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And His Eyes Be as Blue as the Sea Ch. 01

By: endthedream



And he came my way near Christmas Day. I was the last teacher in the building, and the day was overcast, cold, and gray. I sat at my desk, looking at a book I meant to finish over Christmas, which had always been an empty time for me. Books filled me up. They were my friends. I came here three years ago. I taught English Comp. I was surprised every year at how poorly students with excellent grades from high school and fine ACT scores did even in their sophomore year. I was alone. I was like no one else in the world, so it seemed. I was ashamed and at odds with myself. Sometimes I woke in the middle of the night in a sweat even when the room was cold, for I loved cold weather and winter, the urgency of the season, the no-nonsense aspect of it, and I would be sweating profusely, and filled with fear that police were to break down my door at any moment. That they were there in their swirling strobe light cars and were walking up to my door and I always waited with fearful breath and pounding heart. Talk all you want about gay lib. That was not how it was 'round these parts.

I thought of Alton often. He was in my first period class every weekday. I thought of his blue eyes that I felt I could almost fall into and swim away to a secret place, a bay of tranquility, I would even endure eternal summer if he were beside me, and we would swim naked and bold as brass, for he was the color of brass and I was the color of winter. He had long hair still and was a boy with clever and mischievous eyes. He smiled little crinkles at the end of his lips, and he had a voice that was Northern that lilted over the Southern accents here. I masturbated to him at night a lot. I had a picture of him from the university newspaper I would look at. And feel guilty for. I wished someone would spend Christmas with me. I used to believe how sad those men and women who would hire escorts just to be with them, just to talk with them, or pretend a relationship with, not even sex, just someone to be their momentary dream.

I no longer scoff at that. I think it's the only way to survive for certain people. Alton had a girlfriend. Her name was Jo. They walked down the corridors and sat in the lunchroom and the student union TV room, and shopped at the University bookstore often, always together, holding hands many times, laughing together. She was a somewhat stocky girl with a milky freckled face and hair of brown tied back tightly. She was different from tall, lanky Alton. They would put their hand in each other's back jeans pocket, like most of the other students here, a fad of the times. It hurt me to see this. Sometimes I went home and sat for hours in the dark when seeing them. Or when they were in a school play and had a scene when they passionately kissed, I thought I would die. I would never have gone to see the play, had I known.

And there was a knock at the door of the classroom. I startled, jumped a bit, and said come in, knowing somehow it was Alton, because a man has paid his dues often enough, a man has said to himself some people deserve to be alone, some people are happier that way, and there is sunbeam in the doorway of a cloudy day, and I said to him, without looking, as he had opened the door, come on in Alton. I felt all the cuts of the years on me. He stood by the desk scarred and wounded and he somehow scarred and wounded. It came to me like that. He was wounded. He was scarred. The smile came at a price. The predicament would one day overwhelm him, and I remembered Von Aschenbach's premonition about Tadzio, how it made the man secretly happy, and to pull myself from my favorite movie and one of my favorite novellas, I looked up at Alton, quickly. For if I had been slower in doing so, I might never have looked at all.

I'm in trouble, he told me. His voice broke a bit. He was more than scarred. He was scared. I told him to sit down. He took his usual chair, the one in front and center. He looked down at his reindeer patterned sweater, plucked an invisible piece of lint from the left knee of his jeans, adjusted his booted feet a bit, and continued to look down. It seemed, after he said it so haltingly, that Jo had found him with another guy, that they had experimented a bit, nothing really, a mutual jerk off, and Alton blue eyes hiding and Alton bronze skin, how?, in winter?, because the winters were usually mild or warm here, blushing a bit. His long gold hair hiding part of his face, upper quadrant.

He told me she thought he hated her, that she thought he was making fun of her, and he tried to kiss her, but she backed away. He said she made him feel he was—unclean and wrong and diseased. I put my elbows on my desk of dark brown, put my chin in my hands, cupped, and looked down at the desk. My heart quickened. He wants me. God. So ridiculous. He wants me. Absurd fool man. Absurd lonelies can do that to a person, and one learns somehow, with some equanimity to live in the absurd. I found myself telling him it was just something guys sometimes do and Jo should give him another chance since this was just recently and you and he were drunk and went back to your dorm and masturbated. But, said Alton, in a voice that sounded so youngly hoarse, I liked it, I really liked it. I liked the feel of it, the way it happened, how he touched me, how I touched him, how we knew exactly what turned on the both of us.

I found myself getting an erection, as I listened. I looked out the windows in the back of the room. It had started to snow. I loved snow. It was beautiful and cold and like the sky falling, as Scout observed in "To Kill a Mockingbird," and I thought, he's vulnerable now, he is needy now, and then I couldn't believe I had thought such a thing. No. I lost my hard on quickly in my shame. I said, just give it time, just let her get used to it, and whatever you decide, you're your own free agent, and no one has the right to tell you what to do and with whom. I said it like a teacher tells a class what a story means, or what a mathematical construct is. I said it coldly, bloodlessly. Not unkindly, but just rotely. I was protecting him from me. I was thinking how wonderful this is—I can go home in the snow, and I can masturbate about pretend with Alton, for that was all I had ever done all my life. Pretend. I had seldom touched another human being in my life. This was a lucky day for me. Shameful as it was. This was lucky because I got to this part of the world finally and that was for me a gift. I was using his sadness to build up private secret forever and a day scenarios in my head.

He called my name. I looked to him and away from the snow windows. I was thinking of running through the snow with him, that beautiful music from that lousy film "Love Story" playing in my head and the lyrics of the theme song of it. I saw him as an interloper now. He had left a shadow here for me to play with, with guilty hands and by myself. He had given me a proscenium arch to act out a Christmas world with him. He was asking for help. I heard him as though his voice were coming from down deep in a well. The word kept coming over and over and gradually penetrated my mind, the thought I hope Jo never comes back to you and I hope the guy you jacked with rejects you as a freak and you have to come to me and I get to say, I get to say, because I love you more dearly than I've ever loved anyone in my life, I find you beautiful as the sun, I find your lips so infinitely kissable, I dream of you and want you, and he was saying the words now I had wanted to hear so long, he was actually, my bronzed God From the Sea Alton Floyd was saying the words, can I stay with you for a while? I then heard him say that he couldn't go to his parents' because they were in the middle of a messy divorce, and he couldn't stay with Jo and her parents as had been one time planned.

I felt winter in my heart and I danced in my head and I looked at him and smiled and he sort of smiled back, and I thought of my coming to his bed in my guest room or his coming to my bed one night and the climbing in and the holding together and my sharing with him some momentary joys that he would soon forget, but that would keep me alive for so many years and I asked, you can stay in the dorm, can't you? Some other students are. And the smile tentatively painfully sadly painted that said I am asking you of all people god I am asking you, that smile even was wiped away and he nodded yes, so I told him, that would probably be best. And inside I was cheered, so horribly, so emptily, so painfully-this is your big chance, don't blow it, I thought, blowing it. I was finally one up on someone. I finally had the upper hand. He asked, then in quick desperation, could I come see you, maybe spend Christmas Day with you or something? And I said, my private eagerness overwhelmed by my outward and totally real irritation with him for giving me a chance at a dream that would not happen anyway, I would just wind up making a grasping fool of myself, I said to him in bored tones, no, I don't think so; I will be busy over the holidays.

