“I wanted to tell you that you are very beautiful,” his admirer admits, his eyes falling on KC’s chest rather than his face.
“Thank you,” KC says, feeling stupid and vain for acknowledging the compliment.
“Would you like to come upstairs with me?” the man asks.
“No. No thanks,” he says nervously. Kevin Conroy will never take money to have sex with men again. He’ll let them stuff dollar bills in his jock, but nothing more.
He’s rude to the next man who approaches him, helping himself to another beer and putting on his shirt despite the expectation that he keep the goods on display until he leaves. A pair of unattractive bald men with sloppy guts are kissing and groping each other on the sofa, attracting an audience who are stroking the bulges in their pants. KC’s rejected admirer is on his knees, working on a silver daddy who’s removed his shirt and is tweaking his own nipples.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here before they push aside the furniture and start fucking on the Oriental carpets,” Cole says, sneaking up behind him, giggling as they make their escape unnoticed.
Cole’s in high spirits as they speed across town, ignoring stop signs and barely touching the brakes at traffic lights. It’s been a more profitable night than expected. Between his fee and tips and a generous donation of an additional two hundred dollars to ram a ten-inch dildo up the Professor’s ass, he’s eight hundred dollars richer than he was at the beginning of the evening. He’s curious about how much KC was able to earn. Cole assures him his four-hundred-sixty-dollar haul counting tips is a good showing for a novice.
“But with that fucking body you should be making more. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.”
Cole cranks up the volume of the car radio. They’re playing his favorite, Brad Paisley, on the Country Hot 100.
“You know what?” he says, stricken by inspiration. “We’re gonna get you a white cowboy hat like Brad wears. That’s a good look for you. I even got a name for you. Brock Paisley. Like maybe you’re his hot gay brother or cousin.”
“I don’t think I want to do that again,” KC says, refusing to commit.
“Of course you do, dude. Just think of all the fucking money you’ll be making.”
Further discussion is put on hold. Cole’s got an incoming call he has to take.
“Hey, man. How’s it coming? When can I see it? Excellent! I’m gonna pick up a bottle of Jack and come on over. See you in about twenty minutes.”
Cole is too anxious to wait until he returns from California to see what Omar, his trusted tattoo artist, has designed for his lower back.
“I’ll ask him to do something for you too. My gift to you for looking after Ba and Ong while I’m gone.”
The idea of allowing someone to scar his skin with ink and needles frightens KC. Not the pain, though he’s always been squeamish about shots. It’s something more compelling that bothers him. It’s a sin, forbidden, if he remembers his Leviticus correctly. Do not cut your body for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the LORD. Just like Leviticus forbids him from lying with another man.
The studio is brightly lit, modern, a respectable place of business in an ordinary shopping center, nestled between a craft supply shop and a vitamin store. It’s as sterile and antiseptic as a doctor’s office, hardly the dingy, filthy back room he’d imagined. He expected Omar to be a squinting Popeye, an outlaw biker, with shaky hands, not the well-spoken, clean-shaven, and modestly dressed man who could pass for a schoolteacher if not for the erotic and colorful tableaux of mythical creatures—naked sea nymphs and sirens—inked into the skin of his arms. He and Cole greet each other with an elaborate ritual of palm slapping and arm grappling, culminating in an affectionate embrace.
“This is my buddy Kevin,” Cole says, introducing KC.
KC feels more naked than when he was wearing nothing but a jock strap. But Omar’s intense gaze isn’t sexual. He looks at KC and sees an unblemished canvas, a bare wall crying out for a mural.
“Okay, my man. Don’t keep me waiting any longer,” Cole pleads. “The suspense is killing me.”
Cole is awestruck by the intricate stencils presented for his approval. Two crouching dragons, mirror images standing face-to-face, encrusted with bejeweled scales, breathing fire, will make a noble pedestal for the Pyramid Eye.
“It’s fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “You are a fucking genius. I wish I didn’t have to go to California so we could get started tonight.”
