LP’s
A Short Story
Jon Rutherford
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Jon Rutherford
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LP’s
A Short Story
The kid behind the counter stretched. His T rose revealing his belly button, and, owing to his low jeans waist, a graceful plunge sculpted by the hipbones on either side. Not only that, but a lovely treasure trail, mostly tawny fuzz, that fairly shouted, “Come and get it.”
Gerald wondered how obvious his stare was. He suddenly felt like being silly and taking big risks. He tried to kill the feeling but it kept bouncing back to life.
“Sorry,” said the kid, half-laughing. “Up really late last night.”
“Having fun, I bet,” said Gerald, wishing he could sink through the floor of the used-record shop as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
“Oh, I wish,” said the boy, surprisingly loquacious and seemingly oblivious to the pulsing rays of desire Gerald was sure were shooting from his eyes. “Studying calculus isn’t fun. Not for me anyway. But the test was this morning, and...” he trailed off. His face kind of fell.
“I guess maybe you didn’t do so great,” said Gerald.
“Man, I tried, I really did, it’s not like I’ve been out partying every night, well some nights, yeah, but not every night. And I did try to get it down last night. I thought coffee would help but all it did was keep me from sleeping.”
“And the test?”
“I’m sure I flunked it. I’ll know day after tomorrow.” Then as an afterthought, to himself, “Bummer.”
He finally slid the LP’s towards himself and picked them up, one by one, noting their prices, which were all the same. Considering the condition the records seemed to be in, it was a bargain.
Silently the kid entered the price in the computer and then x6. The tax was automatically added on and he announced the price. “That’ll be $24.95 altogether,” he said. He looked up with a smile that made Gerald wish he were dead so he wouldn’t have to contend with so much beauty. “This is an interesting selection. I guess you’re into 17th-century music?”
“Oh, yes,” said Gerald, trying to keep his voice steady. He was now having to cope with an annoying and insistent physical phenomenon common to virtually all men past puberty.
“I was going to be a music major,” said the chatty lad. A lock of auburn hair fell down over one eye; he brushed it back. His complexion was fair and marred only by one or two blemishes, which should disappear with age. He couldn’t be more than nineteen. Gerald noticed his fingers were slender and moved gracefully, a musician’s fingers. His shoulders were bony.
“What happened?” said Gerald, since the boy seemed not only willing but almost eager to talk. Maybe he was the first customer today—it was eleven am, though, could that be?
“Oh, a couple of things with my hearing. I—well, one of the things was I lost most of the hearing in my left ear in an accident.”
“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” exclaimed Gerald, in sincere distress. It must have been hard to accept such a thing, at the boy’s age.
“Thanks. Just one of those things, I guess. A swimming mishap. I haven’t been in a pool since.” Another little pause. “I had some adjusting to do, that’s for sure.”
Gerald knew he should not ask for details. Or should he? Maybe the kid was expecting him to, after he’d shown he was sorry about the accident and hearing loss. On the other hand, he didn’t want to push his luck by becoming a nuisance.
The kid stretched again. It was enough to push Gerald almost over the edge of sanity. This stretch was even longer and taller, and the waistband of the boy’s boxers appeared, and you could even read “Hanes” woven into it. The treasure trail seemed to glow under the doleful, flickering fluorescent light.
“Do you get a lunch hour?” said Gerald, and couldn’t believe the words even as he heard them come out. He suddenly got that echo-y effect you get sometimes in a moment of sudden stress, for example in front of a firing squad or stepping off the edge of a skyscraper.
“I get an hour at noon,” said the boy, stifling another yawn, hand in front of mouth, but not stretching this time.
It would seem really odd not to follow up on the question, decided Gerald, thinking as quickly and accurately as he could under the increasingly awkward conditions. His heart was thumping away. His cock was being better behaved, though, shrinking now as though trying to hide.
“Well, uh... I haven’t had lunch. Would you like to join me? On me, maybe over at...”
