The deal Geoffrey has been working on for the past three months (years actually, but only these past few months have led his hopes and dreams in the right direction) has finally come to pass. Although his father was hurt when Geoffrey told him of the plans to sell Hunter Enterprises to Hadrian National, the need was too great. Since Hunter Enterprises runs the detritus fisheries, much of the financial burden of coping with waste disposal falls on his company’s shoulders. For years, his grandfather and father had fought with the government for subsidies to help cover the devastating cost of effective, earth-friendly disposal of all wastes retrieved from Hudson Bay. Seeing as Hunter Enterprises received the benefits of profit from the usable wastes they fished out of the bay, the government insisted the company also carry the financial burden of disposing of all non-usable materials. Anything retrieved from Hudson Bay that is harmful to the planet must be disposed of in such a way that it no longer poses any threat to the earth or Hadrian’s citizens. The respect gleaned from being the corporation responsible for eliminating much of the pollution from Hadrian’s main water source, as well as providing the country with nearly one fourth of all its usable resources, pales at times next to the astronomical cost of providing safe, clean disposal of many of the toxic wastes left behind by humanity’s forefathers. Geoffrey’s grandfather and father compensated for this financial loss by offering their employees little support—no medical benefits, no retirement savings packages, and, of course, being such a dirty job, it was also low paying. Geoffrey, however, has a stronger moral streak than his elders. Rightfully, Geoffrey credits Dean for helping him acquire a more philanthropic perspective.
When Geoffrey’s father retired and Geoffrey took over the company, he decided to listen to his workers’ needs. The end result was an added financial burden on Hunter Enterprises, cutting great swaths out of company profit. Try as they might, the board members could not persuade Geoffrey to change his mind because he saw reason and right behind providing for his detritus fishermen. These men and women handle much of the toxic wastes found in the Bay, and they have done so for far too many years without health benefits. Geoffrey made this decision within weeks of discovering that the majority of his employees, over two-thirds, in fact, were from the reeducated class, those members of Hadrian’s society who had been found out as heterosexual before the age of twenty-two (the age one pledges an oath to Hadrian’s four cornerstones). These citizens were placed in government run reeducation facilities that guided them back toward Hadrian’s chosen lifestyle. The taint of having being registered as straight remains a blight on their lives, as very few opportunities are open to these men and women. As a result, many take jobs as detritus fishermen since few others want such arduous, dirty, and mentally draining jobs and few other employers will hire them. All job applications must be accompanied with full disclosure as to one’s education and military service. As no heterosexual is allowed in the military and re-education camps are considered educational institutions, such “full disclosure” would immediately reveal anyone who was once deemed heterosexual. When Dean had learned this fact, he extracted a promise from Geoffrey that he would treat his employees fairly.
Knowing how important it was to Dean, Geoffrey labored endlessly to convince the board to improve working conditions for the detritus fishermen and offer them a benefits package. Very few board members had supported Geoffrey’s bid for his employees. That the reeducated are desperate for employment makes them an easy target for exploitation. Geoffrey had argued that their role was too important to ignore as, he rightly pointed out, “Outside of the military, no other man or woman in Hadrian puts his or her life on the line daily the way detritus fishermen do.” Although the vote was close, he did secure a slight raise and a basic medical plan for the detritus fishermen. Unfortunately, the cost of doing so was breaking the back of Hunter Enterprises. The board members were upset, stockholders were calling for changes, and Geoffrey had been forced to determine what those changes needed to be.
Today’s success brings forth those changes: secured financial resources for the stock investors, the value of their shares doubling with the takeover, and all cost of waste disposal now being handled by the government. Selling Hunter Enterprises to Hadrian National, making it a subsidiary to the government giant, is the finest move Geoffrey has made so far for his business. Granted, Geoffrey is no longer majority owner, but he does retain his post as company head as part of the deal. He is now on a salary that doubles what his wages were when he owned and ran Hunter Enterprises. As well as further improving the detritus fishermen’s wages and working conditions, which he knows will make Dean happy, Geoffrey has not only secured but substantially improved his family’s lifestyle as well as his children’s future. To be rid of the worries and financial burden of waste disposal has made his mind and heart light. Now that Hunter Enterprises is a subsidiary of Hadrian National, Hadrian taxes will be used to pay for all waste disposal and renewal. Hadrian citizens pay the highest taxes in the world, most of which are reserved for cleansing and maintaining Hadrian’s little portion of the planet. In fact, the majority of Hadrian’s taxes are split three ways: funding the military; funding education (of which reeducation is a subsidiary); and continuous research into effective earth-friendly waste disposal. Tax rebates are offered for those who show extra care with earth-friendly practices, but these pale next to the expense of cleaning up Hudson Bay, the world’s second largest inland body of water: a veritable ocean-sized slough filled with waste discarded over centuries by billions and billions of humans.