Then I stood up. And he jumped up and put his hands in his heavy jacket pockets and walked out of the room like a machine quickly out of synch. I stood at my desk. I had won. I would imagine him by the Christmas tree tonight in my home and we would lie there and be naked and we would make love and he would take me and I would take him and it would be wonderful, all I would ever need, thank you Alton and Jo, a million times thank you thank you...I started gathering my books together, especially the heavy long involved one I was to read over my empty Christmas. I got my coat. I wondered if Alton was waiting outside the door to ask again, and I might say yes this time, and have the truly most horrible Christmas of my life, being so awkward, being so scared, being around him surely it would make me totally impotent, how could it not? When I wanted him so much. It would turn out he was not waiting outside my door or in the corridor or at the exit door or at any of the windows to the outside I passed by. I put my coat and gloves on and prepared briskly to leave darkness here for two weeks. I turned off the lights. The day was early dark now. I closed the door, said good night to the janitor I passed by in the hall.

I kept hoping all the way to my car Alton would be there. I kept hoping I could at least give him a lift somewhere. When I got home, I waited all the time those two weeks for him to call me or to drop by anyway. I jacked off twice that night. And every holiday afternoon I did it again. I thought, he's sick and with a cold and wishes he were with me. I thought he misses me and wishes to call, and hopes I will call him, and he feels close to me being away from me, this way, that we ever could have been together, even having sex, and I felt warm and cozy in front of my wall heater, drinking my boiled custard, reading my book. I kept the phone close to me at all times. I listened especially hard for the doorbell to ring. Sometimes it didn't work. So I listened even harder for the knock on the door that never came.

I sat by the phone ready to call him, I guessed he was at his dorm, unless he had patched things up with Jo—no I would not think of that; I did not want to know if he had. So I saw no one. I saw the holiday in by myself and out by myself. I finished the book. I watched the obligatory Christmas movies and TV shows and I cried at the end of Christmas night. I had opened the gifts I had bought and wrapped for myself. I had bought one that I decided would rather go to Alton. I had wrapped it as well. And left it under the tree untouched. Never to be given to him.

In short, actually, it was quite the nicest Christmas I had ever had. I was very fortunate. And his eyes be blue as the sea and he was tawny skinned and his hair was brighter spun gold than the sun, and I loved my Alton. Mine. Forever.

And His Eyes Be as Blue as the Sea Ch. 02



(Some very kind people asked me to write another chapter in this story. So here it is. I hope it's okay. It's dedicated to you with thanks)

*

Alton of the Golden Sun Hair lay on his narrow bed in Ellington 312, of his empty dorm. He had been trying to masturbate. He was half way through his sophomore year here and wondered with more than a little worry if he was becoming impotent already. It was foolish, he thought. There, naked. In the too well heated room. He could dress and go out in the snow. It was close to Christmas. He had lost his girl. He had embarrassed himself before his teacher. He had trusted the man. Who had had no time for him. He had had it made for such a long time now.

Girls had been wanting to be with him from grammar school on. He was immensely kind. As much that as he was lovely. And he was very much indeed lovely. He had taken it for granted then. When he had sworn long ago he would never do so. It had just been jacking with a friend. They had both been a little drunk—Alton's parents were going through a rancorous divorce, which had torn Alton up, for he loved them both; they were in such pain and he could do nothing about it. Not his smile. Not his upbeat words. Not his finding a place to stand, and anyone else who wanted, when the skies grew in from all sides and began to press tightly.

And he had thought Jo was to be his for life. And he to be hers. He had told her about him and Matthew as a kind of "see what I'm going through?" kind of way with his eyes at best puppy dog let's play attention. Her face went deathly white, more pale than usual. She had turned from him, gotten off his bed, and walked away. He was stunned and angry and hurt and baffled. "Guys do it sometimes," he said after her, forgetting to stand up. Doubting if his legs would support him. 

"They do when they're ten and compare pee pees." And she said it like halls of emptiness she was walking down. She would never get to the end of that hall, which was his memory of her. She would never be out of his memory. Walking out of it second by revered second, but never gone entirely. If she had only shut his room door a bit less quietly.

He had wept for a time. As he had wept now. And he now stood up and went to the narrow window at the end of his bed, looking out at the snow. He had brought her a Christmas present, had saved for it for a long time—a necklace golden with a golden heart in its center and her initials on the back of it. Foolish, the whole thing, foolish and goo goo eyes and all of that when he had done nothing to hurt anybody. He had been hurt. Excessively. He had been hurt by Matt who really started the jack off thing with him, and he had been hurt by his favorite teacher who just had no time at all for him thank you very much. He had been hurt by Jo who had understood other things he had told her, and he had done the same for her. She was not a virgin when she met him. Well, he was not gay. He was just still alone.

The snow was getting heavier. He wished his teacher was home alone and sitting there in front of the TV feeling awful. He wished the same for Jo. And his parents could just tear each other to ribbons for all he cared; take the damned case to the Supreme Court. He could kill Matthew. He fell back on the bed and could kill him. He could nail him to the wall with one hand and he could say, hey, let me show you what five minutes of stupid drunken fun can do to a person; you've always been a lunkhead, so let me do it on grounds that you would understand.

He put his hands to his head and felt like screaming. So since there was no one around, he did just that. At the top of his lungs. Searing them. At the top most further of his lungs. Firing them. He beat his right hand against the wall and he pushed at the bed and he pushed at his limp cock that Jo had so loved and in which he had taken such pride, and he said dammit work for me, dammit give me one or two seconds can you do that do you think? He pulled his hands to his sides. He pressed his butt against the bed and arched his back. Sometimes he could get a hard on that way if he had jacked off just before. No, and he clamped his hips hard and he held the limp penis and he gave up.

Hey, Matthew, you dork, where the hell did you go to as well? Then he went to his desk, opened the top drawer, looked at the Christmas wrapped (by a lady at the shop; he never could wrap presents at all; he was wondering now if he could do anything at all right—his high grades, his popularity, his friendliness, his feeling well and centered in himself, his unwavering conviction that he was totally himself, no identity problems, no incessant longings for what and who could never be there. He pulled out the package. The present for Jo. And he tossed it in the metal trashcan by the desk chair.

God, it was silly. He sat on his bed. He was tired and immensely confused and he thought he might be gay and what did that portend in this little town in the South? Well, it portended getting beaten up every now and then, and it portended, for him at least, being confused as hell about his sexuality and about every other thing he had ever taken for granted about himself and the world—there, he stopped, taken for granted. He had one failing before all of this crushed in on him—he was superstitious. Not overly so. Not even mildly so. There were just certain things he had kept in mind, at the back of his mind, not to ever do, and this was the main one and he had broken it, maybe recently, maybe with Jo, but maybe further back. Maybe he was living on borrowed time.

