Jack and Sam

Meanwhile, things went on. Sam had fallen madly in love with Jack, Jack had fallen madly in love with Susana. Or so he said. We were all pretty sure Jack was gay but so deep in the closet he was doing whatever it is you do when you’re deep in a closet. I’d say something about Christmas presents but, the clichés, you know?

Jack had moved his locker to be closer to Sam. Jack had somehow wound up with a locker in Sophomore Hall, even though we were all seniors. The move was done out of convenience, Jack contended. That and the sophomores drove him nuts. However, as what Jack referred to as an unintended consequence, this meant that Jack and Sam began spending much more time together, more than two locker neighbors would have had they not been good friends. Or more, as Sam never tired of reminding me, than he hoped.

So, whenever we hung out – which we did on occasion – somehow Jack and Sam we’re always drawn to each other. Not in a necessarily gay way - ”no homo” Jack would crassly say, unaware of the homo of Sam – but in a homoerotic context, nevertheless. The relationship was analagous to the one between Frodo and Sam: you could imagine the two in softscreen and smiling as they giddily jumped up and down on the bed. Mostly it was just putting an arm over the other’s shoulder and playing with each others nipples as pubescent boys are wont to do, but still. One could imagine, and sometimes one did.

We decided to go to Big Ed’s for burgers that night. It’s one of the last of those old drive-up or drive-in or whatever they’re called burger joints where you park your car under this big awning and a girl on roller skates comes skating out and asks what you want. I guess it’s kind of like a Sonic only a lot more tacky. We ordered burgers and put the top down on Jack’s dad car and were sitting on the sides of the car talking and eating french fries dipped in milkshakes.

How’s Susana, Sam asked Jack.

Oh, I don’t know about all that, Jack said, I mean I think she likes me but I just feel so out of her league that, why even bother, you know?

Between Sam and I we had often said that Jack went for Susana because she was so far out of his league that it gave him an excuse for not getting with her. She was awfully cute, what with those tight, ass-sculpting jeans and her almost bow-legged walk that made all the boys wonder.

So, if not her, Sam asked, then who else is on the horizon?

Eh, there’s so many girls in the ocean, Jack said, making a noncommittal, gutteral noise, why settle down with any one girl, right?

So, then, there’s lots of girls, I asked, feeling left out of the conversation and missing the sound of my voice, which I very much liked and wasn’t alone in liking.

I can’t remember how but Jack was able to change the conversation so deftly and discreetly that none of us even noticed, and he kept the conversation up so well that it never came back to him and girls. At the time I couldn’t say if that was intentional or not, but I guess looking back at it now I could make a much better decision. Hindsight’s 20/20. Not me. I’m 20/100 or 100/20, whatever it is when you can see close but not far. I wear contacts, but they’re always making my eyes red and then people assume I’m high. I’m pretty “straight-edge” about drugs, but I don’t really mind the reputation of being a pothead. It’s better than the one about being a bookworm. That one’s true.

I was the first one dropped off that night, which made the most sense since I lived the furthest away. Anything about that night is all hearsay, so whatever you hear you have to take it with a grain of salt. I know everyone has been saying this happened or this didn’t happen, but nobody was there. I think people really just like to gossip, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.

Roger and Bob

When it snowed it did so with the all-powerful force of an angry God, and when it shone it got so hot that even refuge under a poplar tree with iced lemonade couldn’t save you. Had he known someplace else Roger probably would have hated it, but he had grown up and grown old here. Born, baptized, and buried he would always say when people would ask.

A hen clucked softly. Roger had named her Bob, a name that made him laugh whenever he said it. “Bob you quiet down in there,” he said to some guffawing of his own. He picked Bob up and put her under his arm, petting her back and scratching her thick plumage. She clucked appreciatively.

They slept together, Roger under the covers with Bob on top, hunkered down within herself in some crude imitation of a turtle in an effort to keep warm. “Good night, Bob,” he would say before going to sleep every night. And every night Bob clucked in reply.

When he awoke in the morning he pulled the covers around him and winced. The cold wasn’t yet in his bones, never would be, he told himself. Bob looked at him and clucked.

