A Step Back

By: Brian Holliday
(© 2009 by the author)
Editor: Rockhunter

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

I woke with a start, my body covered in cold sweat. I’d been dreaming my usual bad dream, the one about being lost and roaming the streets alone, looking, always looking, but never finding. Naked, I shivered. Sometime during the night, the blankets had been pulled away from me. It looked like morning might be underway, but it was hard to tell through the curtain of sleet pelting the window glass. I sat up, turning to look back at Ed. He was sleeping like a baby, nose tucked under a fold of the blanket. Loose bedding had pooled on the floor on his side - probably the reason I didn’t have any. My head ached.

The bathroom was down the hall. I emptied my bladder and splashed my face with cold water, trying to rid myself of the dream. The robe I’d borrowed from Ed was in the bathtub. I couldn’t remember how it got there. I rolled it up and stuck it in the hamper. There was just enough light from the tiny window over the tub for me to have a good look at myself without flipping on the switch. Short black hair, square jaw, bloodshot gray eyes, fairly decent body, sorrowful expression – who did I think I was, anyway?

The guy sleeping so peacefully in the other room was straight – I knew that. He might have played around with his brother once upon a time, but he’d never done with a guy the things that we had done last night. What a monumental ego I must have to think that a one-night stand was going to change this man from the habits of a lifetime. Ed was just another normal guy who didn’t mind taking his pleasure where he could find it. I, on the other hand, had always known I was different, long before I knew a word for it.

The only reason Ed had noticed me was he was pissed at his girlfriend. Maybe he didn’t want to be with her anymore but, sooner or later, he’d find some woman that he did want, and I’d be out in the cold, again. Well, I wouldn’t stick around waiting for that to happen.

Most of my stuff was still packed. I grabbed my toothbrush and padded into the spare room, not turning on the lights, though the morning was still dim. I’d leave Ed with no more than a pleasant memory, and relieve him of the necessity of telling me what I already knew - that last night had been only a drunken, horny encounter between two lonely men. I figured it was kindest this way. Why embarrass either of us needlessly?

Five minutes later I was down the stairs and on the street, duffel and suitcase in hand, hat pushed down and collar pulled up against the damp and cold. Should I head for the bus station?

I couldn’t go back to the ‘Y.’ Just in case he looked, Ed would find me there for sure, and I couldn’t stand a face-to-face version of good-bye. The echo of his voice, saying he loved me, kept re-playing itself in my head. Way too many one night stands had taught me the kind of things guys say in the throes of passion, and how little they mean them afterwards. Shit.

A few cars were making their careful way down the wet streets, and when a taxi cruised by I waved it down, just wanting to get in out of the wind.

"You’re up early, buddy." The cabby opened the trunk and stuffed my bags inside. "Old lady throw you out?" He laughed.

"Something like that," I muttered. I was about to ask him to drive me to the bus station, but thought better of it. I liked what I’d seen of Philadelphia – the city of ‘brotherly love,’ they said. Maybe the name was what had attracted me in the first place. I decided I wouldn’t let one instance of bad judgment on my part ruin the whole city for me.

"Do you know of a cheap hotel, preferably on the other side of town?" I asked.

The driver whistled. "That bad, huh? Yeah, I know just the place, run by a friend of mine. I’ll make sure he gives you a fair deal."

The small room in the admittedly cheap hotel, though providing me my own toilet, sink and shower stall in one partitioned corner, was not as clean as the ‘Y,’ and the neighborhood was nowhere near as nice as where Ed lived. It was, however, as far across town as you could get and still be in Philadelphia.

Alone again after last night’s warm time with Ed, I found myself missing Ken. It had only been a few months since his death. Not that he and I had slept together as a rule. He’d assigned me a separate bedroom with a door that opened into his suite. Though he was always kind, I was savvy enough to know that Ken had never thought of me as an equal – the differences in our ages and backgrounds were just too great. But, in the time that we’d been together, I felt that we’d developed a genuine affection.

