy said.

  “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “Brock, can it.” Calvin got a hold of him again. “Sorry, man. He’s had too much to drink and—”

  Brock didn’t know what the guy said in reply because Calvin picked up the pace and the next thing he knew they were in the parking lot. The cool air hit him, and Brock immediately felt a bit better. He didn’t fight to get free of Calvin, though.

  “Just walk me to my truck and I’ll—”

  “You’re not driving anywhere tonight.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Yeah, sure you are. If I was to let go of you now, you’d just keel over.”

  “Fuck off! I’m a real man. I can hold my liquor.”

  Calvin laughed. The fucking fag laughed. Brock wasn’t standing for that. He broke free of Calvin’s grasp, raised his fist, and threw a punch that didn’t connect. The world spun. Next thing he knew he was face down on the ground. “Fuck!”

  Brock heard the gravel crunch next to him.

  “You all right?”

  ’Course he wasn’t fuckin’ all right, but no way was he going to tell Calvin that. “Help me up.”

  “So long as you promise not to throw any more punches. I’d hate to put you down again.”

  “Fuck off. I just over-balanced is all.”

  “Because you’re drunk off your ass.”

  Calvin helped him up. God, everything hurt.

  “Where’s my hat?”

  “Here.” Calvin gave it to him.

  Brock stuck it back on his head, trying to recapture what he could of his dignity.

  “Come on, let’s get you home so I can get back to bed.”

  They started across the parking lot again, Brock not resisting Calvin’s grip on his shoulder.

  “Bet you used to dream of getting me into bed when we were in high school.”

  “Those might have been your dreams,” Calvin said, “but they sure weren’t mine.”

  “You saying I’m a fag?” Brock stopped walking, disengaged from Calvin and was ready to throw another punch.

  “Oh, quit it. Just keep walking and shut the fuck up. I should have told the bartender to get the sheriff to sling your drunk ass in jail for the night. But, no, when he asked me to come get you, fool that I am, I agreed.”

  “Why’d Hal call you anyway?” Brock couldn’t work that one out.

  “I don’t know. Seems you were holding the card I gave you earlier and
were muttering something. No doubt it wasn’t pleasant.”

  Brock remembered sitting at the bar, flipping Calvin’s card over and over, pissed at how successful the guy had become, and there he was, divorced with a kid, and the fuckin’ hospital on his ass for his dad’s unpaid medical bills. Yeah, too right what he’d been saying hadn’t been pleasant.

  “Hal had no business calling you.”

  “Probably not. Maybe everyone else he tried said no.”

  Privately Brock had to agree no one else would have agreed to come get him. He didn’t have any friends, or at least no one he could truly call a friend.

  They had stopped at a black Pontiac Firebird that looked familiar somehow.

  “Just stand there for a minute.

  Calvin let himself into the car, leaned over, and opened the passenger door. Brock managed to get himself in and shut the door.

  “Seatbelt.”

  “Fuck,” Brock mumbled, scrabbling around to find it. He pulled the belt across himself, but couldn’t work out how to fasten it.

  “Oh, come here. We’ll be all night otherwise.”

  “Keep your fucking hands off my crotch.”

  “Brock, this might come as an enormous disappointment to you, but I do not now, or have ever had, fantasies about you or your crotch.”

  “Why not?” Brock immediately regretted asking the question.

  “Because at school you were arrogant, mean, and just so full of yourself.”

  Brock wanted to disagree but honestly couldn’t. He knew he’d been a jerk in high school. Being the star pitcher came with certain perks, such as not having to pass tests in class, hand in assignments on time, and stuff like that. But there was a darker side to it all. One he bet Calvin had no idea about.

  “It wasn’t as great as you think, being me.”

  “Oh, spare me. You didn’t walk to school every morning worried that you were going to be beat up, have your head pushed down the john or have your homework stolen from you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. But fuck the past. I hated high school and am glad I got out of this shit hole of a town.”

  Brock could agree with him about getting out of Parish Creek. He’d managed it—for a while at least—until sports injuries and family obligations had pulled him back. However, he couldn’t agree with Calvin about high school. There he’d been someone. Now he was a fucking nobody with a business rapidly going down the tubes with…Brock closed his eyes; he wasn’t feeling well, and reminding himself of how badly life had treated him wasn’t helping any.

  The engine started and… “Hello Calvin. What is your destination?”

  Brock’s eyes shot open. Fuck a duck! it was KITT, the voice from Knight Rider. That’s what this car reminded him of. “Always thought you were a fuckin’ nerd.”

  Calvin, who had started to roll the car out of the bar’s parking lot, slammed on the brakes, causing Brock to jerk against the seatbelt. “If you want to walk, then be my guest.”

  Brock patted his pocket to check that his truck keys were there. “Fine! I’ll drive myself.”

  Calvin pulled out a fancy looking cell phone. “The second you put those keys in the ignition I’m calling the cops.”

  Brock sank lower in his seat, defeated.

  Calvin started driving again. “It’s just a GPS with the voice of William Daniels.”

  Brock said nothing.

  “Though, uh, yeah, I guess it’s a bit geeky to have it installed in the same make and model of car as the one in the TV show.”

  Brock snorted.

  “Shut the fuck up. I work hard for my money, and without kids or a boyfriend I treat myself to the occasional toy.”

  “Must be nice,” Brock grumbled, thinking how little cash he had to survive on each week. There was never anything left over for ‘toys,’ as Calvin termed them.

  The two fell into silence for a while, until Calvin asked, “So, where’s home?”

