by Drew Hunt
“Shit!”
Calvin lay for a moment, winded. Then—recognizing the absurdity of the situation and realizing he was unharmed—began to laugh. This increased when he noticed that the front of Brock’s shirt was covered in come.
Eventually reality started to creep back in. He was on the floor of the bathroom of his parents’ old house, leaning back against the side of the bathtub, a cowboy hat upside down inside the tub.
Standing, rubbing his sore hip, Calvin retrieved Brock’s hat, thankful it was undamaged.
Contemplating the idea of soaking the shirt once again, Calvin decided a trip to the dry cleaners was a better option.
* * * *
Calvin thought it wise to take Brock’s shirt—plus a few things of his own that needed cleaning—to somewhere beyond the Parish Creek town limits. For all he knew the true owner of the shirt and its stains would be recognized, and, before the chemicals had started to work the news would be all round the town. Calvin doubted Brock was out. “Hell, he’s probably not even out to himself,” Calvin said before instructing KITT to find him the second-closest dry cleaners.
The Asian lady behind the counter had trouble understanding that Calvin wanted their two-hour clean, not the next day service.
“Too late. Need for nine o-clock for two hours.”
“What, I have to bring in my cleaning by nine if I want it cleaned within two hours?”
She nodded and smiled. “Not time now.”
Calvin looked at his watch. It was 2:45pm. “What time do you close?”
She seemed to think about this. “Not seven. And not six.”
“Six thirty?”
She nodded and smiled. Calvin had to admit she was pleasant, only the language barrier was adding grit to the wheels of commerce.
“But if it takes only two hours to clean, I could pick up before 6:30.”
“No, tomorrow. And is cheaper. Only one dollar forty-nine each. Is two dollar ten cent for two hours.”
“But I don’t mind paying extra.” Calvin even got out his wallet and started counting out bills.
“No, too late. No time today.”
Calvin persisted, even at one point asking her to bring out one of the people he could hear in the back room, but not even that—and the offer of the extra money—would persuade them.
One of the ladies in the back—whose English was marginally better than the one at the counter—managed to convey to Calvin that although the store itself stayed open until 6:30 the back room cleaning staff finished at 4pm.
So Calvin handed over two cotton dress shirts of his own, Brock’s silk shirt, and a pair of khakis, and told the lady he would collect them in the morning.
The lady gave him a ticket and said, “Bye till morning.”
“Tomorrow,” Calvin smiled wearily, heading for the door. He doubted he’d see Brock that night, so his efforts at a speedier service had been in vain anyway.
* * * *
There was a Whole Foods on the next block, so Calvin decided to do some much-needed grocery shopping. The cashier and the bag boy seemed overly chatty, but Calvin was able to keep the conversation to safe and banal topics.
Groceries—including a few cartons of frozen yogurt—safely stowed in the trunk, Calvin started back to Parish Creek.
“Shit,” he said out loud. “I forgot to get a new seat for the john.”
Knowing the frozen items wouldn’t stay frozen if he paid a visit to a home-improvement store, Calvin determined he’d manage the best he could for the rest of the day and pick up a new seat when he went to collect his dry cleaning.
* * * *
Calvin spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening catching up on business. The office could run itself, he and Tim had hired excellent and capable staff, but there were several things only he could attend to. One of them was the pending decision about whether to pursue the Jenkins account. Calvin read the email from Tim, who seemed to be edging away from the idea. Calvin wrinkled his brow and decided he better give Tim a call. Even though Calvin was an hour behind New York time, he knew Tim would still be at the office.
“Howdy, Cal!” his business partner said. Tim was the only one who could get away with using the short version of Calvin’s name.
“Just thought I’d check in. You, Felicity and Maggie are okay?”
“Yes, we’re all fine. And you? Ridden any broncos yet?”
“Uh, no.” Calvin had come to realize Tim’s views of anything south of the Mason-Dixon Line had been gained mainly from Hollywood movies. “Just trying to get the folks’ place ready for sale. I’d forgotten how much slower things run down here.”
They chit-chatted about inconsequentials for a few minutes before Calvin got to his point. “Listen, I don’t understand your objections to us taking over the Jenkins account.”
“Wow, the South must have started to seep into your veins. The Cal I knew here in New York would have started the conversation with that statement even before I’d had a chance to say ‘hello.’”
“Fuck off.”
“No, seriously. Something’s changed with you. What is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Tim stayed silent. The bastard knew exactly how to get Calvin talking.
“Well…there’s this contractor who’s really struggling to find work, so I—”.
“Oh, shit! You’ve found another lost puppy.”
“What? No. Like I said, Brock’s just a contractor.”
“And he’s struggling to find work, so you thought you’d do your white knight thing.”
Calvin found himself squirming. “It’s not that bad. This place needs work before I put it on the market.”
“And?”
“And the recession has hit pretty hard here.” Calvin recalled all the boarded-up storefronts in town.
“And?”
“Your needle stuck on that word, is it?”
Tim sighed. “This Brock guy wouldn’t happen to be handsome would he?”