I’d served as secretary, companion and sometime lover, and Ken had been rich enough to flaunt moral conventions and all but spit in the face of anyone who dared challenge him. That included his family – two sons, three daughters, nine grandchildren and, at last count, six great-grandchildren. His wife had passed on years before I came on the scene. Not having to hide what I was while in Ken’s company had been very relaxing, and playing it ‘straight’ now was proving to be more of a strain than I remembered.

It was still early on Sunday and everything in this neighborhood but the churches was closed up until after noon, so I did the best I could – I undressed, showered, covered up with the scratchy sheet and thin blanket and caught up on my sleep. The hazy sunlight seemed to be enough to keep away any bad dreams.

What remained of Sunday afternoon passed in a blur. Outside of eating a cheese steak sandwich, my greatest accomplishment was to make a list of what I ought to do on Monday. Ken had paid me well, and I hadn’t had many outside expenses while living with him, so I was all right for cash. Still, my savings wouldn’t last forever. Anyway, I needed a job to keep myself busy and out of trouble. The Sunday paper wasn’t much help. The ads were mostly for jobs that took skills I didn’t have - like experienced steelworkers - or for simple day laborers of the big muscle, small brain variety. Not that I wouldn’t take the latter if I had to, it wouldn’t be the first time I got my hands dirty. So I circled the jobs I thought were ‘possible’ and determinedly pushed away thoughts of my life with Ken as well as the short and sweet interlude with Ed.

Trying not to think didn’t work very well, especially after I went to bed. I wasn’t really tired enough to go right to sleep. Exercise would have been good, but Ed’s gym was across town and I hadn’t found one in my new neighborhood yet. So I lay there on the narrow mattress, trying to find a comfortable spot between the lumps, while old memories played across the backs of my eyes.

* * *

I’d been hitchhiking along U.S. Highway 40, not heading anywhere in particular - just sort of touring the country, as cheaply as possible. Everything I owned was in an army issue kit over my shoulder. That pack was about all I had to show from my encounter with the ‘armed services.’ I hadn’t been drafted in ’43, due to some sort of a snafu in my records. When I realized Uncle Sam wasn’t going to call me, I went and joined up, but I should have saved myself the trouble. I never saw combat - in fact I was out on a medical discharge in six months. The captain who’d been helping me with my ‘condition’ wasn’t so lucky.

The whole military thing had left a bad taste in my mouth. If the government wanted men to fight their wars then, as long as they were good soldiers, why should the brass care what a man did in his spare time - or with whom? I’d decided there had to be something better out there for me, and set off to look for it. Mom and Pop were long gone and my favorite sister had kids of her own to worry about. I’d been by myself for some time.

Anyway, it was a sunny day, dust and tumbleweeds blowing along the flat prairie landscape. I had the strap of a full canteen over my shoulder and some rations in my pack so I was well fixed. A ride was always nice, but walking never hurt me and I was in no hurry.

I heard the roar of a big engine behind me and drifted closer to the fenced-in field so as not to risk being run over by some hot-shot. I didn’t look back, even when the noise got really loud. Pretty soon a big black Packard, a 1938 limo if I wasn’t mistaken - all chrome and shine - pulled up and stopped on the shoulder in front of me. Black market tires alone must have set the owner back a bundle – what with the war effort, you couldn’t get them any other way.

Well, it was fine with me if the rich man inside had to take a leak by the side of the road like everybody else. I kept walking. I was almost past the car, glancing over at the glossy black solidness of it, when the driver’s door opened. "Hey!" yelled a deep voice. "You want a ride or not?"

I turned; still not certain he was talking to me. Impatient, hands on his hips, he was a tall, broad shouldered black man, wearing a fancy navy blue uniform with brass buttons and a billed cap. From his expression, he was about at the end of his emotional tether.

I looked at him for a minute as he sighed, shifted from foot to foot and checked his wristwatch. He sure seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. I couldn’t imagine why he’d stopped for me; he didn’t seem like the Good Samaritan type. Were there passengers inside the car? I could see in through the windshield, but the rest of the glass was tinted and opaque. I admit, I’ve always had more than my share of curiosity, and I couldn’t help but wonder who was riding in the back of that expensive hunk of machinery.