He quickly tried to think of eating places in the neighborhood, not his own, and which he was not all that familiar with, though he’d visited the little store a few times in the past couple of years.
“Er...what’s that place over on, you know...” Making a wide, vague gesture towards all the four winds.
“Melville’s?” said the boy. “Yeah, I like their burgers. But you don’t have to do that.”
“Come on,” said Gerald, “I want to. It’ll take your mind off that test. The walk might wake you up, too.”
Again he felt he’d said the wrong thing. This was getting really bad, though it would have been a lot worse if the boy had socked him with the baseball bat they probably kept behind the counter, or something. Instead, he seemed unfazed by the pretty obvious come-on. Gerald had time to wonder if the boy had been through this before. He sure was attractive enough to have been.
“Well, OK, then,” said the boy. “That’s really nice of you. I’d like to get out of here for an hour. What I brought for lunch can wait in the refrigerator back there.” Nodding over his shoulder at a back room only the door of which was visible. The lock of hair fell over his eye again. He left it there.
“Shall I meet you here in an hour, then, uh...” squinting to read the kid’s name tag, “Tony?”
“Sure. Thanks.” The smile made Gerald’s cock, timid though it might be now, do what felt like a couple of backwards somersaults. God. When was the last time something like this had happened to him? And what kind of disaster had it, no doubt, precipitated? He didn’t even want to try remembering.
He turned towards the street door with a little wave that he instantly criticized himself for; surely the kid would have thought it faggy and he’d either decide to turn Gerald down when he returned to the shop, or else be waiting for him with that baseball bat and two big mean friends. But he was committed now. And damn if he was going to back out.
Besides, he didn’t know how he could.
Then, “Uh...sir...”
Oh, no, thought Gerald. What now.
He turned again. “Yes?”
“You didn’t pay for the records. But it’s my fault.”
Gerald glanced down at the brown paper sack with the six LP’s tucked under one arm. Conversation had distracted them both and Tony had handed him his purchase without payment.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with a kind of feeble smile. “I guess maybe I was up too late, too.”
The hour between 11:03 a.m. and noon was the longest Gerald could remember. A thousand awful possibilities paraded through his mind, till he was almost beside himself with worry. He didn’t see how anything but misfortune could come from this. Why on earth had he let his genitals get the better of his cerebrum—again? Not that anything quite like this had ever happened to him before. And it had been—let’s see, three years since he’d even made a tentative pass at anybody. And that had been in a bar, where such things were expected, and the norm. (And it had come to nothing.)
What would he do with this boy if he did get him interested in, say, listening to seventeenth-century music with him some afternoon, reclining naked on his daybed, with...
God, this is awful, he thought, trying to blank out a whole gallery of erotic images that were intent on distracting his attention from his—he hated to call it a game plan, but what else was it?
The kid was unusually friendly, very unusually beautiful, and almost certainly unattainable. And even if he could be...obtained, again, what the hell could he do with him? It was like the old joke about the dog that catches the Volkswagen.
He just felt bad about the whole thing now. He felt he’d taken advantage of the boy. He felt the pangs of ignominy. He had lessened himself in his own eyes, an accomplishment he had hardly thought possible.
You worthless bastard, he lectured himself, take the boy to lunch, walk him back to his shop, and never return there again. You have plenty of LP’s already. You don’t need any more after today, and you can save the money and spend it on psychotherapy or something. Donate it to the Salvation Army, anything. (He instantly pictured the boy as a bell ringer, so cute and vulnerable in his Santa outfit.)
Eleven fifty-five came, and he knew it was time to head back to the record store from the little park where he’d finally collapsed onto a bench to bask in newly augmented self-loathing. But all he could do was see the boy in his mind, that sweet face, the errant lock of hair, the plunging line of fuzz on the belly, the flimsy T on those bony shoulders. God. And he seemed so nice, too: a deadly combination.