He stood up and slapped his face like in the Home Alone movie. God, melodrama and ridiculous stupid thoughts. I'm a clown, he thought. And what he should do is to call up old Matthew's house. Old friend Matthew who he had spanked the monkey with in a night of revelry that was to be unsurpassed in the history of the world. It had been simple. They had toasted to Alton's parents' divorce and the eighty thousand other things adults do to fuck up your life. Then they had left Tony's and they had gone back to Alton's room—Matt had a roomie—and they had crashed on the bed. It had been late at night. Alton had woken to Matt's jacking himself at the edge of the bed. Alton did three double takes and asked what in the name of God are you doing, Matt? Matt had his jeans off and his shoes and socks. Still had a T-Shirt on.

What's it look like, Ace? Matthew had said. But—Alton asked—what for? And Matt had told him he was drunk and he was in love and he didn't know what to do about it except pretend and maybe that that was the only way some people can love is to pretend because they know they will make an ass of themselves if they say it to the person they love and they'll die if that happens, Alton, they'll die if that happens. Matt wept and he came at the same time. He hadn't said the words as well as Alton now remembered them, but the message was received. And Alton pulled away as his friend said this and then came and apologized for messing up the bed and he would go get a towel and a washrag, said as Matt stumbled still loaded to the bathroom.

He came back, this big friendly bear of a young man, and started wiping up the bed spread and the sheet. Alton had gone to his desk chair. He had his back to Matt and the bed. Alton had lit a cigarette. His mouth burned. And his stomach was queasy, and it was more than he had drunk too much. It took Matt a while. Finally his friend sat on the edge of the bed again, said he was sorry, and he would replace the bedspread and sheets tomorrow. Alton managed a wave of the hand that said not necessary. The silence was the kind of awkwardness. Maybe fifteen minutes went by. Matt said, well, now you know and now it's good bye hey hey?, with that stupid little Yogi Bear laugh Matt used when he was in a goofy mood, or in this case a sad and desperate one. And Alton said to Matt who he heard preparing to leave, can you do it again? What? Matt asked. Alton repeated his question. He sounded so silly and so scared and so final. Matt said, you mean...?

Alton didn't say anything. Just got up. Went to the bed and sat beside Matt. The moonlight was full. A small desk light Alton always kept burning at night even when he slept. Even when Jo slept over. She said it was to keep the night monsters away, and that, she had added, was one of the innumerable endearing qualities about Alton of the Sun Gold Hair. Alton was still in his street clothes. He unzipped his jeans. Stood up and took them off, pushed them and his briefs down to his ankles and then feeling like the Bozo of the Universe, sat back down, and said, well? And Matt said, you're kidding. Alton said well, Matthew, at this point you have enough on me to blackmail me for the rest of my life and to make a laughing stock out of me, to boot. Matt said, I would never do that, and he meant it like saying it in a caring way, but he belched then, could not help it.

They sat there. And Matt had eased him and said hey, it's not like going to the dentists' for God's sake, relax, though Alton could feel Matthew as tense and as nervous as the first man on the moon must have been. And eventually they had jacked off. Each the other. And they had cum all over each other and the bed. Matt and Alton were panting and lying crosswise on the bed, their heads against the wall. Go home, Alton said. Matthew said, see what I mean? See, Alton, it's like-I love you, I've loved you since eleventh grade. I've loved you all the moments in university. My heart skips when I see you. But you're always with Jo. Your hands in each other's back pockets and it kills me, man, it just kills me.

Go, said Alton, we were drunk, curious, forget it. Matt was already dressing. He asked Alton if he was really sure and Alton nodded. Matt said, as he got to the door, I've got my reality now and it will be the only piece of reality I'll remember and hide in and if that's soap opera shit well so be it, because that's the way I feel—I don't really know whether to thank you or—And Matthew left. He closed the door as gently as had Jo.

Alton knew what Matthew was going to say. Something along the lines—or kill you. And now impotent former golden boy sat on his bed, quite alone, and he wondered if he could change course instructors so he wouldn't have to see that teacher he had humiliated himself just a few hours ago. Maybe he would call him. Maybe he would call him and say, hey, you know what it's like? To try to really talk with someone and they don't even half-way look at you? And they can't wait to rush you out the door? Nope. Not you. You're smart and mysterious and strange as in unique, and I love being in your class cause you see things I have never heard from another teacher ever, I mean you really go off the rails at times, off into cloud kookoo land sometimes, but dammit you made me think and now you hate me or worse have forgotten me altogether—be me for a while, teach, he thought, all you people who think you have jolly well got it made in the shade with a spade, holier than thous, and you come down here where we live, we screwed up little farts live---oh fuck it just fuck it---

He dressed, put on a heavy coat and went out the door, down the corridor of pale color, and closed forever doors, down the metal staircase, out to the empty lobby. Rotten thing, you get up your nerve, and they throw it back in your face, he thought, as he slammed open the door to the cold snowy night, GOD!!



And His Eyes Be as Blue as the Sea Ch. 03



Elmer Gantry was drunk. He was lovingly, loquaciously drunk. Or something like that, Alton thought, as he saw the bar still open. Its Christmas lights gleaming and gaudy. Its cardboard Santa in the window emptily haughty. Some cars in the parking lot. The snow falling roundabout. And the night late when the cold wind blew. All the seasons of love, Alton decided, as he headed to the parking lot, half tripping over a mound of stones covered by the night snow, are to be forgotten about. What did he ever think he knew? What popularity comes with your girl ditching you and Matt who used to be a friend, when you can't see straight because you are so sad, it cuts your heart in half? He stood at the bar door. He stood in the night that his fleece lined jacket could not protect him from.

He used to love Christmas. Used to love everything about it. All the way back to last year. Things change with such rapidity in love, such vapidity, so he went inside into the heat furnace where men and some women sat at the bar and in booths and all was red like hell and all was red like a horrible cold; this place was where the smell of booze lay hard and fast, like a grin that had gone too mean all of a sudden. Like a grin that had gone too haughty too fast and left you standing there at about age nine or ten again. The mirror over the bar with the leather padded seats, as Alton eased himself onto one, covered with snow fake foam and covered with reindeer flying to a never to be reached moon. And the man beside him was a talker. Older. Long away from university. Bulbous stomach. Heavy beer in front of him. And he talked. Like lonely people do. And Alton tried to ignore him. Everybody did it to him, why not to it to everybody else.

The man was a shambler and he punched Alton on the arm. Alton drew away and tried to hide in his own perfect night, that would come with books to read and hearts to sew together and love to give up, and move away from, because people used people, and to his horror as his beer came from the little bald guy behind the bar, as Alton sipped off the foam, noticing his left hand trembling just a bit, as the night swirled down his throat and kept some remnant of warmth into him, saying it's not the end of the world boy-o and the man beside him, smelling of cold and booze and cigarettes and that particular kind of horrible loneliness that Alton had read Christmas was peppered with for some people, as he talked, Alton ready to move to a booth or another stool, he realized the peculiar need for human companionship. That sturdy little rudder of flame inside himself that said anyone could talk and he could listen if he wanted. There was no law requirement that he had to respond. As if there were other hearts broken and he thought of Matthew and of Jo, and considered the human equation that was all gone and lost and smashed as he seemed to be doing to himself.