  Brock didn’t want to go home. It wasn’t because he’d be alone. No, it was because the place was a mess, the roof leaked and the paint was peeling. There were dirty dishes in the sink and piles of dirty laundry to wash.

  “Brock?”

  He realized he’d not replied to Calvin’s question. Before he could formulate a response, they hit a pothole. Brock’s stomach rolled.

  “Gonna puke!”

  “Jesus!” Calvin pulled to the curb. “Not on my upholstery you’re not.”

  Brock fought to unlatch the door, but was held in place by the fucking seatbelt.

  Thankfully Calvin was onto it and released the catch. Brock leaned out of the car and painted the gutter. The smell and the bad taste in his mouth made him retch again.

  “Ah, fuck,” Brock said when he realized he’d got some puke on his shirt.

  “Here.” Calvin had got out of the car and was standing by the open passenger door, but to the side, out of projectile range. He handed Brock a handful of Kleenex.

  “Thanks. Sorry about this, I just—” How could Brock tell him it’d been a shitty week, hell, a shitty year? The guy didn’t need to know—and probably wouldn’t be interested in—his tales of woe and misery.

  “It’s okay.” Calvin sounded genuine.

  If anything, that made Brock feel worse.

  “Want some water?”

  Brock shook his head; he didn’t think he would be able to keep it down.

  “Just to rinse your mouth, maybe it’d take away the nasty taste?”

  “Thanks.” Brock took the offered bottle, rinsed and spit.

  Calvin put a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Feel better now?”

  “Some.” However, most of the improvement was because of Calvin’s concern. He could feel the heat of the man’s palm radiating through his shirt.

  “Ready to set off again?”

  Brock nodded.

  Calvin closed the passenger door, walked around the car and got back into his seat. Starting the engine, he said, “Seatbelt.”

  Brock rolled his eyes, but complied. In a strange way it showed that Calvin cared. Brock hadn’t had anyone care for him in…he didn’t know how long.

  “I think I should take you back to my parents’ place. You shouldn’t be left on your own after drinking so much.”

  It wasn’t exactly the first time Brock had tied one on. Hell, lately he’d often found himself in some bar or other, trying to drown his sorrows, but his sorrows had grown life jackets and had taught themselves how to swim. Brock snickered at the image.

  “Huh?” Calvin asked.

  “Nothing.”

  After a minute or two of silence, the car traveling along the dark and mostly empty streets, Calvin said, “There’s only one bed, an air mattress. As you saw earlier, most of the furniture has been shipped off to Florida.”

  Brock didn’t see a problem.

  “You’d have to share a bed with a queer guy.”

  Brock didn’t know what to think. If he reached for Calvin in the night he could pass it off as being drunk.

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “Uh, no, just as long as you keep your hands to yourself,” Brock huffed.

  “You’re pretty high on yourself, aren’t you?”

  Brock didn’t answer. He didn’t need to as they had arrived at the house, and Calvin was shutting off the engine.

  Getting out of the car, Brock stumbled, but again Calvin was there to steady him. Brock took a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary to hold on.

  “You’re a mess. I hope that stain will come out of your shirt.

  “Yeah, me too.” It had cost him a couple hundred bucks at a fancy store in Austin. Given his current financial situation there was no way he’d be able to replace it. “Goodnight, KITT.” Brock waved at the car just before Calvin closed the door to the house.

  “Ass.”

  “See, I knew you liked my ass.”

  “Oh, brother. Come on. Let’s get you out of that shirt. I’ll find a bucket to soak i
t in.”

  Brock thought better of making a comment about Calvin wanting to get him naked. Since high school and his short-lived career in the minor leagues he’d let himself go a little. Sure, he was still strong, he had to be for the type of work he did, but he’d lost much of the definition he’d had in his late teens and early twenties.

  “You need a shower.”

  “You’re determined to get me naked, aren’t ya?” Shit! Why couldn’t he keep his fool mouth shut?

  “You’ve got as much chance as Mother Theresa at turning me on tonight. I suggested you take a shower because I don’t particularly want to share a bed with someone who stinks of puke, whiskey and stale cigarette smoke.”

  Brock felt strangely crestfallen.

  “And there’s aspirin in the medicine cabinet. I suggest you take some, because you’re going to have one hell of a headache in the morning, uh,” Calvin consulted his watch, “later today. Jesus, I must have been crazy to get out of my bed to rescue your drunken ass.”

  “Sorry.” Brock could feel himself getting emotional, so escaped to where he thought the bathroom was.

  “No, dumbass, that’s the fucking hall closet. Here.” Calvin took his arm and guided him to the bathroom. “You can manage from here I’m sure. Trust me when I say that it has never been a fantasy of mine to hold your limp dick while you piss.”

  Brock closed the door—and for good measure—slid the bolt closed.

  * * * *

  Christ on a pogo stick, his mouth felt like the inside of a wrestler’s jock strap. And Brock had had some experience with the insides of wrestler’s jock straps. In high school he used to mess around with a couple of guys on the varsity wrestling team, but it was totally understood it was just guys getting off when their girls weren’t putting out.

  “Oh, God.” Where was he? The room didn’t look familiar.

  “You’ll probably need the help of the almighty with the hangover I bet you’re sporting.”

  “Huh?” Brock looked up to see, uh, “Calvin?”

  “You remembered. Doesn’t always happen with the guys who share my bed.”

  Brock didn’t want to think about that. “What time is it?”

  “A quarter till ten.”

  “What?” Brock shot up. The room swayed. He lay back down again, holding his head.