He cracks open the seal on the bottle of Jack and proposes a toast. He and KC knock back three shots in a row while Omar barely sips from the rim of his glass.
“I want you to design something real special for my buddy Kevin. He’s a fucking virgin and he’s gonna get his cherry busted by the master.”
The whiskey and the late hour weaken KC’s resolve. After all, Josh Hamilton’s a Christian who’s famously and proudly inked. He’s a walking billboard for his faith. Jesus would never disapprove of that.
Omar has dozens of sample books. He recommends that KC study them closely, take his time, and not make any rash and impulsive decisions.
“Think about it, use these ideas for inspiration. While Cole’s in California, reflect on what is most important in your life and how you want to express those ideas on your body,” Omar advises.
KC insists that Omar provide him with a consent form. He knows exactly what he wants and where he wants it. Nothing can deter him. If Omar won’t do it, he’ll go to one of those sleazy tattoo parlors on Highway 99 where the only question they’ll ask is if he has the cash.
Omar capitulates, encouraged by Cole. It’s a simple enough task and KC’s chosen to have it stenciled at the base of his neck, easily hidden by a shirt collar if he regrets it in the morning. KC snorts another shot of Jack, bracing himself for the pain. He removes his shirt and offers his back. For some strange reason he feels like crying as the needles pierce his skin. It’s an act of courage, irrevocable, irreversible. He’s branding himself an outlaw, a pariah to some, hopefully an inspiration to others.
“All done my friend,” the artist announces.
Cole takes a picture with his cell phone for KC’s final approval before Omar covers the wound with a bandage. It’s perfect. A short and simple statement rendered in beautiful calligraphy, a solemn declaration: 1 Samuel 18:1
Omar says he’ll have a real shot of Jack now and Cole pours another round to celebrate the milestone. KC, without any forethought and only a fleeting moment of regret afterwards, reaches for Cole’s phone and texts the photograph to a number with a Sacramento, California area code.
The worst thing about Cole being gone is there’s no one but KC to bathe and dress Ba. He’d pleaded with Cole’s sister to relieve him of the job, but she’d laughed, promising him the old lady’s cunt lips don’t have teeth and can’t bite. At first, he tried averting his eyes from her shriveled titties and was too squeamish to wash her pussy and her ass. But familiarity and necessity are a sure cure for modesty and he barely blushes now whenever a small turd floats up in her bath water. Ong expects his breakfast and his dinner on time and at least one game of checkers or a hand of cards with his nightly glass of Four Roses at bedtime. KC drops him off each morning at the community center to spend the day throwing dice and smoking cigarettes with other survivors of the black days of the war. He picks up a few extra bucks bar backing for Nancy when Cole’s sister isn’t working. Usually he’s in bed by ten, his Bible open beside him, falling asleep while the Mariners lose yet again on the nightly broadcast.
He still has the deep tan of long days in the bright sun, but now he spends far too many afternoons indoors, tending to Ba and watching cable reruns and DVDs during her frequent naps. Nancy warns him to take advantage of the heat and the bright skies. The coming months will be wet and dreary. So, one afternoon, he buckles Ba into Cole’s Explorer and tosses her folded wheelchair in the back. He drives out into the country, stopping in a small farm town when they come upon a s
andlot. He straps Ba into her chair and they find a cool spot under a tree, close to the batting cage. The local boys are engaged in fierce competition, playing a pickup game as intensely as if it were the bottom of the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series with the score tied at two all. One of the bolder kids approaches him to settle an argument and he offers to call balls and strikes behind the plate.
The rival teams are only interested in tussling in the dirt and claiming victory for the day. But a few of the boys linger after the game, taking him up on his offer to teach them a few fundamentals. He shows them how to shift their weight to their back legs before swinging for the fences and demonstrates the proper grip for throwing the ball, “thumb to thigh, fingers to the sky.” No one has ever taught them that touching the inside corner of the bag is the shortest route around the bases. He picks up a bat, launches a few bombs deep into the outfield and critiques their fielding, patiently explaining how to get in front of the ball while on the run. He could stay for hours but Ba is getting restless, struggling with the restraints on her wheelchair. The kids plead with him to return tomorrow. Not tomorrow, but maybe he’ll come back later in the week. No promises, but he’ll try his best.