"Sure," I said at last, and he motioned me impatiently toward the passenger door.

I tossed my gear onto the spotless, carpeted floorboard, and scooted my tail end into the soft seat cushions. The interior was trimmed in polished wood and smelled of wax, leather, and good cigars. The man slammed his own door and, without another look in my direction, put us on the road. I leaned back, wondering what sort of dirt my old blue jeans might be rubbing onto this spotless environment, then I relaxed and enjoyed the smooth ride. But the peace and quiet didn’t last for long.

"What’s your name?" The question was delivered in a harsh, unfriendly voice. I looked over at the uniformed man. It seemed very possible that his nose had been broken - maybe more than once. Boxer? Other than that and his put-upon expression, he was quite classically handsome.

"Sam Smith," I replied. "What’s yours?"

He snorted, then cast a furtive glance over his shoulder at the darkened glass panel above the seat back. I looked at it too, but from here it was only a mirror. "You can call me Jeffries," he said generously. I nodded.

"Where are you going?" was his next question. I shook my head. OK, I’d play along.

"Nowhere special," I said. "What about you?"

His chocolate-brown eyes narrowed. "I’m asking the questions!" he snapped.

The car was comfortable and certainly went a lot faster than I could walk, but since I wasn’t headed anywhere, I had nothing to lose. "I tell you what, Jeffries, I’ll answer a question and then you answer one – that’s fair, isn’t it?" He looked like he might burst a blood vessel, but he took a deep breath and nodded. "Your turn," I prompted.

"This automobile," he said slowly, as if reciting a memorized speech, "is en route to Topeka, Kansas."

That was an interesting way to put it. I smiled.

"What do you do for a living?" was next.

"Well," I said, "nothing right now but - carpenter, cook, mechanic, farmer - I’ve been all those. Why did you stop to give me a ride?"

He gritted his teeth. "I was ordered to." I nodded. Curiouser and curiouser.

"Can you read and write?" he asked then, his personal doubts plain in the tone of his voice.

I smiled. "Just English and Latin," I replied, casually, “and a little Spanish and French.” His thick brows drew down in a frown. Now it was time for my question. "Why do you want to know?"

"I don’t want to know," he spat, "but my employer does."

I took a look over my shoulder, but the dark glass was as enigmatic as ever.

I was relaxed, rather enjoying the game and ready for the next interrogatory but, instead, there was a discreet buzzing sound and Jeffries picked up the telephone handset that was hooked onto the dashboard in front of him. He listened intently, said "Yes, Sir," a couple of times and before I knew it the car was pulling over again. I wondered what I might have said to piss off his boss, but I didn’t really care. It had been a short ride, and an interesting one. When we’d come to a stop I reached down for my pack, but Jeffries shook his head. "You can leave that up here."

"Huh?" I replied. Jeffries just got out, opened my door, and motioned me toward the back of the car. When the rear door was opened, he gestured for me to get in. I did, and we were off again.

In spite of how dark the glass looked from the front seat, the view was clear as crystal from this side. I could see Jeffries’ wide shoulders, and I could also see my fellow passenger. I’ve never been a good judge of age, but his hair was longish and pure white, his face crisscrossed with a net of fine wrinkles - late sixties, maybe? His bright hazel eyes looked at me appraisingly. He smiled, and twenty years dropped away.

"You didn’t let Jeffries intimidate you, Mr. Smith. I like that," he said, holding out a pink, manicured hand. "I’m Robert Kenneth Xavier Kirkland."

Reflexively, I shook his hand, admiring his well-fitting black wool suit, white silk shirt and the subdued blue and black striped tie with a gold nugget stickpin. He was thin, but not too thin, and his handshake was firm.

"Thank you for the ride, Sir," I said, thinking I’d heard that name before - I just couldn’t remember where.

He was openly looking me over. "I’m afraid I have a selfish motive for giving you a lift." His voice was a cultured tenor. "You look like an intelligent young man, so I won’t beat about the bush - would you like to go to work for me?"

I suppose my eyes bugged out a little. "Excuse me?" I managed.