“I don’t think he’s your type.”
“I’m a happily married heterosexual man. Guys aren’t my type.”
“You once said you would jump the fence for Bruce Springsteen.”
Tim laughed. “The Boss is the only exception to my straightness. And Cal, stop trying to evade the question.”
“I’m sorry, what was the question again?” This was Calvin’s last hope, wearing Tim down enough so he’d drop the subject.
Tim sighed, but stayed quiet.
“Okay!” Calvin knew he was sunk. “Yes, Brock is handsome.” Fucking beautiful, he silently added.
“And have you had sex with him?”
“For a straight man you’ve got quite an interest in gay sex.”
“So you have had sex with him,” Tim concluded.
“Well…Bill Clinton wouldn’t count it as sex.”
“Oh, Cal!” So much disapproval, regret and love was crammed into those two syllables. “It’s Roger all over again.”
“Brock is not Roger. And I’m not in love with Brock.”
“You said you weren’t in love with Roger, either. But his departure—after getting thousands of dollars out of you—still resulted in you moping around the place for weeks.”
“Like I said, Brock isn’t Roger. I knew Brock in high school and couldn’t stand the sight of him.”
“And now he’s handsome.”
“Shut up.” Calvin had begun pacing the house’s central hallway, a sure sign he was nervous. “All I’ve done is offer him the contract for renovating this place.”
“And blown him.”
“He blew me if you want to know. Took me in the bathroom at the hospital.” Calvin’s voice was rising in volume. “And within a couple minutes I was shooting gallons of come down his throat.”
“If you’re trying to gross me out, Cal, it won’t work. I love you. I’m concerned for you. That’s why I’m saying all of this.”
“I know. Sorry.” Calvin stopped paci
ng.
“It’s just, when you find one of these ‘lost puppies,’ you—”
“We’ve found some good employees that way. And the student sponsor scheme has been an almost universal success.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that, it has.”
For the past few years their company had given out a small number of partial and full-ride scholarships to college students in exchange for their agreeing to work with the company for a set number of years after graduation.
“But it’s the emotional cost on you when you get attached to these lost puppies and they can’t—or won’t—return your feelings. That’s what concerns me.”
Calvin sighed. “There’s nothing between Brock and me.”
“Yet.”
“Tim. Enough of you playing my Jewish mother. Now what about us and the Jenkins account? You remember what we agreed last month.”
“You agreed, I still had reservations.”
They talked the issue over for another ten minutes, Calvin wanting to move forward, Tim dragging his heels.
“The recession is beginning to bite. We will lose some clients when they go under. The Tilbury account is particularly shaky.” Calvin had begun pacing again.
“Yeah. But can we take on something so big? Will we be over-reaching ourselves?”
“Look, schedule a meeting between our people and their people for next week so we can hammer out exactly what they need and—”
“You’ll still be in Texas won’t you?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to handle it. Sorry. If—after meeting them—you think it’s not a good fit for us, then I’ll back your decision.”
They talked a minute or so longer, but finally settled on Calvin’s compromise.
“Well, I better let you go. No doubt you have a hot date planned with your Brock.”
“He is not my Brock, and all I plan to do this evening is more work then get to bed. I’ve been neglecting my running lately, so I want to get an early start in the morning before the heat.”
“Sounds so romantic.”
“Not everyone can live the American dream of a spouse, kid, dog and house with a white picket fence.”
“It’s two kids, and we don’t have a white picket fence,” Tim protested.
Calvin just rolled his eyes. “Say goodnight, Gracie.”
“Oh, God, now he’s quoting old TV shows at me.”
“At least it wasn’t lyrics from a Broadway show.”
“True. But please, Cal, keep yourself safe. And I don’t just mean condoms.”
Calvin was touched by Tim’s concern. “I promise. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Calvin hung up, sighed, walked into the kitchen, snagged a bottle of beer and carried it onto the screened-in porch.
* * * *
Rubbing at his gritty eyes, Calvin glanced down at the clock on his laptop. 10:17 pm. He decided he’d done enough for the day. Remembering his promise to himself to go for a run the next morning, Calvin shut down the laptop, took it inside and put it back on Charge. Then after kicking off his sneakers, he pulled off his clothes, dropped them on the floor by his airbed, and padded into the bathroom.
Ten minutes later he was showered and climbing into bed, but soon discovered he couldn’t sleep. Images of the day floated across his mind, most of them involving Brock, either real or imagined.
“Shit!” Calvin rolled over and grabbed the pillow next to his. Brock’s pillow, the little voice in his head said. Calvin told it to shut up.
Fifteen minutes ticked slowly by, and Calvin was still as awake as when he went to bed.
“Oh, fuck it.”
Calvin got up, went into the bathroom, and opened the medicine cabinet. Breaking an Ambien in two, he returned one piece to the bottle, and swallowed the other half with some water. Deciding he might as well take a piss while he was there, and feeling a little sleepy, he opted to sit rather than stand. But as soon as he put his full weight on the seat, it pitched sideways.