The man beside him, three sheets to the North wind, was funny really and he said funny things, that came with long greasy hair and a need for a shave, and Alton remembered Matthew like it was long ago, and studded with the need to get back with him, studded with the need to prove to him and to Jo that there were needs and all kinds of needs, that this could be a flower springing to life, blossoming forth in this Christmas coming night and he thought of old friends he could call, and he hadn't meant it, he hadn't meant to throw it in Jo's face, but he knew all the time now that he was with her, if she would give him another chance, he would be thinking of Matthew, and would remember the companionship of their jerking off together. Would remember the feel of it, his friend, his best male friend, beside him and them both erect. Okay they were drunk. They were sleepy. But they had touched somehow. And that was is for Matthew. Because who can live a life this long and all of a sudden, whamo, you're gay and you never knew it before.

He found himself in the chatter of the bar, in the clatter of the noises, over the country music wailing from the juke box, the man beside him, the interloper, he did not hear the words the man spoke, as much as he felt them, and, true, they might not be the man's words at all, but they scotched memories in Alton's brain, Alton of the Long Golden Sun Hair and someone beside him whose name he would never know, whose face he had not looked at, who was incidental to Alton and essential somehow, he thinking this later, at the same time. He wanted to be with Jo. Naked. The last and final night they had made love. He wanted to be back in balance, to kiss her breasts and to feel her underneath him. And he wanted Matthew to get it through his thick head this was what Alton wanted. This being thrown off track was not right. Matthew sitting there beside him. And telling Alton he was in love with him. Where the hell did that come from? Little pitchforks of hurt and anger went down his throat with the booze. He ordered another.

The colored lights of Christmas blinking on and off behind the bar and over the mirror that was cloudy like Alton's memory was getting. The man beside him more of a mumbler, more of a revenant, and he thought unbidden and unwittingly, that this was Matt is some years to come. This was Matt lonely on Christmas. His teacher going to fancy parties and reading books and loving quietly someone in his own studious way, not abrupt as he had been with Alton, not rude, because he had been quite a kind man all semester to all his class, and Alton liked to think especially to him, for some reason. So maybe the teacher was gay. Maybe he was scared and scarred, he thought, sipping the sour warmth again, and letting his head turn a bit toward the man beside him without the man noticing though he was mumbling something, like for jokes, like for sadness that gets all geeky and gawky and ridiculous because things hurt too much and you have to back away from it, all of it, and try to find yourself which has slipped its bearings and fallen too deeply inside you, so you can never pull it up again, like recalcitrant socks. And Alton laughed in spite of himself at the image.

Someone bumped against his back as they went to pay their bill, and Alton hunched over his beer more tightly, and this was the way with drinks, we become children again, and we hunger and it comes out tear stained and we are embarrassed at the words and what we did, the next morning. And Alton felt the man's words, like shadows on a winter day falling on snow, feeling guilty and not allowed. Feeling the world is stumbling, when it's really only you and the other inhabitants of a planet that must be as scared as lonely as hurt as confused as Matthew and Jo. Okay. And he felt sorry for the teacher and for them and for everybody. Everybody has their loves, and okay, Alton was loved, once, by Matthew and Jo and previous girl friends and maybe other guys who were keeping it secret like Matt before they both got drunk. And he kept getting this insipient feeling this was Matt beside him. A man in his forties maybe. A man who worked with his hands. Alton had glanced at them. They were calloused and leathery looking. A man who had spent his years regretting. Or probably more like it Alton was using him as a mirror to play off of, to say this is Matthew in his cups, this is Matthew without a friend in the world, this night soon of Christmas when the thoughts get maudlin and foamy as the fuzz on the top of the beer he had just finished off. Think of Jo. Dammit. Think of Jo. How you hurt her, how you threw the news in her face, to make her like you more, to make her laugh with you at Matt, and Matt I'm sorry, God. I'm sorry you love me. Or loved me. I didn't do anything to lead you on. If you had told me earlier, then I don't have this time warp man sitting beside me.

Is he you? Or is he the husband of some other Jo who has been having an affair on him and he has just found out just in time for Christmas cheer? Alton thought of his penis now and smiled as it got harder and pushed against his jeans. It all comes to that, he thought, it all comes to where you put it or in whose hand, and I am not a mean person, but these are mean thoughts and what is happening to me and why can't I get out of here and call Jo and call Matt and what the hell call the teacher I used to respect till he blew me off, for who knows what reasons, and say look everyone I was the high school golden boy. Okay, I remember one boy in my gym class who was always looking at me surreptitiously in the changing room and one day I saw his penis harden as we showered there, and he turned away shy as cat's milk when I looked at him and I was brave and superior-no I wasn't. I have never felt that way. I have never felt anything but eyes on me and eyes on me gauging every move I make, every word I say, I am competing with an image of me and I just want to get out of here, and so thinking, Alton accidentally knocked over his beer right onto the lap of the man beside him who had been affecting him in some really spooky way.

Alton jumping up. Apologizing. Really sorry. Really stupid of me. The man said gruffly in a voice that said he had given up and given in a long time ago, forgetaboutit and got up and walked stumbled out of the heat into the cold wind, as Alton saw all the eyes on him, college boy, the townies thought, stupid drunk college asses, and Alton paid his bill and left after the man. Who was standing by his, of course, pick up truck. Alton stood there in the night, zipping up his jacket, the snow falling less heavily on his hair and shoulders but the cold was piercing enough. The man with too much stomach was leaning against his truck on the driver's side. Pressing his front into it. Alton's family had money. That was not his fault. Matt's family had little money. That was not their fault. Matt saw the man he walked toward unsteadily and he wondered if he had gotten it all wrong in his too smoothed by booze brain, and the man was like the teacher Alton had once had such affection for. Maybe he's me, though. Maybe I should remember where and who and what I am. In a matter of days and hours everything named Alton Floyd was in flux. Floyd was pink and that was where it stopped, the last joke, as he stood by the man. The man noticed him in some few seconds, felt Alton, former star everything. Felt the shadows creep up on him. And the man said without looking up and over at him, let's gets a room, in the sad sorry sodden voice that knew Alton would say yes, and in the same sad sorry sodden voice that knew the man would ask and that Alton would say yes, he did so.

They got in the truck. Them Motel Six was a few blocks away. It was all of it awkward and fleshy and Alton thought it was going to be horrible. Thought this is a way for me to exorcize Matt, to say hello to Jo again, not to tell her, God, he would never do that again and the man kept apologizing, the booze heavy on his breath, and Alton stayed outside the office of the motel till the man got the room and in they went, Alton haltingly, the man knowing what would happen and that spelled dejection for him. He held Alton in his arms as he pushed him to the bed with cheap covers in the cheap room with the dim lighting and Alton to his amazement held his arms around the man and felt his good warmth in the too cold room as the man, nameless, as was Alton here and maybe forever, nameless himself, felt the man unzip his jeans and feeling for Alton's penis which was in spite of every thing, especially the fear of danger, who was this man?, would there be hurt?, would there be pain? And in the innocent still regard of naivety that Alton was still form from, he thought he had to do it right, he had to make this man happy as he felt the beard scratches on his face as the man tried to kiss him and Alton reflexively pushed away, so the man, knowing always knowing, that booze had to be the template of his release and sorrow was to be his induction into momentary sex, pretend love, as he pulled away from Alton and felt the young man's penis through his briefs. He looked at Alton, asked, said he was sorry, they didn't have to go through this, and Alton said nothing, just nodded, fearing.

