by Craig Moody
Between the two of us, we earned a meager living, a non-operational motorcycle and a few hundred dollars in a mason jar our only fortune.
I never contacted my parents after we left, nor did I inform them of my leaving. After listening to Gauge insist that we escape our hopeless entrapment in South Florida, I agreed to disappear with him into the night, uncaring as to where we were going or how we would get there. As long as I was with him, I was content.
Our place at the motel was smaller than my bedroom back home. We managed, though, not only in the practical sense, but our connection flourished as well. Eight hours a day of scrubbing corroded toilets was worth the sacrifice just to be able to lie beside Gauge each night.
The first time we made love, I wept in silence, my tears intermeshed with the sweat of our tangled bodies. There was no talk or hesitation, it simply happened as if it had occurred a thousand times before. As the months progressed, our sexual chemistry evolved, becoming more rhythmic and fluid. In time, we were as familiar with each other’s bodies as we were our own, easily able to connect and satisfy the other without effort or thought.
It turned out that the Indian required more work than we had originally anticipated. Gauge spent a large portion of his remaining savings moving us into the motel, a rent that was now a fraction of the original amount due to my on-site employment. Nearly the rest of what was left was spent on the Indian, which was now no more functional than it had been when it stranded us in Georgia.
Still, we were happy. We planned to get the bike going again and continue our westbound dream, but I had accepted the present fate of our circumstance a few weeks after we settled into the motel and I saw that Gauge was getting nowhere with the repairs. When he wasn’t busy at the garage, he was home tinkering on the Indian, its mechanical parts and pieces carefully spread over one of the motel bedsheets in the alleyway across from the dumpsters.
The motel manager, a grossly overweight man named Mr. Higgins, wasn’t so keen on Gauge, his tattoos, or his endless laboring on the Indian, but he accepted it, as I was one of the few of his employees who actually showed up on a daily basis and never ended my shift early due to an unintentional drug-induced collapse on one of the bathroom floors. I minded my manners and kept to myself, dutifully repeating my daily tasks like a worker bee on a singular mission.
Most of my days were spent changing the cum-stained bedsheets where truckers had sexually ravaged one of the local hookers or repeatedly pleasured themselves with the guidance and aide of the sole VHS smut film Mr. Higgins played on a loop from the motel’s office. We were the only motel within a seventy-mile radius with a VCR, and its ability to display the same hour-long adult film into every room was more than likely the only reason the motel was still in business.
Thankfully, Gauge was a naturally gifted cook. He could take the simplest of ingredients and construct the most basic yet delicious meals. They weren’t always attractive or all that appetizing when you broke down the ingredients, but they satiated hunger, and their distinct and captivating flavors would be the envy of any honest culinary artist.
Soups made of condiments and enhanced with spices, or dried noodle delicacies mixed with meager portions of convenience store meat, we never went hungry and were somehow always able to enjoy our limited intake by the grace of Gauge’s creative genius.
Tonight was special, so I was planning an evening out. For weeks I had been setting aside a bit of extra funds so that I could surprise Gauge with a birthday dinner out on the town. There wasn’t much to choose from in our backwoods, rural location, but there was one Italian restaurant in the heart of the county that people raved about for miles. It was rumored that Frank Sinatra himself once graced the joint during his glorious heyday with the Rat Pack. Of course, there was no photographic evidence of this rare and grand occurrence, but the legend persisted as strongly as the blue smoke of the nearby Appalachian Mountains.
Over the months, we managed to collect a resourceful yet slightly fashionable wardrobe.
Having arrived with nothing but the clothing we had on, Mr. Higgins connected us with one of the dozens of nearby churches where we were able to obtain some charitable gear. I was both surprised and amused at how current and relevant some of the donated clothing was. My only guess was that some of the strict, religious parents had confiscated some of their children’s modern, rock and roll “sin wear” and purged their homes of it via a charitable, church-funded donation.
I carefully ironed the best of our garments, a pair of black slacks and a white button-down dress shirt for me, and a denim jean and jacket combo for Gauge. Touring the room with my eyes, a sudden wave of gratitude washed over me as warm as the Caribbean Sea. Given the unexpected and stark contrast of our present reality, especially compared to where we had come from, Gauge and I were far more equipped to not only survive and continue on, but also to enjoy the bit of life we had accumulated and created. Things could be so much worse, and I was sincerely grateful to the gods above that they weren’t.
The rattling of keys broke my stream of daydream thoughts. Gauge appeared in the room, black and filthy with the grease, gunk, and grime of the repair shop.
“Hey,” he said as he closed the door behind him, his familiar, crooked smile revealing a pearly- white set of teeth beneath the darkened mask of his face. “What’cha doin?”
“I have a surprise for you, birthday boy,” I replied, moving in to kiss him. “Get cleaned up. I am taking you to Mazzola’s.”
He stared at me a moment, the confusion and uncertainty of his brain spinning in his eyes like a tumbling dryer load.
“Wait,” he continued, his expression more concerned than excited. “Mazzola’s? That fancy Italian place in town where Frank Sinatra ate?”
I nodded, my grin as big as the full moon.