“Fucking hell!”
A now fully awake—and slightly bruised—Calvin returned to his bed. Getting out a paperback, Calvin propped himself up as best he could with pillows and decided to read until the pill kicked back in.
Chapter 4
Brock sighed. It was too fuckin’ warm, but he couldn’t afford to switch on the window AC units.
So take off the sweatshirt, dumbass! the voice in his head told him.
Reluctantly Brock raised the hem of the garment and pulled it over his head. Immediately he felt cooler, as what air there was drifting through the house caressed his naked chest. Folding Calvin’s sweatshirt over the back of a kitchen chair, Brock eyed the pile of dirty dishes with distaste, but knew he couldn’t put off the unpleasant chore any longer.
Turning on the faucet, Brock waited until the water started to run hot. Adding dish soap, he began to scale the mountain.
The phone in the hallway rang. Fearing it would be the hospital’s debt collectors, Brock paused, hands still in the sudsy water.
Or maybe it’s Calvin, the annoying voice announced.
Brock dried his hands and went to get the phone before the answering machine had a chance to kick in.
“Dad!” Junior said before Brock could speak.
“Hey, Champ. You having a good time?”
“It’s awesome!” Brock had to move the phone an inch or so away from his ear.
“You won’t want to come home when it’s over, eh?”
The line went quiet. “I am having a good time, but I’m really missing you.”
“That’s good to hear, son.” Brock had to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. “’Cause I’m missing you one hell…uh, heck of a lot, too.”
Junior laughed. “Hey, Dad, guess what?”
Brock smiled. “What?”
“Guess.”
Laughing, Brock said, “You got signed by a scout from a major league team?”
“Ha! No, I pitched a one-hitter today.”
“That’s my boy!” Brock’s chest swelled with pride.
“And that’s not all.”
“Oh?” Brock went back into the kitchen and rested his butt against the countertop.
“In the last inning today I got a double and drove in two runs.”
“Hooboy! That’s fantastic.”
“You really think so?” Junior sounded a little unsure.
“Hell…heck, yeah. I’m real proud of you, son. Maybe I should start callin’ you ‘Slugger’ instead of ‘Champ’.”
Junior giggled.
“Wish I could have been there to see you play.”
“Yeah, me, too. I miss you.”
“Miss you, too, Junior.” Feeling the conversation was getting too downbeat, Brock said, “I got a big contract today.” He pushed himself away from the counter and reached into the fridge for a drink.
“Yeah?” Junior sounded brighter.
“You remember Vice Principle Hamilton?” Brock popped the tab on the can.
“He once gave me detention for punching Ronnie Halsop.”
“I remember. You were trying to protect a freshman.”
“Yeah.”
Brock had been called to the middle school where he’d been told his son had indeed punched another student. Junior hadn’t challenged this, and had told the vice principal and Brock he’d done it in order to defend a smaller kid who was being bullied, and added that, if it happened again he’d punch the bully a second time. It was something Brock wished he’d had the courage to do when he’d been in school.
“Mr. Hamilton knew that, which was why you only got an hour’s detention instead of a week’s suspension.”
“Guess so.”
Brock took a long swallow of his drink and burped softly. He rubbed the cold can against his naked chest.
“But getting back to what I was saying. Mr. Hamilton has taken early retirement and—”
“What are you drinking?” Junior asked, tension obvious in his voice.
�
��Soda.”
“M’ kay.”
Brock knew Junior was concerned he had been drinking beer. His alcohol consumption was the only major bone of contention between them. Brock—wanting to keep the peace—rarely drank in front of his son.
“What about Mr. Hamilton?” Junior asked.
Brock explained about how he’d got a call from Calvin, and how his folks were selling their house, and that he’d been given the contract to fix up the place before it went on the market.
“You’ll still be able to come to the game on Friday, won’t you?”
Brock hoped Calvin would understand if he took the day off, or maybe it’d be better to wait until the following week before starting. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Champ.”
“Thanks. Glad you’ve got some work.”
Brock had kept most of his financial worries to himself, but Junior was a smart kid, and knew they weren’t in the best financial shape. Thank God Mary Anne’s folks had agreed to pay for Junior’s camp this year.
“We’ll be okay, you an’ me. We’re a team.” Brock crushed the now empty can in his free hand and tossed it in the overflowing trashcan.
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, Champ.”
* * * *
Before Brock knew it, it was 4pm. He hadn’t managed to gather all the figures he wanted from the trade catalogs. There was nothing for it; he’d have to go online to check the rest. When he’d been in high school there were precious few computers, and the Internet hadn’t existed. Junior had shown Brock the basics, and although he’d forgotten much of what his son had taught him, Brock was reasonably sure he could get the information he needed without too much difficulty. The only trouble was Junior had taken his laptop to camp with him, so Brock had to go to the library to use theirs.
“At least they’ll have air conditioning,” Brock said, going in search of a T-shirt.
* * * *
The library did have air conditioning, but unfortunately it wasn’t working.