Jo had given Alton a blow job any number of times. Matthew would have given him one in an instant of Alton had just said it was okay, and the boy in that changing room too, of the hurt pained eyes, but this man, bearish, scared and scarred too, remember?, had taken down Alton's jeans and briefs and had graced him, had made an art of the thing, the too fleshy lips, the tongue tip touching, the large broken hands caressing Alton's balls, this was an artist out of time and out of luck and with too many years on him, this gruff no nonsense man who intimidated who ordered around at whatever his job was, this man became a Rembrandt at this moment of oral sex, and Alton was lost in a fever as his whole body paralyzed and then gripped him and then bowed him like a bow on a violin that had never been played with such delicacy and with such imagination and such skill, and Alton held the back of the man's head, the thick oily heavy black hair under his fingers as the man reached up to under Alton's shirt, they still had their coats on for God's sake, the need was that immediate, and the man played with and pinched Alton's tits and rubbed Alton's smooth chest, and his flat stomach and touched his blonde pubic hair, and soon and soon the man brought Alton to whimpering climax and took all of him in his mouth.

Then they lay there. Beside each other and Alton's hand went with shaking bravery and too frightened courage to the man's crotch and felt the man's hard on beneath his jeans. He took it out, like a chimp playing with a toy, giggling a bit, and the man smiling in a dream world, and held it, far thicker than his, somewhat longer with more throbbing veins and uncut, unlike Alton's, and the man said, reading and remembering tomorrow was really yesterday warmed over, it's okay, a hand job would be most appreciated. And Alton with the man's help did it to him and tried to please him, but when the man came, Alton turned away. Questions peppered the air and he felt the man behind him now. Hugging him like Alton was a little puppy in the arms of some great father like figure. And the man began to weep, sorry he was not for Alton, sorry he was to do these things surreptitiously, quietly, being forgotten as it happened, wondering if there was always to be sadness mixed with sex, wondering if being together if only for a little while was the worst loneliness there was, remembering when he had asked his best friend once long ago, and his friend hit him hard in the face, cutting the man's lip, making him bleed, then laughed at. And knowing Alton was to laugh at him too later on. Wondering if he should put some bills on the bed before he gave Alton a ride back to university or wherever.

Tinkly Christmas music touched like soft cotton snow their ears. In the bar, in a country style way, and now in the parking lot, all cleaned up and jackets zipped, they got into the truck, having not said a word after the hand job. God, these self-abnegating words hateful words jokester words people used to describe sex, when for the man sex was worship, was a fresco that deserved painting, was a world that needed creating, was re-crafting the sun and the moon and the Earth, putting things to right, making things less lonely so a man didn't have to drink his way through Christmas and the loveleless marriage back at what was laughingly called home—love long gone, wife hating husband, husband perplexed at where the beauty of it had gone. They had met at university. This very one. Long time passing. He had been with a few guys before. Nothing serious. Just jerking around. And she had caught him and a friend at it. Screamed at them. Made him crawl to her for forgiveness. And he had indeed been deeply sorry and ashamed and he had hurt her terribly, had he meant for her to find out?, especially in this cruel way. So they married. And that was her increasing punishment for him, the war he walked into every night when he came home from work. And trying to recapture his youth and that particular friend she caught him with, the friend who was so embarrassed and would have nothing to do with him again.

He had driven the boy back to the dorm. They sat there for a while. The boy mumbled thanks, really, I mean it, thanks. The man had nodded and said sure, as the boy got out of the truck, closed the door very quietly, and walked into the snow and up to the dorm building. Shoulders hunched against the snow and the cold and the pain that was life. The man looked at him, remembered forever sucking him and how good his hard on had felt and tasted and his lubricant come, and wanted it again, oh please, but always the other person just gave him a hand job and never touched his rumpled hairy body, just that they would do and nothing else, and he learned to live with it. As he watched the boy enter the dorm. And could not help thinking, good luck kid, you'll need it, I think I have just seen myself twenty years ago, and as he pulled out of the parking lot, the windshield wipers pushing away the snow, the cab of the truck warm now, he wondered if twenty years from now, that university boy will have the chilling realization that he has become me?

We are mirrors, clown house mirrors, he thought, identities flow off of us like water. And the fun house has its way with us every single time. It's to laugh, he thought, it's to laugh. He turned on the radio. Elvis was singing, "it's gonna be a blue Christmas without you." And the night wind blew cold, and Christmas was coming and these were how things were and are.

*

(This story is dedicated to James and Edision for inspiration, encouragement, and many of the plot points and suggestions and ideas—the flaws are solely my own)



And His Eyes Be as Blue as the Sea Ch. 04



(This epilogue is dedicated to Tracy, with deepest thanks)

"Come back to me, girl.
I didn't mean to hurt you,
But I know I did.
I didn't mean to,
Yes, I wish you would forgive
Me,
And put me out of my misery,
Girl.
Take my hand, girl,
It's lonely and sad in my heart,
Cause you're no longer there,
And I stare at the wall,
Bring back your love, girl.
I can't wait another minute
For you, girl..."


"Hell," Aaron said, loudly, as he tossed his guitar on his dorm bed. He couldn't write music and lyrics and he couldn't sing worth a damn either. It was one day till morning. Or one second until morning and he would call the teacher or Matthew or the guy at the bar, but he would not call Jo. Jo had no right to treat him like this. They weren't married. She did not own him. She was just so selfish, she thought of him as a piece of meat at the butcher's part of the grocery. No, he sighed. He was naked and he stroked his limp penis. She was way better than that. Way kinder. She had given everything to him. But her love was never going to be there again.

Never. And he thought as he pushed back his hair from his eyes, this is what they call the forever-alone thing. Even that guy in the bar last night had forgotten him and Alton had half forgotten him as well; and felt grungy at the things they did. It was Alton, his name. He came from a respectable family. He had great grades. He had been the star everything in high school, and here he was with this noid creeping up the back creaky stairs of his brain and he couldn't think anymore because said noid was eating his brain alive and there was nothing but emptiness in his soul. And that were too many ands and he would get downgraded if he turned in a paper like that.

Well, so be it. And and and and and. That's how people thought, that's how he thought at least. Who thinks in complete correct sentences with the right punctuation at the end? Nobody, a big nobody, that's who. And that was who Alton, who, dejected, walked to the bathroom and surveyed himself in the wall mirror. He had long hair that still looked good, even after last night, unwashed since then; he had a kind face and a captivating smile. There was openness and sensitive honesty in his cool blue eyes. Jo had said these things about him, when he was making love to her or walking with her and he loved the smell of her perfume, it was, like, Autumn aroma, rich and inviting and full bodied, as was she and he had loved to hold onto her hips as they had sex because he loved the feel of them as they went up and down in concert with his. How could he have been so mad as to lose her? Telling her about Matthew? Just trying to show her what a hot guy she has on her hands, and bragging a little about it, "every they can't stay away from me."