“Babe, no,” he said, shaking his head. “We can’t afford something like that. I’m fine just hanging out here tonight. What’s another birthday? I’m a grown man now. It ain’t no big thing.”
“Nonsense, Gauge,” I stated, a smile still glued to my face as I helped lift his sweat and grease-covered work shirt over his head. “I’ve been saving for this for weeks. It’s something I want to do.”
I placed my hands on his cheeks, ensuring that his eyes were fixed on mine.
“It’s something we need to do.”
He nodded silently, unbuckling his belt and removing his pants. The sight of Gauge without clothing was still the most erotic and exciting image to me. The naturally toned curvature of his body, every inch of his skin, the hair, the ink markings, it was all an endless stream of sensory fantasy that I was able to hold in my arms each and every night.
I watched as he trotted off toward the bathroom, his taut and compact butt appearing to wave at me as he walked by.
Mr. Higgins had given me permission to take one of his service trucks into town. He kept two rundown old Chevy pickups on-site to manage the retrieval of motel goods. He bulk-purchased via some sketchy wholesale warehouse nearby and would often send me to fetch the orders in an attempt to save on delivery fees.
Once we were both showered and dressed in our best, we loaded into the nude-colored Chevy and started toward Mazzola’s.
The truck radio murmured one of the many old-timey country music stations of the area, the mournful sound of Patsy Cline’s powerful voice filling the cabin like a welcome springtime cloud.
After around forty minutes of driving, we pulled into a crowded parking lot that hugged a quaint old wooden-framed building.
A bright and massive flashing sign dominated the front of the structure like a lighthouse on the edge of a tiny beachside pier. The words “Mazzola’s Homestyle Italian Cuisine” blared across the surrounding asphalt like the sun illuminating the moon.
I pulled the rattling truck into one of the available spaces. Hopping out, we journeyed through the jungle of dust-covered, big-wheeled pickups and family station wagons toward the front of the restaurant.
The inte
nse and unmistakable aroma of classic Italian food wrapped itself around us as we moved into the tiny entryway.
A sea of trucker caps, cowboy hats, and church lady bouffant hairdos sprouted above the brown panel half-wall that stood between us and the rest of the patrons.
“Well, good evening, boys,” a cheerful Southern accent chirped. “Y’all here together, or are there gonna be more of ya comin?”
A small, white-haired man shuffled toward us with a stack of menus in his hands. He wore a black tailcoat over what appeared to be a worn and stained undershirt. His black pants were baggy and loose-fitted, appearing as though they had been a tailored fit back in his more primitive years.
“No, just us,” I answered, hugging up to
Gauge’s side.
The old man peered at us suspiciously a moment before replacing his stare with a warm and inviting smile.
“Well, then, right this way, gentlemen.”
He led us through the chattering hoard of hungry diners toward a small, white-cloth-covered table in the very back of the restaurant.
A small candle in a chipped glass next to a red plastic flower in a white, bumpy vase split the table in two.
Once seated, the man listed an array of house specials before disappearing behind a nearby red-checkered curtain.
We were busy perusing our prolific menus when our waitress greeted us.
“Well, howdy, fellas,” she stated joyously, her bleached blonde hair teased and stretched over her head like an off-white cotton headdress, her pale blue eyeshadow caked thick behind spiderlike lashes. A streak of red lipstick stained her brilliantly white teeth, their perfect, symmetrical shape making it obvious that they were dentures.
“What can I get ya handsome young men to drink?” she continued, whipping out a worn notepad and pen.
“I’ll have a Coke,” I replied, Gauge following suit.
“Two Cokes it is,” she smiled, replacing the notepad into her apron pocket.
“Y’all visiting, or are ya from around here?” she questioned, bouncing her mascara- clouded eyes between us.
“We moved nearby about six months ago,” I answered, smiling up at her.
“Oh, nice. Where y’all from originally?” “South Florida,” I continued, “but it was
getting too hot and muggy, so we wanted to venture
north.”
She laughed.
“Too hot and muggy? Well, honey, you need to keep heading north if you intend to escape the hot and muggy. Tennessee gets as hot and stale as a mule’s behind for about eight months of the year.”
The three of us laughed in unison.
“Y’all brothers or something?”
“No,” I replied, looking at Gauge.
“High school buddies?” she queried, the singsong tone of her voice now becoming more curious and inquisitive.
“Boyfriends,” I stated, returning my gaze to her.
“Oh,” she said, her powdered face flushed with a hint of crimson. “I see.”
She continued to stare a moment before seeming to collect her distracted thoughts.
“Well, I’ll be right back.”
She turned slowly, her white leather short- heeled shoes scraping the carpet as she moved. I watched as she glanced back at us before disappearing behind the checkered curtain.
“Now why did you have to go and tell her that?” Gauge questioned, his voice whispered yet concerned.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “It’s the
truth, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so, but that doesn’t
mean we need to tell the hillbilly waitress.”
He turned his head to scan the rest of the crowded dining room.
“Saying shit like that can get you killed in a ho-dunk place like this.”