Driving home, he realizes he misses being a ball player and the game that had been his entire life. He’s never told anyone in Eugene he was once a promising prospect, not even Cole, who thinks the money in the Florida account was left him by his Pop-Pop. He doesn’t want to answer any questions, doesn’t want to have to explain his fall from grace. What’s done is done and he can’t go back and change the past. It’s best to keep looking forward, as hopeless as the future may seem. He’s seen the ads for trade schools, promising him high-paying jobs as an auto mechanic or an electrician. But the work that really interests him is becoming a medical assistant and then maybe one day going to nursing school. He doesn’t care anymore that stupid people will assume he’s queer for doing a woman’s job. He’d like taking care of sick people more than trying to repair an engine. He prays every night for God to show him what to do with his life, the right path to take. But when he falls asleep, he dreams he’s the Mighty KC again, tying the laces of a pair of cleats and sprinting onto the field.
He’s tired tonight, but has to deal with Ba’s unexpected attack of incontinence. She’s agitated, making it difficult to undress and bathe her. He’s upset when he discovers a rash on her bum. Cole will be back in two days and he’ll think KC’s neglected her. He dusts her with baby powder and sings to her. “Hello, Mary Lou” always cheers her up. He finally gets her into bed, then pours Ong his tumbler of Four Roses. He’s throwing Ba’s soiled sweat pants in the washer when the front door bell rings. It’s probably someone looking for Cole’s sister. Last night a police officer showed up, pressing his card into KC’s hand and asking him to tell her to get in touch when she comes home. He decides to ignore the bell, wait for whoever it is to go away, but the visitor is persistent and has a heavy thumb. He’s just gotten Ba settled and the racket is sure to wake her up.
The sun is setting, casting long shadows on the porch, and the visitor’s face is partially obscured by the screen door. But KC’s startled by his resemblance to a man he assumed he would never see again. It’s impossible. It has to be someone else. There’s no way Coach Freeman could have found him.
“Can I come in, KC?”
He looks much older than he had only a few months ago when he dropped KC at the airport for his flight to Spokane. He’s lost weight. It shows in his face; his skin seems to sag from his cheeks. His eyes are puffy and ringed with dark circles.
“Praise the Lord!” the Coach says as he gathers KC in his arms. He’s not ashamed of sobbing and clings to KC as if KC is something precious he’d lost and despaired of ever finding again. KC’s too stunned to speak at first, overwhelmed by the unexpected reunion.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” KC repeats over and over again after finding his voice, trying to console his old friend, apologizing for each of the many transgressions he’s committed. For running away. For not returning the Coach’s calls. For lying. For not being the man the Coach believed him to be.
Ong is standing in the hall, holding his tumbler of whiskey in his hand, jabbering in Vietnamese. The words are incomprehensible, but the tone and volume of his voice make it clear this stranger isn’t welcome in his house.
“Hello, I’m John Freeman,” the Coach says, composing himself and extending a hand which he awkwardly pulls back he realizes he’s reaching for a shortened stump.
“He doesn’t know English, Coach. Just smile at him and he’ll understand you’re my friend.”
KC remembers his manners and invites the Coach into the kitchen. He fears the Coach will assume the worst, that he’s taken up a life of drugs and drinking, when he sees the open bottle of Four Roses on the table.
“How about pouring me a shot of that, KC,” the Coach says. He swallows the whiskey and sighs heavily, closing his eyes and taking a moment to steady himself.
“I forgot how much it burns. It’s the Lord’s way of reminding us of Corinthians,” he says, smiling. “Can we talk somewhere, KC? In private?”