Then he thought, what if she thinks I'm gay? What if her world is broken like mine is now. You break me; I break you. Well, that was a damn selfish ten year old attitude, like she said he and Matthew were acting like they were ten years old when they showed each other their things, and he had wanted to slap her for that, but kept the feeling to himself. And she had slammed the door. He tried to tell himself that last night, and with Matt, he had been thinking of her all the time. But he hadn't. He had just felt good and thought of no one and nothing, but the pleasure.

And he was here and now and he thought of the guy from the bar last night and it all made him more than a little ill. How could he have done it with a guy like that? Wait. How could he have done it with a guy, period? Damn, what's happening to me? He smiled into the mirror, certainly not because he was happy, but because he wanted to see the very white teeth of his. Teeth were part of the skeleton; thank you Dr. Morton in Science 101, for telling us that and making teeth seem creepy. But his were white and they almost flashed a gleam like on the TV commercials.

He liked his body. Compact. Slim. Long arms and long sturdy legs, though still thin. There were light sun yellow hairs on them, which Jo had liked to stroke with her hand. She said it felt soft and downy like duckling down or rabbit fur. She called him "bunny" sometimes because of that. His skull was a bit long, which made his head not look good in profile, but he had a face to make even girls envious. It looked as though he had added fake eyelashes, but those were real, they were dark and they were sensuous. Jo said she loved to see his eyelashes close and unclose. She said it turned her on. He looked at his hairless chest, and he touched his small orangey nipples, which became immediately hard. The mirror showed a flat stomach, innie navel, and a flat abdomen, V-ing in on his groin, where the mirror stopped right at the top of his wispy faint blonde pubic hair. Again, he tried to make himself hard. But he felt like he wasn't even human. Like he was a plank or the side of an awning out in the summer sun, feeling and being and thinking nothing.

He turned on the shower, tested the right balance of hot and cold, and stepped in it, and shampooed his hair, turning his face up to the stinging water—thinking-what if I start to lose my hair when I'm older? like the teacher—how can I live without my hair?—God, it was terrifying—let me not look like that teacher, whose name I shall never write or think or say again, 'cause he blew me off when I tried to talk to him about Jo and me, just when I needed someone—hell—he furiously rinsed the shampoo from his hair. Good, maybe teach is gay, maybe he was like me one time when he was young, and maybe that's gonna be me someday. It doesn't take a genius to guess the irony of the thing, and he bet that teach was sitting around his lonely house doing whatever gay people do when they are past their prime, and he's thinking Stupid (not even remembering my name) doesn't realize I was like him when I was young, and I trusted people, and they let me down or they shunned me, and I will take the loneliness over that bitter set of memories every day. Yeah, teach, he thought as he washed his face and chest and penis and legs, sure, teach, you want me, because I'm hot, because you can't resist me.

You'll be remembering me, till Kingdom Come, and I do mean Kingdom COME, and I'm not mean, and I'm not mean, this is not me, this is one something that has come to the habitation of a body that is not Aaron Floyd. Which was when he broke. Which was when he dropped the washcloth and let the soap. Which was when Alton Floyd began to weep. And he pushed his hands through his wet, stringy hair and he leaned the side of his face on the stall wall beside him and he cried his heart out. He cried because he had not had much sadness in his life. He had never been greedy, but he had always had it made. Terror was on the evening news and in the newspapers and it was way over there somewhere, even here, it was still way over there somewhere. And sadness and suicide and drug overdoses and those little lives that are like tiny, smaller than small boxes people have to live in, and they never dare anything, and try to be happy, being alone, or being not alone but with the wrong person, that had never touched him.

He wished he could sing to them. He wished he could buy the world a Coke. Oh great, here is an epiphany, and what comes into his crazed mind? A TV commercial jingle for Coke. And he kept crying hard and hot tears in the hot water as at the same time he was laughing in spite of himself; he had no idea that was possible. It was the weirdest feeling he had ever had in his life. Even weirder than jacking off with Matt. Even weirder than having a man sucking his cock last night, and Alton enjoying it. God, let me call the teacher and Matt and Jo. I can't call the man from last night, because I have no idea who the hell he was, anymore than he knows who I am—though he does know I live in this dorm, and that was an uneasy feeling for Alton—I want to call them and tell them you don't owe me anything, you know. And tell them I don't know what my sexuality is. Jo, I love fucking you and I love it when you give me head. And I loved it when I was jacking off with you, Matt, and to tell you the truth, I was sorry I sent you away. And that guy last night—the Picasso of blowjobs. And I can see more things now. That's what he would tell them. I can see more things now. I can see more possibilities than I had before. The world just might be opening like a flower, and I might be that flower as well. Opening. And he suddenly felt far less claustrophobic than before.

He had stopped crying and laughing. He turned off the shower and wrapped himself in a huge white terrycloth towel, got another for his head and hair, and a hairbrush; he went to the bed and sat on the side of it. After he had dried himself, after he had brushed his hair, and dried it, he dressed and thought about going out somewhere to get lunch. It was almost eleven. Maybe he would never contact any of them. Well, the teacher, cause he had to take that class, but he could ice him out like the teach had iced Alton out, and that might be fun. He would see Jo on campus, but he would let her make the first move, say the first word, if she did at all. And Matthew the same thing. Maybe all of them are already gone. It saddened him horribly. And yet, maybe they aren't. Maybe there is still a chance to, at least, be friends with Jo and Matt. But if they are through with him, perhaps that's not such a bad thing. Maybe I won't be like the teach. Perhaps I can make it, like he couldn't. Maybe he could do it in teach's honor. And Alton thought that would be a kind and good thing to do. 

Alton had been working for other people too long. He had been what they expected him to be and he had worked his ass off being just that. Maybe that was where the popularity came in. He was beautiful—he had been told it often; not brag, just what he had come to believe, as he had come to believe his hair was golden colored) and when he was kind to someone, or called out a greeting or asked some average of below-average looking boy or girl to have lunch with him in the high school cafeteria, and made them feel like a million dollars, and the envy of the kids for maybe a whole week or more, well—weren't they kind of using him to make themselves feel better? Like a prop they posed with? As, of course, had he.

Maybe Alton was gay or straight or bi, or somewhere in a gray area—hell, who knew? He felt better now, for no reason, for every reason. He put on his coat, looked out the window. Still snowing a little. He opened the window onto the hot room and felt the cold blast on his face that felt so enlivening and invigorating. He half ran to the door and then down the corridor and the stairs to the first floor, then out that door to the quad, and the walkway, with the snow sounding and feeling crunchy underfoot, while the wind was blowing hard from the pure North against him, stinging his nose and cheeks, and pushing him backward a little or forcing him to brace himself for trying harder. He remembered, as he started running again, to a diner off campus, the end words of a novel he had loved since childhood, "The Shrinking Man" by Richard Matheson. It had been made into a beautiful movie too. About a man who begins to grow smaller and smaller until he is almost one inch tall, and then he is o inches tall.

He had thought, had Scott Carey, that he would not exist as that point. But he did. Matheson wrote beautifully and breathtakingly, with words of wonder and majesty, of that first awareness; first moment; first step into a new world "into which Scott Carey ran, searching."

So, filling his lungs with cold cutting air, thinking of life now and life ahead, people now and the ones ahead, himself now and himself ahead, and the future forever, Alton Floyd ran into his new world, searching.



