Accidentally On Purpose

by J. M. Snyder

  Who was he kidding? Who’d be interested in an old geezer like him anyway?

  * * * *

  Of course he saw Jim Garrison again when he least expected it.

  Three weeks had passed, more or less. Enough time that the servers finally no longer ribbed him about that embarrassing morning, and Alan had stopped hoping to see the detective every time he looked up.

  He hurried into the Brew, running a few minutes later than normal thanks to roadworks, and at the last moment realized someone was behind him, so he held the door. The young woman said her thanks and Alan smiled back, a perfunctory gesture that didn’t spread past his lips. As he let the door slip shut, he turned and, out of habit, glanced at the table where he’d last seen the detective.

  His smile froze in place. Garrison was there now.

  The world around Alan seemed to come crashing to a halt. The man was even better-looking than he remembered. Combed-back hair, angled features, brows furrowed in an unconscious frown as he glanced through the paper.

  He must’ve felt the weight of Alan’s stare because he glanced up, curious. Then he did a double-take, one corner of his mouth pulling into a humored smirk. He acknowledged Alan with a small nod, nothing more.

  Alan’s heart stuttered almost painfully against his ribs. A vein pulsed in his temple, and a more immediate throb started up below his belt. He took a step towards the detective, all thought of espresso and scones and work forgotten. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something—introduce himself, perhaps, or make an amusing comment about their first meeting. Something casual and witty, guaranteed to make the man remember him.

  But before he could even open his mouth to say hello, Detective Farrow came between them, interrupting Alan’s line of sight and drawing Garrison’s attention. Garrison gave one last, quick glance Alan’s way, then focused on his partner instead.

  Alan’s hope deflated. He took his place in the queue, thoughts lingering on the moment when their eyes had met. The spark of recognition he’d seen in Garrison’s dark, hooded gaze tingled all the way down Alan’s spine.

  At least he remembers me. And if I’m not mistaken, he looked pretty chuffed to see me, too.

  What would’ve happened if Detective Farrow wasn’t there to spoil the moment? Alan imagined joining Garrison at the table, making self-deprecating remarks about the last time they met, maybe even asking for his number before heading off to work.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. You want to scare him away? Get to know him first, let him get to know you. Don’t want to come off as an old letch now, do you?

  But he also didn’t want to strike up a conversation while playing goosberry. Collecting his order, Alan let his gaze drift over to Garrison’s table, almost like an afterthought, and was pleasantly surprised when the detective looked away quickly.

  So maybe he wasn’t the only one interested, was he?

  Now how was he going to get Garrison all to himself?

  * * * *

  The answer came a few days later at the cinema.

  To be accurate, Alan himself wasn’t watching a film. Brooks had asked out a young girl from his grade, and Alan dropped them off at the mall to catch some superhero film the girl probably wouldn’t enjoy. All the way to her house, Alan coached his nephew on being a proper gentleman while on a date, and he was pleased when Brooks seemed to heed his advice. He jumped out of the car to open the door for her, both at her house and at the mall, and before taking her hand, he asked if he could. But a sign at the cinema explained that patrons under the age of eighteen were prohibited from purchasing tickets to late shows due to the city’s curfew. “First I’ve heard of it,” Alan grumbled, digging out his wallet to pay for the kids.

  He didn’t bother with a ticket for himself—two hours watching men in uniforms beat the crap out of each other wasn’t his idea of entertainment unless it was a rugby match. So he walked around the mall until the shops closed, then sat in the car listening to a classical music channel on satellite radio until the movie was over. Then he drove closer to the cinema’s entrance and waited for Brooks to appear.

  A pack of kids hung out nearby, a few with skateboards they were jumping off the curb, some smoking even though they looked too young to do so. A paper bag was also being passed around surreptitiously, and from the way they acted as they sipped from it, Alan figured it contained something alcoholic. Where was a cop when you needed one?

  The longer he waited, the more he didn’t like the thought of Brooks and that little girl walking past those thugs. So Alan got out of the car, tugging on the handle to make sure the door locked behind him, then shoved his hands in his pockets in what he hoped looked like a casual, non-threatening manner as he sauntered closer to the mall.