The little bell at the top of the door tinkled as he re-entered the shop. The boy was still behind the counter, looking like he was about to fall asleep. Gerald became convinced he had been in fact the only customer so far that day. He felt sorry for the kid, not only because he was obviously miserable and wished he could take a nap, or go home, but because he was about to enter the clutches of a malevolent, unworthy specimen of low-life who under the guise of providing nourishment to the lad, was really intent on having his way with him. Was he really doing this? What sort of monster had he become?
The bell shook the boy out of his somnolence and he glanced over and said with a heart-rending smile, “Oh, hi again. Are we ready for lunch?”
“Whenever you are,” said Gerald. His voice didn’t sound happy. It sounded like the voice of a man who’s just received a death sentence, or a diagnosis of a terminal disease, or the estimate for repairing a bent fender.
“Let me grab my jacket,” said the boy. “I guess it’s still a little chilly out?”
“Yes, it is,” said Gerald. “Nice though.” From now on, no more remarks that could in any way be interpreted as overtures. Nothing that could suggest a ploy. Only generalities, banalities.
The two of them headed down the street after the boy turned the “OPEN” sign on the glass of the shop door around to “CLOSED.”
“The boss doesn’t care if I leave the place for a while. He’s laid back. And he almost never comes in anyway.”
He must have another source of income, that’s certain, thought Gerald. How much would a place like that take in during an average week, anyway? A couple of hundred dollars? To judge from today’s traffic, maybe not even that much. Maybe it was a hobby for the boy’s laid-back boss.
Melville’s was two blocks away and around a corner. It was a popular eating place for very junior partners in the numerous law firms in the neighborhood, as well as college kids from the state university a few blocks away. Including, apparently, Tony.
“Well, here we are,” said Gerald, uselessly. It was pretty obvious they were there, after all.
They soon had fragrant burgers and dazzlingly malnutritious fries before them. The boy had ordered a strawberry milkshake. In the absence of rat poison, Gerald had settled for a Coke.
He felt it was incumbent on him, as host, to say something.
“So, Tony, you said a couple of things messed up your hearing.”
“Yeah. The swimming thing and... Oh, man, aren’t these burgers the best?” Gerald didn’t fail to notice the abrupt change of subject.
“I’ve always liked them a lot,” said Gerald. He had never eaten there before. They were good, though. He’d probably get indigestion from his, owing to the stress under which he ate it, but it was good. The fries, too. They were oozing some kind of oil that tasted really good. Both his and the boy’s fingers were glistening and nearly dripping with the stuff.
“I’m so sorry about the accident,” said Gerald. “You said there was something else, though?”
“Yeah, well... I can still hear pretty well, but not well enough for a music major. At first, everything was a jumble. Then it kind of settled down to the loss in the one ear but otherwise normal hearing.”
Gerald wondered why Tony had once more sidestepped naming the second reason for his defect.
The boy seemed to be enjoying his meal. The high-fructose corn syrup in the shake had probably revved up his blood sugar. Of course he might collapse from insulin shock on top of his computer terminal in another hour or so, but for now he was actually lively, and wore a big smile between bites of the thick, succulent burger and the juicy fries. Now and then he looked up at Gerald and smiled and Gerald felt his heart stop for a moment.
My god, how he wished he’d met a kid like this when he was college age. For that matter, he had, in fact more than one. But he was always too timid, or, really, too scared, to make a move. He still wasn’t good at it, and he wished now he’d just bought his records, left the shop with only a friendly “Thanks,” and been content to remember the beauty of the boy behind the counter, now seated across the Formica tabletop digging into his lunch as though he hadn’t had one in several days. Maybe he hadn’t. After all, all Gerald knew about Tony was that he worked in a moribund used-record store, went to university, was not very good at calculus, and had had to change his major due to a bad break.
Reflecting semi-consciously on these facts only made him feel less lustful but more protective. And that was taking two steps backward for every step forward. Or even three.
He wished he could just hug Tony and hold him close for a long while, nothing more.
Gerald walked Tony back to the shop where he would probably wait for customers all afternoon just as he had all morning. He’d probably fall asleep but it wouldn’t really matter, with no customers. The little bell might wake him up if somebody came in. If not, the customer would probably do it and be rude about it.