And His Eyes Be as Blue as the Sea Ch. 05



"And His Eyes Be as Blue as the Sea" (Addendum: Matthew)

(For Glen who wanted to know more about Matthew, and the other nice persons who asked I continue the story, this chapter is dedicated with much thanks)

Matthew, feeling all his life like an addendum, had followed Alton over to the Humanities building to try to talk to him, but then Alton had headed straight to Maples' room, so Matt had stood outside the teacher's classroom, listening, while Alton was trashing his best friend, formerly best friend, name of Matthew, to Mr. Maples, and Matt's first thought was to get away from the whole damned thing. To stop. Here and now. He had confessed his love for Alton that drunken night a lifetime ago. And they had jacked together; it had been so wonderful to Matt, pretending, hoping it was not just a drunken friend whittling wood with him-- not that he would not have accepted that. But still, you can pretend, Alton, that you love me; you don't have to say the words. I'll say them all for you. You don't have to say a word. I won't either, if you would rather. I can just hang round you and not cause trouble. I can just kind of be a shadow, and I won't stand in your way. I'm sorry about what this has caused Jo.

But you have made it gossip and something evil and stupid; you don't do that to someone who's hurting this much. You don't have the right to tell something this secret and this important to anyone else; like you had killed somebody, and you had to confess to get it off your conscience. Like you took somebody and hurt them so badly and it's obscene in your mind—well, Matt thought, as he walked quietly from the doorway of the classroom and out into the snowy quad, you did kill someone; you killed me. You did it by giving me a favor and then you have to be the star of that favor. Oh what a great guy you are. And oh you are having sexual problems. You the high school stud, who had to make charts months in advance of girls who were going out with you, your lays, for upcoming weekends. Sure, Mr. Sensitive. Well, grab this by the horns, buddy—I've been in love with you since ninth grade. It hurt so goddam much seeing you with girls; you were kind to me, and I pretended you were my friend. And that you cared. They say kids can't fall in love. They are wrong. I did. And I will love you forever. Why did you trash me, man? I was going to keep that drunken moment in my heart forever. I was keeping it like amber under glass and you've turned it to shit and now I'll not get a hard-on for who knows how long?

Matt had no family. He lived three towns over with a very distant cousin who saw him through school and now holidays. A very old man named Matters. Matt was more like a boarder at Matters' house than anything else. And driving away fast now from the humanities building parking lot, peeling rubber, screeching to a halt at stop signs, then racing the engine and going way over limit. Thinking I can fake being drunk or high when the cop stops me and I can throw my life away and it's stupid—it's stupid to trust anyone—it's stupid to hold a longing in your heart all these years and your best bud, your best friend, someone who let you near every so often, but not near enough, discusses me like I'm some sort of horrible problem, and just what is that all about?

Matt driving from one town to the next thought of killing himself, and that thought crumbled into remembering his best bud's voice telling Maples about what he and Matt had done, what Matt had lead him into doing. So Alton did it out of guilt and sadness and empathy. No, friend of mine, you did it because you were interested; you did it because you wanted to find out. And so, like a little kid, you decided to do an experiment. You were the stupid kid. I was the adult--for guess what? I was the one doing you a favor. I was the one giving of myself because you would look at me sometimes and away immediately when I caught you. So what Matt did was to stop in the town where Mr. Maples lived. To go to a restaurant, for coffee and chili, and a phone and phone book. When he had the number, he pushed the buttons with a trembling finger. The man, who seemed like shadows of lumbered dead stacked plank by plank—what in the name of God did Alton see in him?—he was rude and petty and irritating, was Mr. Maples-so why did Alton confess to him? And why didn't Alton talk it over with his friend formerly named Matt, now seeming named nothing at all instead? The voice on the phone was like a turret of a house from another century talking. Precise, clipped, all the words and sentences in correct order, spoken by a professional poseur of the English language, university style.

Somehow, Matt got out who he was and why he wanted to see the man who hesitated, who deliberated, who equivocated, and finally said, "for a few minutes, nothing else." And Matt thanked him, got directions to the Maple house from the waitress, drank his coffee, and left his chili untouched. He paid and walked back into the howly snowy wind with the wings of dark night all around. It took Matt a while to find the professor's house—a small little brick place, wisteria vines would be budding on it in spring, a roof of slate shingles, a word-taut tightly knit house with a white fenced gate, immaculate of course and in perfect condition, though the whole place seemed quite old. Matt said to himself, drive on, forget it—why would this man believe Matt, or have any time for him, or care at all? Well, somebody should care. Matt had been holding these quiet trembly trembling feelings inside him ever since he could remember. He saw love and he saw beauty and he saw instances of happiness that could have been his, if only, if only..

He thought this would only bring further heartache. If he treated good old star everything golden sun Alton who liked this man immensely like he did, what would he do to me? And Matthew like an automaton made himself get out of his car, and open the gate, walking up the precisely straight brick sidewalk, to the little porch all in green, snow on his hair and his coat as he rang the prissy little door bell that made a prissy little sound, this big strong Matthew, this football player Matthew, this towering Matthew who had started developing some chest hair at about age 9, which made him the laughing stock of the school, they not knowing that some day they would come to envy him that early burly maturation. Mr. Maples opened the door. And looked at Matt's face, way up there. The beginnings were as they often are, horribly awkward, and involved names exchanged, entrances made, coffee offered, chair or sofa to sit on, the turning off the TV, the pouring of coffee, sugar or creamer? -- So, when all fixed on a tray, Mr. Maples sat down in the chair, turned it round on casters to look at Matt on the couch. Matt tasted the coffee in the dainty little China cup with roses on the sides, found it too hot, put the cup down on the tray next to him. There were butter cookies there if he wanted any.

The house was nicely warm, small and cozy. There was Christmas music playing somewhere in the background. He didn't think Maples would have been one for Christmas music, and then, since it was night and the house was filled with shadows, only dimly lit, he saw the Christmas tree over in the corner and believed he could make out packages underneath it. The tree was not lighted. It startled Matthew, like something monstrous had been in the room all this time, and he just now discovered it. He felt foolish and he felt fearful at the same time. How dare this sour late middle aged man should have things like Christmas trees in their homes and Christmas music playing? That was reserved for Matt and his friends and their just vaulted over childhood years. It was wrong. It made Matt angry. And that gave him impetus to be angry enough at Alton, and with Maples for treating his friend the way he did—go figure-loyalty to someone who was so totally disloyal to him. And it got Matt mad enough to talk. And he did. With force and alacrity and with words that people thought were not of the lexicon of football players, of large men, with short hair cuts, and ham hands, but though Michael was always a second string quarter back in high school, and not even that in this university, he got in because of superb grades and an agile mind. So he talked. He talked succinctly. With point and purpose.