  The kids dismissed him with a glance. Good. Alan took up a position near the cinema’s doors and waited, all too aware of the occasional skateboard rolling past him as a gangly teen raced to catch it. The kids were getting louder now, heckling each other and catcalling people leaving the cinema. Alan waited anxiously for Brooks to appear.

  Then a silver Ford Taurus eased to a stop at the curb. Everything about the vehicle screamed undercover cop, and the man who climbed out from behind the wheel definitely fit the stereotype of a donut-eating, big-bellied officer of the law.

  “What are you kids doing here?” he hollered, slamming his car door shut. He was a big man, big all over, easily taller than Alan and probably weighing twice as much. His unshaven cheeks gave him an avuncular appearance, which was only enhanced by the easy rapport he seemed to have with the teens. Hiking up his belt, he added, “You know it’s after curfew.”

  “So take us home!” one of the kids cried, and his friends laughed. “Bus don’t run this late, Ossifer Harlen. We need a ride.”

  Another yank of the belt, as if trying to shift it into a more comfortable position. “Bullshit,” Harlen spat. “I know for a fact one of these cars out in this parking lot belongs to one of you. Go on, get. Before I run you in for underage drinking, too. What is that, anyway?”

  He grabbed the paper bag before it could disappear and took a sniff. “Ew, gah! What is this shit?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he upended the bag and the bottle’s contents splashed against the curb before swirling away down a nearby storm drain.

  “Hey!” the kids cried. “Harlen, man, no fair! We paid for that!”

  “I’m saving you from yourself.” Harlen shook the last drops out of the bottle, then shoved the bag into a side pocket in his voluminous jacket. “Is that marijuana I smell?”

  Whatever they were smoking was dropped to the ground and crushed out underfoot. “Nah, man. You know us.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know you,” Harlen grumbled. “Know you’re a bunch of hoodlums. Ain’t it past your bedtime?”

  “C’mon man,” one of the kids cajoled, “give us a ride.” Another moved towards the car’s door.

  Harlen stood in the way. “I ain’t a damn taxi. If you get in my car, I’m taking you down to the precinct.”

  That earned him a few laughs. “Great! I live down that way!”

  Someone else called out, “Officer Garrison would do it.”

  “Yeah, he’s nicer than you,” a third voice added.

  Alan perked up, unable to hide his sudden interest in the exchange. Garrison? The bloke from the café Garrison?

  Harlen grimaced. “Well, newsflash—he ain’t here. Y’all get going now. Quit wasting my time.”

  Just my luck, coming here on his day off.

  Then Harlen seemed to notice him for the first time. “Hey, you.”

  Alan pointed at his chest. Me?

  With a shake of his head, Harlen raised his voice. “Kid! What are you doing out here so late? It’s after eleven, damn it. Does nobody know we have a curfew in this town?”

  Alan glanced behind himself and saw Brooks and his little girlfriend, holding hands. There was a scared look on the boy’s face as he glanced from the cop to Alan, unsure of what to d
o or say.

  “They’re with me, mate.” Alan held out an arm to motion them to keep walking. “Come on, kids. Time to go home.”

  Too bad it wasn’t Garrison’s night at the mall. Which only made Alan wonder if he might get lucky and run into the detective some other evening while Brooks was at the cinema.

  Chapter 5

  The morning after Jim stops in for coffee, Alan sits on the same stool the detective occupied earlier, now nursing a cup of hot Ceylon tea. When he closes his eyes, he imagines he can still smell Jim’s cologne lingering in the air. He wonders again what it’d be like to wake with that scent on his own skin or in his bed.

  What would it take to get us to that point?

  Who’s he kidding? It’s taken him this long to just build up the courage to invite Jim in. By the time he gets around to asking the man to stay the night, one or both of them will probably be too old to be any good in the sack. Most likely it’ll be him.

  From the other room, he hears heavy steps clomp down the stairs. A moment later, Brooks comes into the kitchen wearing a pair of lounge pants and an old T-shirt, his hair disheveled from sleep. Despite his bleary-eyed expression—or maybe because of it—he looks impossibly young.