Gerald felt angry at the imaginary customer. How dare he be nasty to a poor kid he didn’t even know. He wanted to reprimand the fictional intruder, who probably only wanted to ask some useless question anyway, not buy anything.
He wanted all the more to hold Tony close and never let go. He feared that, despite their very brief acquaintance, he was falling in love with the kid. That did happen sometimes. He knew it would be absolutely futile. He resolved never to visit the shop again.
Nevertheless, instead of saying goodbye outside the shop, Gerald walked in with Tony.
A large man in an overcoat was behind the counter. “Where the hell you been?” he said. “You didn’t lock the fucking door.” He looked and sounded, well, mean was as good a word as any. No, brutal was better.
Gerald saw Tony blanch and give a start.
“Uh, hi, Ozzie,” he said. Tony no longer looked at all happy. Yet he had been smiling all the way back from the restaurant, and once had even put his arm around Gerald’s shoulder briefly, just an impulsive kid’s gesture but Gerald had almost fainted on the spot.
“One more trick like that and you’re out,” said Ozzie. “And who’s the fag bozo with you?”
Gerald could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He began to wonder if he should be afraid.
“Ozzie, I’d like you to meet,” said the boy, sounding mortified, and looking as if he wished he were anywhere but here and it was anytime but now. “I ... I don’t think I got your name.”
Gerald gave his first name, reluctantly but readily, to try to ease the boy’s obvious plight. “Gerald,” he said.
The boy repeated it.
“We were just over at Melville’s for lunch. Gerald likes seventeenth-century music and he bought six really good LP’s of it today.” As if he hoped against hope that the mention of an actual sale would appease Ozzie’s growing impatience, manifest in his body language and the black look on his beefy, stubbled face.
“You think I care about what some fag fucker likes for music, you’re wrong. I pay you to tend store, not to pick up customers.”
Gerald could hardly believe what he was hearing. What was going on? Should he run? Take out his cell phone and dial 911? The man, Ozzie, would probably snatch it from him before he could find the “9” button. He didn’t know what to do.
“Ozzie, I’m sorry about the door. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“Fucking right it won’t, and you fucking well won’t take no fucking customer out to lunch neither, you miserable piece of shit. I ought to fire you right now and I would, too, if I had anybody else to step in and take care of the business. How many customers do you suppose you missed while you were out playing with your new boy-toy?”
“Ozzie, I... You said I could leave the...”
“Never mind what I said. And besides, I didn’t. You’re supposed to mind the goddamn shop. Get it? ’Cause if you don’t I can probably refresh your memory one way or another, you fucking little—”
Gerald had a quiet nature and all his life he’d done his utmost to avoid any kind of confrontation—any. But at Ozzie’s most recent words he had had enough, and something snapped inside.
“Wait a minute—Ozzie, is it?” said Gerald. “I don’t think there’s any need for you to—”
“Who asked you, fucker?” said Ozzie, stepping a little closer and with one fist held out menacingly in front of him.
“I don’t know what you think has happened,” pursued Gerald, trying not to think about the fist, or Ozzie’s bulk. “But Tony understood he could leave the shop without any problem, and besides there were no customers all morning, except me, and...”
“Shut the fuck up, fuckin’ faggot fucker!” yelled Ozzie. “It’s my shop and Tony is mine, and you just fucking keep out of it. Or you’ll be one sorry fucker if you don’t. So shut the fuck up!”
Obviously Ozzie was neither appeased nor even halfway happy. And the back-story that seemed to be unfolding was, if not perplexing, at least far from comforting, and quite possibly sordid.
But Gerald’s anger hormones had taken command by now, and adrenaline would not let him either flee or be silent.
“All right, Ozzie, if it’s name-calling you enjoy, I think it’s fair for me to call you a disgusting bully who’s taking advantage of a very nice boy who didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know about the door, but everybody’s entitled to a mistake now and then—you brute!”