He was like he was laying out a new sketch for a building he was hired to construct. All the levels and all the measures blue-penciled as though in watercolors, complex and precise, with not one joint, with not one bevel un-connected and flying buttress in space. He was exhausted after he had talked non-stop for a good fifteen minutes. He was thirsty for something cold and asked Maples if he had a Coke or something. Maples, who had been seemingly asleep in the dark as Matt talked, all but hopped up and said, "Certainly, Mr. Harrison. Just a moment." And rushed into to kitchen. When he came back with the bottle, Matt drained almost half of it. And had to belch. Maples said, "Go ahead. We can't get away from our physiognomy" and thus, Matt belched. He apologized. Maples turned on a bright lamp so they could see each other finally. He said nothing for a moment. He was a taciturn man. He was a man of sorrows. He was a cliché because he thought it better and easier to survive as a cliché. Then bigots could make their clever little jokes and basically leave him alone. He was telling this to Matt. Maples' hands were finger locked at his chest as he leaned over slightly, his facial structure of very fine and very delicate bones. His hair was thinning and was gray. Mr. Maples looking straight into his eyes. Mr. Maples looking determined and sharp and whose mind was working overtime. A man of courage and wisdom, without fear, for a few moments—when he was not around others who would, of callous necessity, in their world be ceded to, as he would pretend what they expected.

He said to Matt, calmly, while Matt was now nervous, "Matthew, I am gay. I am not happy gay. I am sad gay. I had such dreams when I was your age. There was a boy at my university, we were both freshmen, and I loved him—I dwelled on him all the time. I never told him, of course. I knew how he felt about homosexuals. But I believed in miracles then. I believed in lost causes. Who is the patron saint of lost causes?"

"St. Jude" Matt said, remembering a St. Jude Hospital telethon on TV once, the children's hospital, devoted to fighting the worst of childhood illnesses, the hopeless ones, being named after The Patron Saint of Lost Causes by the singer Danny Thomas.

"Yes. St. Jude. Thanks, Matthew." 

"He hurt me and he got rid of me and he told you. How can you be so wrong about a person?"

"Matt, he didn't mean to hurt you. Alton is a nice boy. He has to grow some more. You've grown already—so long before him. He got to have an easier road than you did. He got to laugh and be with friends and be 'normal'—he didn't have to guard every word he said, and re-think every half-sentence before he said it." He drank his coffee. Matt finished his Coke and then started on his now mildly warm coffee, as he took a butter cookie too, and offered one to Maples who shook his head "no."

"Matt, I'm an old man in your lexicon. I still have feelings. I still masturbate." Maples smiled and said, "Yes, we do it too." And Matthew pulled back a bit. "I know. But I do. I'm not coming onto you. Don't worry. I don't know how to come on to anyone. I asked that boy I was in love with back there if we could talk about sex, just in general sometime, just a word, just a gesture, just a—I had no idea what really—something that I could mentally hang on to—I don't know what I thought—other than I was dying inside—and I wanted—something I could pretend about and imagine about...and he couldn't stop laughing. It took such incredible courage to say that. I worked my way up to it for weeks. I sweated it out in such fear. I almost said it to him a million times. Then finally I blurted it out so fast he didn't hear me. He had to ask me to repeat it. So I did in a loud trumpeting voice, at least it seemed to me, to him it must have been shaky and high and hilariously desperate. I had my eyes closed. I thought he would hit me. But all he did was laugh at me. And I ran away from him. And later apologized. He would have nothing to do with me. And apologized again. No go. And I still apologize. In the mirror when I shave. When I go to bed. When I wake up. When I masturbate..."

Then he paused for a while. And continued:

"That was a highly difficult thing Alton did, you know?"

"Yeah, cause Alton has such a supremely massive heart."

"Yes, Matthew. You were both drunk—outside, with other people, I would have to say inebriated—keep my image intact—I sacrifice bits of myself so I can live another day, and I don't know why I want to live another day. Matt," he said as he stood up with some unease, and came to sit the couch with Matthew, who did not like the way this was shaping up at the moment, "I won't tell you anything other than Alton is going through a species of hell—hear me out," Maples said as Matt started to object with anger, "Wait, listen," Maples said in a stronger voice than Matt had heard before from him. "He did see you were horribly broken, he did see you really loved him. For Alton, that's a really tough thing, a really difficult situation to be in, but....." Matt stood and said he had to be going and thanks for the coffee and stuff.

Maples stood and walked to him. Matt stood with his back to Maples, and was at the front door, ready to open it.

"He did it because it was you. He was curious, yes. He was still a little drunk, yes. But he jacked off with you because you were his friend. Do you have any idea in the world what I would have given to have had my love do that for me? To just do something like that, and he could pass it off in the morning, by saying we were just drunk. This is so horribly common, Matt. He was stunned you are gay and that you told him what you did. You were getting ready to leave, after your revelation, and he stopped you and you both jacked off together. How lucky you were. How very fortunate. You didn't have to say, let me just be around you, let me pretend you love me while I know you don't. Let me just be a shadow and not cause troubles. Let me just pretend. You didn't have to say that. He did it for you. He did it because he cares about you. Still and all."

And Matt was shattered as his own words of begging coming back to him, the words Matt had not had to say. He trembled. He started to open the door onto the night and travel on to his cheerless loveless cousin's house to spend a cheerless loveless Christmas.

Maples said, "Just a minute, Matthew," and walked away, coming back a moment, and holding out to Matt a present gift-wrapped, "I had thought of giving this to Alton for Christmas, but I may have another gift for him. I'd like you to accept this present for a Merry Christmas." Matt took the gift. And Maples smiled briefly. Matthew nodded and said, "We all come to the Puzzle Palace, and the puzzles we never can put together are ourselves." He smiled for real this time.

Then, taking a breath, "This boy you loved..The one who laughed at you when you told him...what you felt...does the hurt go away..ever?"

"No, Matthew. I'm afraid not."

Matthew turned, dejectedly, to the door, opened it and the glass door, as Maples turned on the porch light again. Matthew had walked down the precisely laid out stairs and onto the ruler straight sidewalk, as he crunched through the snow, the package held in one hand. The only one he would get this Christmas.

"Matthew," Maples shouted in a long heavy voice. Matthew stopped, his hand ready to open the picket fence gate, "The hurt doesn't ever go away. But the love never goes away either."

"Which is worse?" Matt asked softly as he opened the gate and latched it closed.

"You have to decide. And if you work it just right, each takes care of the other. Each balances the other out when one gets more hurtful than the other." As Matt got in the car, tossing the present on the seat beside him, and turned on the motor.

"You can love, Matt," Maples said to himself as he watched Matt drive off. "You are young and you can love and be loved." He shivered as he watched the car drive off.

Then he walked out of the chill, back to the warm living room, remembered every second of Matt, and of Alton, separate, and together, turned on the revolving light for the Christmas tree, unzipped and knelt by the tree now orange, now red, now blue, now green, as he had when he was a child and alone at Christmas, and masturbated onto a Kleenex he had taken from his shirt pocket. It had always been a lonely time for him, and this made especially now less lonely. When he came, he felt foolish and sad and so envious. For what Alton and Matthew had done. Maples had not, had not even, ever, done a single sexual thing with another human being. How incredibly lucky Alton and Matt were and would be, regardless of how it turned out. They would be in the world. They would experience life. There would be friendships and romances and broken hearts and heart's delight. And they would be noticed. They would be loved. They already were.

And Maples hung his head shamefully, as he continued cumming a bit. And said a name, to himself. Nobody else ever heard. Except for the person whose name it was. Maples was to never say that name again. Not after the laughter.