“I know, I know,” Roger said. He made a dash for his clothes, the floor complaining as he gave it his weight, threatening to give way. But layers weren’t enough in this weather. He fed the stove from a pile of wood stockpiled from summer. He coaxed the stove and said his morning prayers as he kindled the stove.

“Cold as frozen Hell,” he muttered to himself as the elderly and the lonely are taken to do. The stove flared and he shut the little door and latched it. “We’ll be warm soon, Bob. Sure enough we will.”

“Cluck, cluck,” Bob said.

He opened up the Good Book and ran his fingers along the words. It had been in the family since his grandfather, maternal side, the one that had fought and died defending the South from northern aggression. Though he couldn’t read he liked the pictures. He read to Bob what he thought the words said. Bob listened politely, cocking his head this way and that.

The only day Roger would leave home was Sunday. He walked to and from church, listened to the preacher preach and the choir sing. The preacher had told him once that everybody could read the Bible, even those who were illiterate, and Roger liked that. When he came back he was greeted by Bob, who stationed herself in the window and clucked happily when she saw him approaching. Roger would tell her the preacher’s story and sing to her the day’s hymnals, and Bob would listen.

“Cluck, cluck,” Bob said.

One day when he awoke Bob was already awake, milling about. Roger looked for the egg she had laid but found none. “Bob, where’d you put it?” he called laughingly from the bedroom. Bob clucked in reply. Sometimes Bob would move her egg around in a game of hide-and-seek.

After checking all the usual spots he looked at Bob sadly and said, “Bob, we’re getting old, me and you.”

That day he read to Bob from the Bible. Bob cooed and clucked, looking around for seed. Roger obliged her and lay some down, and Bob began eating, pausing to look up at Roger to encourage him to finish the story.

Every day was a little shorter than the day before. While there was still light enough to see Roger picked up Bob and put her under his arm. He scratched and brushed her, and Roger clucked approvingly, as she did. He took her outside and lay her down on her side on a tree stump, the remnants of which were stacked inside and burning in the stove. It was over quickly, and Roger was pretty sure she didn’t suffer any.

The Day Nothing Happened

Later, when people were asked what it had all been about, or what it had all meant, nobody could say for sure. Nobody even realized what was happening until it was too late. Some people got together and put out a documentary on it – they called it “The Day That Nothing Happened” – and everyone agreed that summed it up pretty well.

Like normal, everybody got up in the morning and drove to work. They stopped on the way for a coffee or a doughnut. Maybe they did some last-minute errand, returning those overdue movies or library books. People worked, they read the news, they had lunch meetings and conversations with coworkers about the weather and politics.

Nobody realized until the next day when The New York Times front page story was a giant question mark. We’re sorry, the story read, but absolutely nothing of any interest happened yesterday. Wars ceased, the hungry and cold were fed and warmed. Nobody died, nobody was born, nobody had an unexpected illness. For all intents and purposes, nothing happened.

People were stumped, perplexed, bewildered. Some were even frightened. Fringe groups began claiming it was a precursor to the Apocalypse. All manner of scientists rushed forward with speculations on what it could possibly mean. A freak occurrence – bound to happen, given enough time, some said.  Harbinger of doom, others replied.

But, of course, as we all well know, the world kept going. Eventually the day just faded from memory. Maybe somebody somewhere had discovered the importance of it all, but nobody remembered, and nobody really cared.

Chapter 3: Supernatural Aid

By the time he had found the shop he was completely soaked. It was the type of storm that one could never guess was coming. Maybe the air smelled a little off that day or an old man on a porch somewhere complained of a pain in his knees, but you and I never had a clue. People ran frantically, devoid of umbrellas and mussing up hair and moods.

The smell of musty, used books mixed with the smell of musty, wet, and unclean old man. He appeared to be a fixture of the shop – as though if he were to leave it would no longer exist or crumble under its own weight – but, from the look and the smell of him, he had just managed to get in from outside.

“Hullo,” he said, in that strangely British sounding accent that nobody, not even Joseph, was able to place.