Gerald wished he had Ozzie’s colorful way with language, but he had neither the upbringing nor the practice for it. In fact his preparation for the current dialogue was non-existent, and he was totally winging it. He knew he was losing and would probably end up as a stain on the scarred linoleum floor, but by now he didn’t even care. Maybe he loved Tony, maybe he didn’t. But he was not going to let the boy be bullied like this, even if it meant—well, he hated to think what it might mean, and more than likely would.
Ozzie took another step forward, shoving Tony aside with one arm so that Tony half stumbled, half fell to the floor, where the boy looked on helplessly as Ozzie aimed his other fist, the one he’d been holding ready, squarely at Gerald’s nose.
Gerald stepped gracefully aside. He was amazed. He didn’t even know he could do that. Ozzie came at him again, yelling something incomprehensible but surely not any more amiable than what he’d been saying all along.
Once again Gerald evaded a punch, this time ducking so that Ozzie actually lost his balance and flew forward head first into a bin of Aretha Franklin LP’s.
Ozzie instantly recovered, turned, and swung at Gerald again.
By now, though, Tony had picked himself up and ducked behind the counter, emerging with a baseball bat. Gerald had only fantasized about it, but, my God, they actually kept one back there.
He hardly had time to let it register, when Tony leaped into the fray and with one vigorous swing brought Ozzie down, blood running down the side of his head, into an overcoated heap on the floor. A little blood trickled onto the linoleum. Ozzie made only one sound, a feeble, pitiful little moan, and then nothing more.
“My God,” said Gerald, “Tony, I think maybe you’ve killed him.”
“No such luck,” said Tony, leaning on the bat and trembling all over. “This has happened before. His skull is as strong as a—I don’t know; anyway, strong. He always recovers. But you should get out of here before he does.”
“No way, Tony,” said Gerald, putting an arm around the shaking boy’s shoulder and holding him tight. “I’m not leaving you with this—this pathetic goon. Come with me. Please.”
“I guess we should call the police,” said Tony a little hesitantly, as though he really preferred not to.
“After what he did? And what he said? Are you kidding? Let him lie there. He’s not dead. I can tell he’s breathing. Look, you can see his coat going up and down a little.”
It was true. Ozzie was only out. No telling for how long, either. Gerald caught himself wishing Ozzie really were dead. And he reprimanded himself for it. Maybe if he had struck the blow, okay; but not if Tony might be responsible.
“Come on, Tony, before he comes to.”
“I dunno... We should...”
Tony was still trembling. His own adrenaline had upped and then downed and that was hard for anybody to endure. Gerald was experiencing the same thing, but he knew it was imperative to do something before things got even worse. There was no telling what Ozzie might be capable of if he came to and was able to stand up again and take up where he’d left off. Gerald had seen that happen in any number of movies. What if Ozzie had a gun? Or one of those switchblade knives? He looked more like the gun type, though.
“Okay, Gerald,” said Tony. “Let’s go. I don’t want you getting hurt. It was all my fault. I lied about it being okay for me to leave. I didn’t know Ozzie was going to come in today. He almost never does. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” said Gerald. “It was my fault for asking you to lunch. I should never have done that.” He didn’t say why he thought he shouldn’t.
“Let’s get out of here, then” said Tony, laying the bat down next to Ozzie. Gerald had a moment of comic relief as he pictured cops standing over Tony’s boss writing on their clipboards that he’d apparently knocked himself out with a baseball bat. Of course Gerald knew no cop was that dumb. Well, probably not.
Gerald and Tony walked as casually as they dared down the street. It was usually bustling with tourists as well as college kids and professionals from the area; there were several popular taverns, a couple of art galleries, five or six junk shops that attracted some serious buyers of the chic-décor type; and a branch library that, because most of the others had been closed due to budget constraints, attracted a lot of patrons.
By the time they’d gone five or six blocks, Gerald figured the coast was probably clear, and they might safely sit for a while in the little pocket park he’d sat in earlier. The city had put it in before times got so tough.