Today’s victory is one Geoffrey longs to share with Dean. When he prances into the front room, he calls out merrily, “Dean, Dean, come out here. I’ve got something I want to tell you.”
“I’m in the kitchen, preparing supper.”
Dean’s petulant response should trigger a warning in Geoffrey’s mind, but it does not. Being far too engrossed in his own joy, Geoffrey does not notice the sullen tone in Dean’s voice. “Put that away,” Geoffrey chants. “We’re going out for supper.” When no sound comes in response, Geoffrey calls out, “Come in here, Dean; this is important.” Dean slowly walks from the kitchen into the front room, shamming a smile. Joy, success, and pride have a way of blinding a man. Geoffrey does not see the obvious signs of depression in Dean’s eyes.
As soon as Geoffrey sees his lover, he rushes to him and lifts him up in his arms. Being shorter than Dean by a good three inches, Geoffrey has to lean back in order to lift Dean off the ground. Dean also has to cooperate by bending at the knees and lifting his feet. After swinging Dean around, Geoffrey lowers him and reaches up for a kiss. Dean complies, but with little fervor. Geoffrey has enough fervor inside to compensate, enough to keep him from noticing Dean’s lack of participation. “Your daddy’s done it, baby!” he says between bouts of kisses. “I sealed the deal today!”
“What deal?” Dean asks, now leaning against the wall. Geoffrey’s swinging and plunging into him have driven his body up against the hideous black velvet wallpaper.
Geoffrey has to kiss Dean again before answering, “Hadrian National now owns Hunter Enterprises!”
Dean tries to smile. “That’s…great.” Geoffrey kisses him again and then turns Dean to face the wall. Dean’s face is now squishing up against black velvet. He knows Geoffrey can’t tell. Dean’s depression is rooted so deep inside that, like a dandelion that’s been dug out, it continues to resurface, sprout its yellow head, and just as quickly, wither white.
“Um…” Geoffrey mutters as he kisses the back of Dean’s neck. His hands are running up the front of Dean’s shirt, catching the buttons and flipping them open adeptly. His nails scratch down the front of Dean’s chest, gripping and pulling at his chest hairs. Making his move for Dean’s belt buckle, he steps back slightly so Dean can give him room to undo it. Dean obliges. He knows what Geoffrey wants. Soon enough, Dean’s pants and briefs are a bundle of cloth around his ankles and Geoffrey has the front of his pants open. Not able to accomp
lish much standing tip-toe, Geoffrey makes a request of Dean, “Bend your knees for me, babe.” Dean obliges but snaps when Geoffrey thanks him with, “That’s my boy.”
“I am not a fucking child! I know what to do. You don’t have to instruct me like an idiot, you know!”
The resurgence of Dean’s spring depression hits Geoffrey like a wrecking ball. He releases his grip on Dean’s penis and steps back, flabbergasted by this sudden attack. “Whoa, where did that come from?”
“You!” Dean is still facing the wall, hands positioned, his body waiting, only his mind reacting. “You treat me like a little baby. ‘Come to Papa.’ ‘Who’s your daddy?’ ‘Bend your knees.’ ‘Good boy!’ You’d think I was a fucking dog!” Turning now to face Geoffrey, eyes wet and red with anger, he shouts, “I’m a man, damn you! Not a fucking dog and not a child! For the love of Hadrian, treat me like an adult!”
“That…is…not…fair!” So stunned by the blow of Dean’s curse, each word Geoffrey utters stands alone. Backing away to the opposite wall, Geoffrey holds his hands up in a defensive position. Shaking his head, he says, “I don’t deserve this!” Taking a moment to inspect his lover, he sees that Dean, now facing him, still has his pants and briefs tangled at his feet. His limp penis exposes itself as an affront to Geoffrey. “For Hadrian’s sake, pull up your pants,” he sneers. “You look ridiculous.”