“Gustavo,” the old man said.

“Sorry?”

He smiled. “I am Gustavo.”

“Oh, right. Joseph.”

He took to scanning the shelves, unsure of why Destiny had led him here. Books jockeyed for space, makeshift shelves for useless trinkets and dated keepsakes. A solitary lamp sat on the desk, giving off just enough light for the owner to scan his wares but leaving little else for customers. The inner reaches of the shop were so dark Joseph feared venturing lest he become lost among the refuse.

“Do you have anything on, um, multiple universes or that type of thing?” Joseph asked.

Gustavo’s smile widened. “On what?”

“Never mind,” Joseph mumbled.

“Fair enough,” Gustavo shrugged. He took to whittling on a large stick that must have been in plain sight the entire time but was the type of thing that we overlook when we’re not interested in it. He worked on a dragon. The staff told the story of dragons and gargoyles, dwarves and giants, skeletons and demons.

“Did you carve all that?”

“Every last bit,” Gustavo said, “and, it’s all autobiographical. It’s all up here.” He tapped his skull and produced a dull, thudding sound. “I call it my Staff of the Geats. Don’t you like how that sounds? Gustavo and the Staff of the Geats,” he said, obviously pleased with the way it rolled off his tongue.

“The Geats?”

“Couldn’t tell you what it means for the life of me. But still, it’s beautiful – eh?”

Joseph agreed. It was a beautiful staff, and the name did have a certain charm to it, regardless of whether or not it made any sense.

It was a moment before Joseph noticed the silence. It descended like a cloud – thick and sulfuric. The man stared intently at Joseph, as though peering into him. Joseph felt that his soul was exposed for this man to see.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, quizzically.

“I don’t know. I guess for a book or something on … something.”

“That wasn’t the question. Why are you here?”

Joseph squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. It bored into and through him. He felt the sudden need to cover his penis he felt so naked in front of him. “I – well. I was told to come here by a woman. She said I would find what it is that I’m looking for.”

“And what was this woman’s name?”

“Destiny?”

Gustavo laughed. “Joseph, Destiny is not a woman. Destiny is a concept, an idea! I think I know why you have come, but only you can tell me. I cannot tell me.”

And like that Joseph told him the story. He told him of his dad, of being visited in the night, of being told to come here to help his dad somehow.

Throughout, Gustavo sat motionless, expressionless. When Joseph finished, Gustavo sat there staring in space for a few moments. “Jesus,” he murmured.

Exasperated, Joseph turned to leave. Why had he told him everything? Why did he think he could help? This whole thing was beyond foolish. His dad was dead. What had he expected? Some magical trip to the afterlife to rescue him? And then they would live happily ever after and nobody would think that it’s the least bit queer that some man who had died was suddenly living again as though nothing happened.

“Wait, wait. I can help. See that door?” he motioned to the back of the shop. Joseph couldn’t see anything. “That door is a gateway to the Kingdom Underground. That is where you need to go, yes? I can take you there. These carvings? They are all from the Kingdom. I have been, many times. I am a trafficker of souls. Black market, mostly, but I’ll help you. Pro bono. What do you say?”

After what had happened to him in the past few days Joseph didn’t think for a moment that what he was saying was even the least bit absurd. It didn’t even occur that there was anything crazy or, Heaven forbid, nefarious in what the man said. Joseph simply replied, “OK.”

The Best Man

We came into Missoula airport, flying low over the sleepy city and a small strip of expensive houses overlooking it. It was a short flight and his mom, who had been drinking all day, had passed out once we got airborne, moments after struggling to make conversation over the din of the engine.

He was waiting for us at the bottom of the escalator. He looks just like me. I almost didn’t recognize him. We awkwardly hugged hello.

His wedding was anything but quaint. A friend had let them use their house, a log cabin atop a ridge and buried deep in the forest. I gave a piss-pour toast and we drank sparkling apple juice.

That night he put me up in a hotel. He stayed on a lower floor: I remember riding alone in the elevator. I had a view – I can’t remember of what – and I pulled the curtains up, stripped off my clothes, and jerked off over the city.