They sat down on a bench near a little fountain that was bravely trying to spew its water up into the bright sunny sky. The day had warmed up and Tony even took off his jacket. Somehow Gerald had managed to hold on to his six LP’s through all the turmoil. He had no idea how he’d done it, nor could he remember how he’d avoided Ozzie’s big flying fist. He only knew that he had survived and had apparently rescued Tony from a truly nasty, perhaps even very dangerous, situation.
They sat silent for quite a while, watching the fountain and the dingy sparrows that hopped around in pursuit of real and imaginary bread crumbs.
Then Tony put his arm around Gerald’s shoulders again. This time he left it there.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “You did a brave thing. Foolish, maybe, but brave. Ozzie’s a big guy and he’s a really mean guy. But you were great and I owe you one. I owe you a lot, in fact. All I know to do now is to say thank you.”
His voice was still a bit shaky but his arm wasn’t. It was his turn to squeeze Gerald’s shoulder. He still left his arm in place.
Gerald felt more flustered than ever, but he also felt good, at least part way. He was still scared, and he wondered what the police, when they inevitably showed up, would do. He wondered what Ozzie would tell them. Maybe the crack on the head would have erased his memory of what had happened. He’d seen that happen in movies, too. But he had his doubts. On the other hand, Ozzie might very well be afraid of what Tony could tell the cops about him. Afraid enough to keep quiet.
“Tony,” said Gerald finally, gently removing the boy’s arm and turning toward him, “it wasn’t right for me to take you to lunch. In that respect all this is my fault. In another way, it’s nobody’s fault. But if it’s anybody’s, it’s mine. You don’t owe me anything. It’s me that owes you something, an explanation.”
Then he told Tony how he’d been startled, really almost thunderstruck, by the boy’s good looks and despite himself wanted so badly to try to pursue him, as stupid and futile as that obviously was, that he’d allowed himself to make a clumsy move. He’d invited him to lunch. He was ashamed. He asked Tony’s forgiveness. It wasn’t even hard for him to say all this to the boy, he felt so angry at himself. He didn’t mind humiliating himself. He felt he deserved it.
Tony was silent for a long while, looking straight ahead.
Then he turned toward Gerald and said, “Hey, Gerald, don’t be so hard on yourself. I don’t blame you for anything. I’m tired of putting up with Ozzie anyway. He’s been after me for—well, you can probably guess for what, for a year now, ever since he hired me. I hate him. I know that isn’t right, but I hate him. I wouldn’t care if I’d killed him. I was hoping I would, I guess, only when I swung that bat I wasn’t thinking about anything except trying to keep you from getting slaughtered yourself.
“Thanks for lunch. I really did enjoy it. I kind of figured why you wanted to go with me. Hey, I didn’t mind. If anybody did anything wrong, it was me. You might have thought I was leading you on. I wasn’t, not consciously anyway. You’re a nice guy and for all I know you saved my life. This was all stuff that shouldn’t have happened, but it did, and we’re both all right and Ozzie got what he deserved, so I’m not worried if you aren’t.”
Gerald was quiet, looking straight ahead. He would never have come out today if he’d known one half of what was going to happen. He wished he’d never set foot in the shop or seen Tony or, especially, had such a stupid idea. Even so...
“Thanks, Tony,” he said finally. “You’re a good kid. I’m glad I met you.”
“Can we be friends?” said Tony, and Gerald could tell it was sincere. Tony was looking at him with a question-mark expression. Whether Gerald wanted or not, Tony put his arm around him again and drew him to him. He didn’t look big enough to do that, but he hadn’t looked big enough to knock a bully unconscious, either. A predatory, sadistic bully.
“I don’t know,” said Gerald. “You know what I told you just now. You still want to be friends, after that?”
“Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me,” said Tony. “I didn’t tell you what the second thing was that helped make me deaf. Maybe I ought to, now.”
Gerald was puzzled. What did this have to do with anything? “If you want to,” he said tentatively. “Sure. I’m listening.”