  “Morning,” Alan says over the top of his teacup.

  Brooks grunts in reply. He opens the cabinet nearest the fridge and grabs a plastic cereal bowl, which slips through his fingers to clatter on the counter.

  Alan winces. “A bit early to be tearing the place apart, innit?”

  That earns him a glare from Brooks, whose black eyes are half-hidden behind that black hair. Holding Alan’s gaze, Brooks reaches for a plastic cup on an upper shelf and thumps it down beside the bowl.

  “Right, well.” Alan sets down his cup, deliberately gentle, then pushes his stool back from the breakfast bar. “I have chores to do, so I’ll leave you to your mood.”

  “I’m not in a mood,” Brooks mutters as he slams down a box of cereal. It clips the edge of his bowl and sets it rocking.

  “What do you call this then?”

  Before Brooks can answer, Alan holds up his hands. “No, forget I asked. I’ll just get out of your way.”

  He sets his teacup in the sink—carefully, quietly—then decides to tease the tiger by ruffling his nephew’s hair. Too late, Brooks tries to duck and only succeeds in knocking his cereal bowl off the counter completely. “Stop it.”

  “Stop it,” Alan mimics, giving it another go. This time Brooks swats his hand away. Alan grins mischievously, his voice rising another octave. “Stop it, stop it.”

  Brooks glowers at him. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t,” Alan parrots with a laugh. “What’s wrong, mate? Lighten up. I’m just taking the mickey out of you.”

  “You know what?” Brooks retrieves his bowl from the floor and tosses it onto the counter, where it knocks over his cup. “You only think you’re hot shit because your boyfriend was here—”

  And just like that, Alan’s playful mood dissipates. “What have I said about you using that word?”

  “Boyfriend?” Brooks sneers, obviously misunderstanding him on purpose. “Oh, wait. He isn’t even that. He’s just some random guy you like but can’t get up the nerve to ask out.”

  “Hey!” Alan snaps. “That’s hitting a bit below the belt, don’t you think? Where’s this coming from anyway?”

  With a shrug, Brooks opens the fridge and pulls out the carton of milk. Fortunately he gets it to the counter without incident. “Last night Kylie said—”

  “Kylie? Who’s that?”

  Brooks pauses in mid-pour, his cup half full. The look he gives Alan just might curdle his milk. “Kylie. My girlfriend.”

  Alan laughs. “You’re fourteen. You don’t have a girlfriend.”

  That earns him another shrug. He can almost hear the thought in his nephew’s head: Whatever. “Well, you’ve taken us to the movies before, so you know who she is.”

  “And she’s the reason you’re in such a foul mood this morning?” Alan wants to know. “Stayed up too late chatting with her, did you?”

  “Kylie said,” Brooks tries again, shooting Alan a warning look, “maybe you should be the one hanging around the mall after hours if you want to hook up with Detective Garrison.”

  Alan can’t believe he’s hearing this. “First of all, mister, I don’t appreciate you talking about me behind my back with one of your little friends.”

  “My girlfriend,” Brooks corrects.

  “Secondly,” Alan says, ignoring him, “this little scheme of ours was your idea in the first place. Or did you conveniently forget to tell your girlfriend that?”

  Brooks lets out an exasperated sigh and pours cereal noisily into his bowl, following it with a splash of milk. “I’m just saying this is 2018. Times have changed. If you like a guy, then fine, like him. But stop pretending you don’t. I mean, gays can get married now, you know.”

  Anger rises in Alan, and for a moment he’s afraid he isn’t going to be able to hold back. Bloody hell, fourteen! he thinks. And trying to give me advice. Who does he think he is anyway?

  “You don’t have to hide it or anything,” Brooks adds. His attitude has softened, and he gives Alan a shy smile as he stirs his cereal. “I mean, all I’m saying is he likes you, too. So why not do something about it?”

  Alan’s anger disappears in a rush. Suddenly his face feels too hot, his hands too cold. “Hang on, what’s this?”

  His nephew’s grin spreads. “It’s so obvious. But what do I know? I’m only fourteen.”