Ong has lost interest in their unexpected visitor anyway so KC sits him in front of the living room television and turns on the Cartoon Network. Animated hijinks and pratfalls need no translation. Coach Freeman insists they pray together when KC joins him at the kitchen table. He takes KC by the hands and asks him to close his eyes. He thanks the Lord for answering his prayers, for reuniting him with KC, for watching over KC while he was lost, and for keeping him safe until he was found.
“Well, it’s not as bad as I thought it could be,” the Coach says after Amen. He touches KC’s chin and inspects the damage to KC’s face. It’s obvious his nose has had an unfortunate encounter with a blunt object.
“I can see the bones have started to heal. They’re going to have to break it again to set it straight. We can deal with it in the offseason. I heard you were bitten on the face, too.”
“It’s okay now. I got a tetanus shot and took an antibiotic.”
“KC, you need to be honest with me,” the Coach says.
KC’s prepared to tell the truth, knowing the consequences of admitting he will never be the person the Freemans want him to be, that he can’t marry Callie and be a good father to her child, that he hadn’t just wandered into Club Odyssey by chance, that he’d been there before, many times. That he is gay.
“Will you pass a drug test?”
KC squirms in his seat. He only toked once, that night he met Cole, but grass lingers in the bloodstream. And he’s inhaled plenty of Cole’s second hand smoke that could show up on a screen.
“We’ll have one done as soon as we get home. A test run. Jerry can stall the Rangers a while longer. They’re sending you to Hickory as soon as you’re released from rehab. The Lord is looking out for you, KC. You’re getting another chance.”
“But I don’t need to go to rehab! I only did it once since I left Spokane. Just a couple hits off a bong. I swear to you, Coach! I swear on Jesus’s name!”
“I believe you, KC. But Jerry needed a reason to explain why you’re AWOL. He’s told the assistant G.M. there was an intervention that night in Spokane and that you’re in an inpatient rehab program. You’re clean now and committed to your recovery. I’ll be traveling with you as your life coach. The college season’s over and I’m taking a leave.”
KC’s confused by the Coach’s willingness to participate in the deception. He’d come clean in his letter so that the Coach would never have to lie on his behalf. The Commandments forbid you to bear false witness against your neighbor. But maybe it’s not a sin to lie to help someone. Coach Freeman would know better than him.
“You’re a lucky boy, KC. Jerry represents the Ranger’s ace and they’re desperate to sign him when he hits free agency at the end of the season. Management wants to keep Jerry happy and is willing to believe his version of the story about your leaving th
e Chiefs rather than vicious rumors started by Bill Keller. There was no police report filed. It’s Jerry’s word against that vindictive man.”
There’s no need to acknowledge the obvious. They both know KC would never be welcome in any clubhouse if the truth about his expulsion from the Chiefs were known. It’s an unfair world where it’s better to be an addict than a homo.
“Do you want me to lie, Coach?” he asks, needing confirmation of what he’s being asked to do.
“The Lord wants you to play ball, KC. That’s why he blessed you with your gifts. Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and He will establish your plans. You remember your Proverbs, don’t you?”
“No,” he admits, an honest answer. “Why are you doing this for me? I didn’t think you would ever speak to me again.”
The Coach pours himself another shot of whiskey and tosses it back in a single belt.
“Take this bottle away, KC. I still have to drive back to the motel tonight. We’re flying back to Sacramento day after tomorrow. I know you promised your friend you’d look after his grandparents while he was gone. I told him I wouldn’t take you home until he was back.”
The Coach says he thinks Cole is a very impressive young man. His faith must be truly strong to enable him to care for his aging family members while pursuing his commitment to his missionary work.
“I thank the Lord you met a good Christian fellow to help you through this crisis. He’s very protective of you. I called the morning I got the photograph. I didn’t need to see your face to know it was you. At first, he denied knowing anything about it. I had to work hard to earn his trust. It took him a week before he admitted he knew someone named Kevin and several more days before he would say his friend’s last name is Conroy. He only agreed to tell me where to find you two days ago. He promised he wouldn’t tell you I was coming and give you an opportunity to run away.”
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