“I’m no good at calculus, Gerald,” said Tony, turning half around to face him, his arm still in place. Gerald didn’t try to shake it off this time.
“But I’m a pretty good student. I graduated from high school at seventeen and entered college the same year, and I was making straight A’s except in math courses. I wanted a music major of some kind. That was two years ago.
“Then last year one of my music profs made some moves on me and I stupidly went along with it. A long ways. It got to where I couldn’t take it any more. I could have reported him but I didn’t want to. Instead of ruining his career I dropped the idea of a music major. The swimming accident gave me a plausible excuse. I could really still hear well enough to keep on in music if I’d wanted to, I think.
“He kept after me. I kept saying no. Finally one day I agreed to one last ... meeting. He made a nice dinner. He was a really good cook. We were alone at his place and we both drank too much. He got possessive, more than ever, and I said no harder than ever. Finally he slapped me so hard on the head that my ear—the bad one—rang and it wouldn’t stop ringing. There was some blood, too. He was sorry right away and it even made him sober enough to apologize, and I think he meant it. But of course I left and now he won’t even say hello if we meet on campus. Which is fine with me.
“That’s the other thing that made me deaf in that ear. So it was swimming plus love, I guess you could say. If that’s the word for it. I really truly don’t know what I felt throughout the whole thing with him, maybe it was love. Maybe I’ll never know.
“Anyway, that’s what happened. I think it made me really cautious. Too cautious probably. But I still respond to friendly guys, ones that seem harmless and friendly, like I did with you today. I didn’t mean to lead you on. I just wanted out of that place for a while, and I liked you. And I still do. A lot.”
Gerald felt as though he might cry at any moment. He tried to think of something diverting to keep from it. It was hard to come up with anything. But he managed to keep from crying. He didn’t know if it would be from happiness or grief or fear or what, anyway. Maybe he’d better decide before he actually let loose with tears.
Tony removed his arm from Gerald’s shoulders and sat looking straight ahead of him, arms on knees, hands clasped. Finally, “So, can we be friends anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Gerald. “I don’t know if it’s possible. I mean...”
“I know what you mean,” said Tony quietly. “I may only be nineteen, but I’m not...naïve, I guess you’d say. If it’s too hard for you, just say so. But I’d like to be friends. I really do like you. And I owe you a lunch at least.” He turned to Gerald with a shy smile.
“Tony, you’re a good kid. I...” Gerald searched for words. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, let alone how to say it. “I have such mixed feelings. Hell yes, I’d like to be friends. But at the same time I know I’d always be...wanting more. Am I making sense?”
“Sure,” said Tony, not turning away. “Who knows what might happen. Maybe nothing. I don’t know. I don’t think anybody can know stuff like that without getting close up to it and living with it and even then maybe it still all remains up in the air. Now I’m the one not making sense. Did that make any sense at all?”
It did, it made perfect sense for Gerald, even if it might not for anybody else.
“How about if we both think about it for a couple or days or whatever it takes, Tony,” he said. “You can still buy me that lunch if you insist. Somewhere besides Melville’s might be a good idea.”
Tony laughed.
Gerald went on, “Let’s take each other’s number and call soon, and see what happens. I’m sorry to be so wishy-washy about it, but the fact is I’ve been even more cautious than you for a long, long time. Longer than you’ve been alive. I still think I shouldn’t have done what I did today. But maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe it was okay after all. How should I know?
“Tony, can you not go back to that shop? Can you find another job?”
“Oh, I think I can easy enough. I’ll look. It’s not like I’m going to starve. I have a scholarship and it came with a stipend I can get by on for a while. I saved some up. I’ll be okay. I can even afford to take you to lunch a couple of times.”
Gerald smiled and took Tony’s hand.
“It’s a deal, then,” he said.
They exchanged numbers. They said good-bye.
A couple of days later Tony made the first phone call.
The next day he bought Gerald lunch.
—THE END—
About the author:
Jon has lived in the Midwest USA for longer than anybody with any sense would care to remember.
He likes seventeenth-century music, too.