I lowered my head in a mixture of shame and frustration. A part of me was embarrassed for upsetting Gauge, but the rest of me was annoyed that he seemed to care so much about what a complete stranger thought of us.
Before I could reply, a heavyset man in a pale pink shirt with an offensively clashing red tie approached the table.
“I’m gonna have to ask you boys to leave,”
he stated coldly in a thick Southern drawl.
“What?” I croaked, my voice heavy with confusion and shock.
“Please don’t make me ask you twice.”
He crossed his arms over his belly, resting them atop the protruding gut like an armrest.
I turned to look at Gauge, who was already staring at me.
“And can I ask why?” Gauge questioned, returning his eyes to the man.
“Peg, your waitress, tells me that y’all are
boyfriends,” he responded in the same flat tone.
“Yeah, so?” Gauge replied, his face twisting in confusion and a bit of anger.
“Well, we won’t have that kind of thing in this family establishment.”
The man leaned toward us, lowering his voice to say, “The Bible condemns you, and so do we.”
He pulled himself back to his complete height, his arms still resting lifelessly on his giant belly.
I felt the room begin to sway as Gauge’s anger boiled over. I attempted to stop him as he pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet.
“And what right do you have to condemn us, sir?” he boomed, his deep voice thundering through the restaurant like the roar of a tornado.
“As a Christian, I have the right of God on my side. This is my family’s restaurant, and we can refuse service to whoever lives a life of rebellion to God.”
He shot his eyes between us before sneering,
“And personally, you two faggots make me sick.”
I closed my eyes as I heard the thud of Gauge’s fist meet the flesh of the man’s face. An immediate silence fell over the entire dining room, preceded by an audible collection of gasps.
I opened my eyes to see the man pulling the clipped-on tie from his neck and throwing it to the ground. In one fell swoop, he grabbed the corners of Gauge’s denim collar and pushed him toward the red-checkered curtain.
The sound of dishes and utensils falling to the floor could be heard crashing in the distance beyond what could be seen.
I jumped to my feet and began to pursue them, when Gauge reappeared from behind the curtain, his lip bleeding, his face red and swollen.
“Let’s go,” he commanded, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the gathering collection of disturbed and curious onlookers.
“Wait!” a voice yelled. We turned to see the man, his face beet red from the unseen altercation. “I’m meeting you in the parking lot.”
Gauge shook his head before continuing to lead us toward the door. The frightened stares of the other diners as we hurried past them was both terrifying and amusing to me. I knew they could only wonder what in the hell was happening.
Gauge threw open the restaurant door, squeezing my arm tighter as we raced for the truck.
The sound of a chain and something wooden clubbing the ground halted our movement. We turned to see the fat man, along with two equally- sized counterparts, closing in on us from the side of the building.
“Go!” Gauge shouted, pushing me toward the truck. “Get in and lock the doors!”
“But—” I started, choking on my words.
“Just do it, Dustin!” he commanded, his voice shaking with emotion.
Obeying the order, I unlatched the heavy, creaking truck door and hopped inside. Locking both doors with the pound of my fist, I turned just in time to see one of the men swing a bat at Gauge’s head.
I cried out as Gauge ducked, moving forward toward his original opponent, who patiently smirked at him while tightly gripping a chain.
Gauge crashed into the man’s torso, knocking the solid and stout body back several inches. The two cronies closed in, and I could no longer see Gauge.
I watched in absolute horror, my heart pounding in my ears, my lungs shaking like dried leaves inside my core as the thre
e men circled a still-crouching Gauge.
The clanking of the chains and the solid whack of the baseball bat echoed into the truck like dynamite blasting the inner belly of a rocky hollow.
Time slowed to an excruciatingly stunted crawl. What happened in seconds appeared to goop and glaze across time like a fresh and heavy sap suffocating a tree.
I felt myself begin to heave and sob as I witnessed the men drift apart, spitting and kicking at their fallen victim. In what felt like centuries, I watched them trail into the distance, returning to the building, their cheerful hooting and hollering signifying their victory.
As soon as the men were completely out of sight, I shoved open the weighted truck door and slid from the cabin.
With my vision compromised by the watery haze of my tears, I fell to the ground and crawled forward until I made out the crumpled formation of Gauge.
Wiping my eyes, I lost my breath as I took in the sight before me.
There, balled in a fetal position, was Gauge, his face completely plastered in blood, his skin already swollen, leaving only two nearly indistinguishable slits to signify where his eyes used to be.
My horrified tears returned as I threw myself on top of his freshly-beaten body.
“Gauge!” I shouted, pressing my face against his, the warm coating of his blood stamping onto my flesh as though I had leaned against a giant red inkpad.
I heard him mumble, his voice distant and muffled.
“Gauge, I’m here,” I cried, “I’m right here!”
I looked up to see the restaurant patrons filing out into the parking lot, their faces either frozen in shock and horror or emblazoned with peering and satisfied smirks.
I lowered my shoulder below his arm, supporting his heavy head as I pulled to lift him from the ground.
In a swift and mighty movement, I was able to lift both Gauge, who is taller and heavier than me, and myself into a standing position. I gave one last tearstained glare at our audience before turning us toward the truck.