  * * * *

  Later in the day, Alan’s in the living room doing the Saturday crossword, which is appreciatively harder than the Thomas Joseph puzzle that appears in the morning paper. Sunday’s is the toughest, and usually takes Alan all day to work through. It helps keep his mind limber, though. He read somewhere that doing puzzles keeps the brain young and sharp. Maybe it was in Reader’s Digest, he isn’t sure, and he doesn’t know if it’s true or not, but he enjoys the challenge.

  At some point he becomes aware that he isn’t alone. Alan turns to find Brooks standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, staring at him.

  “Wotcher, lad?” Alan pats the cushion beside him on the couch. “Take a seat.”

  For a moment Brooks doesn’t move. Then he rocks back on his heels, and when he rocks forward, he pretends to stumble off the bottom step and into the living room. He kicks at Alan’s shoe as he passes by, then falls onto the couch with an audible oof.

  “You’re a bull in a china shop, mate,” Alan says, shaking his head. “Can you try not tearing the place down today?”

  “Sorry.”

  It’s gruff and low, but about as sincere an apology Alan can expect from a teenage boy. “S’oright.”

  “No, I mean it.” Brooks flops back with a sigh. “Sorry for this morning, too. And for talking to Kylie about you. I wasn’t being mean, I promise.”

  “Right, well.” Alan clears his throat and starts doodling in the corner of the newspaper, the crossword on hold. “I don’t think my…interest in Detective Garrison is any concern of Miss Kylie’s. Or yours, to be honest.”

  Brooks rolls his eyes. “Hello, I’m the reason he came over last night, remember?”

  “And I gave you a tenner for it.” Alan looks at his nephew sharply. “No, I gave you fifteen. What more do you want, a medal?”

  “I want you to go out with him already.” Brooks scoots sideways and turns, pulling his long legs up onto the couch between them. Crossing his ankles, he rests his elbows on his legs and his chin on his hands as he studies Alan. “You keep saying I’m too young to date—”

  “You really are.”

  “So what’s your excuse?” Brooks asks. “Too old?”

  Because he has no answer to that, Alan returns to his crossword, but he’s distracted now and has to reread a clue a few times before he understands it. Without looking up, he asks, “Just what is it you’re trying to say h
ere, son?”

  “I’m saying you should ask him out.”

  Like it’s as simple as that.

  Alan sighs. “It just isn’t that easy between men.”

  “This isn’t the Stone Age,” Brooks cries, exasperated. “I see guys together all the time. Hell—”

  Alan throws him a warning look.

  “Heck,” Brooks corrects, “there are gay kids at my school. Holding hands in the hall between classes and everything. What are you afraid of anyway?”

  With a sigh, Alan sets the crossword aside. “I don’t really want to get into this with you right now.”

  “No, tell me,” Brooks demands. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Alan admits. “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. I guess he could say no.”

  Brooks shrugs. “And then what? Nothing. I mean, hell—” He sees Alan’s sharp look. “—lo. It isn’t like he’s going to arrest you or put you in jail for being gay. They don’t do that anymore.”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Alan says. “I appreciate it, really, I do. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take things at a pace I’m comfortable with, what do you say?”

  Brooks falls back against the arm of the couch in a dramatic gesture. “Well, I tried.”

  “Well, I thank you,” Alan says.

  Smoothing down his hair, Brooks shakes his head in reply. “Don’t blame me if you die alone.”

  “Hey!” Alan smacks his nephew’s leg with the folded up newspaper.

  Chapter 6

  Brooks really did come up with the whole hanging out after curfew scheme. Alan would’ve never thought of it; his bright idea was to chaperone Brooks to the cinema on an occasional date and wait in the parking lot, hoping he might run into Detective Garrison at some point that way. Eventually he might even get up the courage to talk to the man, who knew? But he didn’t want to seem too eager.

  Fortunately Brooks liked going to the cinema. There were two girls at his school he invited, alternating between them every other week, which was why Alan didn’t think either was serious enough yet to be called a girlfriend. One was Kylie, the girl he claims to be dating, but if he mentioned the name of the other one, Alan doesn’t remember it. Alan was just the chauffeur, with Brooks and his date giggling in the back seat all the way to the cinema.