It is cruel, malicious, yes, even evil to say such a thing to Dean at a moment like this. When trapped inside his anxieties, Dean truly is as vulnerable as a child. Insecure and riddled with depression, desperate to dig himself out of his hole in the sand, every attempt to claw at the edges sinking him deeper, Dean collapses to the floor. First his back thumps against the wall, as if Geoffrey’s voice had been a fist slamming into his chest. Tears spring forth anew and his body slowly drips down, his shirt pulling up and away from his torso as he lowers himself, making him even more exposed. Geoffrey, knowing he has done wrong, fears the extent of the damage he has just caused. Rushing to his lover’s side, he sweeps Dean up into his arms and apologizes. Geoffrey, too, breaks down as he blubbers his regrets.
“No,” Dean whimpers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Geoffrey has to put a hand to Dean’s mouth to stop this skip recording. When Dean gets completely overwhelmed like this, he simply can’t stop saying, “I’m sorry.”
Gently holding Dean’s mouth closed, Geoffrey tries again. “I didn’t mean that, babe. Please forgive me.”
Shaking his head free, Dean wails, “It’s my fault! I hate myself! I hate my life. I just—I just—sometimes, I just want to die.”
Fear tugs at Geoffrey’s heart. “Please don’t talk like that.” He hasn’t heard Dean utter these words in years. What’s gone wrong? What’s happened?
Dean continues his self-recriminating rant. “Why do you love me? Why do you stay with me? I’m nothing! I’m pathetic!”
“No, babe. No,” Geoffrey tries to reassure him. “That’s not true.” He rocks him now as he caresses his hair. “You’re a good man, Dean. We have a good life.” Gently cradling Dean’s head in his hands, Geoffrey turns Dean’s face upwards to look at him, now pleading with him. “You know that, don’t you?”
Dean’s voice becomes soft. “You have a good life. The boys have a good life. I have nothing—I’m useless—I’m fucking useless. I hate myself.” Frustration builds to a fever as Dean begins pounding his fist on his thigh.
Following Dean’s fist with his eyes, Geoffrey now notices the bruising. Not again! “Dean, stop!” He demands as he grabs Dean’s fist and fights for control. “You promised me you would never do this again.”
“I hate myself! I hate what I’ve become! I had wanted so much—when I think of what I might have done…”
Geoffrey tries desperately to reassure Dean, knowing his words fall on deaf ears. “No, Dean. You’re an amazing man, a great cook, a fabulous dad, and the clothes you sew, the garden you keep—” Then it hits him—the garden—Dean hasn’t been able to work in his garden. “All this rain—that’s what brought this out, isn’t it, sweetie?” Shaking his head, self-recriminatingly, he adds, “I should have known. I’ve just been so busy with this deal.”
“That’s the thing,” Dean says. “You’ve got your deals. You’ve got your business. You’ve got your life. But what have I got? Nothing! I’ve been reduced to—to—this!” With that final cry, Dean regains control of his fist and begins slamming it into his thigh again. Both thighs, Geoffrey notices, are black and blue—mostly yellow and purple, actually.
Enraged, Geoffrey wrestles Dean onto his back, pinning his arms down with his knees. Bellowing so that spit showers Dean’s face, he demands, “Stop it!” For a moment, he just kneels there, dominating Dean, growling down at him, pressing his knees into Dean’s arms to keep him from harming himself further. Trying to control his anger, knowing rage only exasperates Dean’s condition, Geoffrey works to slow his breathing before speaking. “You swore you would never hit yourself again.”
“I tried not to—but—I just—I hate myself so much—I couldn’t stop myself.”
Closing his eyes, thinking briefly, Geoffrey asks, “When was the last time you saw Edgar?” He had been so busy he had stopped attending sessions with Dean.
“Last fall.”
Nodding, Geoffrey continues, “And why did you stop going?”
“He said I had improved so much he didn’t see the need to keep up with our sessions.”
“Right.” Opening his eyes, looking into Dean’s, Geoffrey asks, “And why didn’t you tell me this?”
“Things were going good.”
“What about the Seroxat?”
Dean evades the questions. “My arms hurt, Geoffrey. You’re cutting off my circulation.”
“If I let you go, will you promise not to hit yourself?”
Dean shudders a few breaths before replying, “I’ll try.”
Geoffrey tightens his grip, “Try isn’t good enough.”
“I…” Dean trembles, “promise.”
Releasing his knees, Geoffrey slips off Dean to sit on the floor beside him. “The Seroxat, Dean—when did you come off the Seroxat?”
“Edgar started tapering me off in the fall. I took my last dose in February.”
Geoffrey looks dejected. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Ire forming once more, he demands, “Why didn’t Edgar tell me?”
Still lying on the floor, Dean covers his face with his hands. “I told him I would.”
Geoffrey snorts. “And he believed you?”
“I was doing so good.”
“Well, Dean! You were doing well! And, you were doing well because you were on the Seroxat!” Dear Hadrian, why, he chastises himself, did I correct his grammar? Closing his eyes, Geoffrey pauses for a moment to regulate his breath, attempting to calm himself. Sadness is so overwhelming and fear for the mental and physical health of a lover can cause one to consider acting outside of reason. At this moment, all Geoffrey wants to do is hunt down Edgar and pummel him into dirt. In anticipation, quite involuntarily, his hands form fists. Geoffrey has to force himself to relax them, and almost against his will, shake these thoughts away. Looking back at Dean, Geoffrey notices that his pants and briefs are still tangled around his ankles, his shirt still strewn open, exposing his chest. Geoffrey reaches for the waistband of Dean’s briefs. “Let me help you, sweetie,” he says soothingly. After helping Dean pull his briefs and pants back into place, Geoffrey watches as Dean buttons them shut. “You left your shirt open,” he says. Dean stares at the wall, oblivious. Pondering the situation, Geoffrey wonders whether Dean has any benzies left. “Do you still have some Zolam?” When Dean only whimpers, Geoffrey becomes insistent. “Where is it?”
“It’s probably expired.”
“Where is it?”
Dean succumbs to the inevitable. “My top dresser drawer—under the socks—back right corner.”
“I am going to get it now and you are going to take some.” Considering
Dean’s current state of mind, Geoffrey adds, “Your full dose.”
“Please,” Dean begs. “I want to do this without drugs.”
Geoffrey shakes his head. “It didn’t work for you, did it, Dean?” Adamant now, he says, “No. You need Zolam right now. You know you do.” As he gets up and walks down the hall to their room, Geoffrey blinks and mutters, “Edgar Fraser.” Dean cries softly. Geoffrey’s voice fades out as he enters the bedroom, but he will make an appointment with Edgar that evening at seven o’clock. There will be several evening appointments to come since Geoffrey will insist on attending them. From their room, Geoffrey calls out, “The boys will be home soon, Dean. You better come into the bedroom.”
Accepting his circumstances, Dean rises slowly to join Geoffrey. “After the Zolam kicks in,” he says softly, “we can have sex like you wanted.” Geoffrey doesn’t hear this since Dean is only muttering to himself.
* * * * *
Salve!
The Eighth Anniversary of 6-13
HNN—Melissa Eagleton Reporting
For seven years now, I have been asked to revisit the pain that was inflicted upon our people that fateful June day in 21___. That June 13th was, ironically enough, a Friday. In the early hours of that ill-fated morning, the fanatical Christian, one Jeremiah F. Butler, believed to hail from Tex (formerly the state of Texas within the United States), drove into our border city of Augustus. At 5:57 that morning, with the summer sun already hanging high above the horizon, he was asked to please step out of his vehicle. Border Patrol Officer Acilia Zangani, who died the instant the bomb exploded, having voc’d in prior to the explosion, was quoted as saying, “Although there is no reason to mistrust this man, something about him feels dangerous.” The Border Patrol Office in Antinous, which later said Officer Zangani’s instincts were always 100 percent accurate, approved her request to retain him for questioning. When instructed to leave his vehicle, the man must have panicked because, at that instant, the dirty nuclear bomb hidden in his trunk exploded. Five hundred and eighty-eight thousand of Augustus’ citizens died that day. Their deaths were followed by another forty-four thousand: those who were at the city’s northern edge or working peacefully on the surrounding soya farms. Those closest to the bomb’s explosion, but far enough away not to die under its initial impact, suffered slowly from radiation burns, sickness, and the onset of various forms of cancer. Many working out on the farms would not know how their lives would be dramatically changed due to contracting cancers anywhere from six months to even as late as, yes, even today: cancers we know to have been induced by the deadly radiation. As a result of 6-13, Hadrian lost one of its greatest innovators in bioengineering, Will Middleton, the man responsible for genetically altering the soya bean to grow in our northern climate.
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