He laughed, showing perfect white teeth. "I apologize for being so abrupt. What I mean to say is that I am in need of a personal secretary and companion. I do a good bit of traveling and I hate to travel alone. I insist that those around me possess a certain degree of intelligence." He smiled again, letting his eyes wander over my chest and shoulders. "And I also prefer that my employees have certain… physical attributes. You have already met both of those requirements."

I lifted my eyebrows as he went on. "I’m told that I can be quite demanding as a boss but, I assure you, you will be well rewarded for your services."

He held my eyes for a minute. The wheels in my head were turning. I could always use a job. Why not go to work for this guy, see how the rich folks lived? I had no better offers and whatever he wanted to do with me, unless it was to lock me in a dungeon, didn’t seem like it could be too difficult or unpleasant.

"As you might imagine…" He smiled. "I am used to paying for what I want."

I shook my head. "Mr. Kirkland, I believe I might enjoy being your companion and secretary, but as for anything else… I give my affections for free, or not at all." I’d done a lot of things for money but, so far, I had avoided selling my body.

His eyes widened, then he threw back his head in laughter. "You mistake me, Mr. Smith, or may I call you Sam? I am far too old to indulge in the physical expressions of affection – paid for or not." He dabbed at his eyes with a square of white linen. "Your candor is refreshing, however, and I am complimented that you judge young enough to be able. I only meant to suggest that I prefer good looks in my entourage, especially in someone whom I will undoubtedly see every day. You’ll take the job, then?"

I nodded, feeling a bit foolish but, I hoped, not enough that it showed.

* * *

I had fallen asleep in spite of the lumpy hotel mattress, and it took me a while to figure out that it was the jangle from the phone on the bedside table that had awakened me so unpleasantly. I fumbled and finally picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Mr. Smith," chirped a cheerful, girlish voice. "You left a wake-up call for 8:00 a.m."

"Well, I’m awake," I grumbled, slamming the phone down and sitting up. The floor was like ice.

There was hot water, though, and I felt almost human when I had finished shaving and dressing. Pounding the pavement, however, was no more fun than I remembered from the last time I’d needed a job. No, I did not have three years experience in retail sales. No, I did not have a degree in accounting. No, I did not want to sell vacuum cleaners door-to-door.

I could have had more than one job, as a short-order cook or dishwasher, but each establishment that wanted to hire me was on the far side of decent and the offered wages made it hardly worth the bus fare. When I opened the door of a little bar and grill that night, I was pretty discouraged and my feet hurt. There was no ‘help wanted’ sign in their window, but the smell of hamburger and onions reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

I sat down on a barstool and ordered a beer and a burger with everything. About the time my sandwich arrived, the tiny stage at the back of the room lit up and a little guy in a loud suit appeared. "Ladies and gentlemen, Randy’s Place is proud to bring you another Amateur Night!" There was a little scattered applause, and then a guy carrying a tall stool and a guitar came out, sat down on one and played the other. He wasn’t too bad and a few of the twenty or so people clapped.

The burger had been good, and I’d finished it and most of the beer by the time we’d seen and heard a piano player, a girl singer, and finally a ventriloquist with a cloth dog for a dummy. That seemed to be it for the night, as ‘Randy,’ or whoever, came back out and asked if anyone else in the audience wanted a go at the stage.

Ever since I’d sung in the church choir as a boy, I had found that singing could improve my mood. Thinking about Ed, I went up and sang "Cry," the memory so fresh it almost made me do as the song suggested. I smiled and nodded at the applause, then sat back down and finished my beer. I was thinking about calling it a night when a stocky man with short brown hair and an air of self-importance came out of the back. He walked over and sat down next to me. "Buy you a beer?" he offered.

I looked him over. His brown eyes were hooded, not showing much. The blue suit he wore wasn’t new, but it was clean and freshly pressed. "Sure," I said, agreeably. The place didn’t look like a fag hangout to me, but who was I to refuse a free drink?

At a gesture, the bartender brought two fresh bottles. My new friend and I saluted each other and I took a sip. The beer was nice and cold.

After a few swigs in silence, he spoke. "I’ve heard better singers." I snorted - some compliment. "But I like your style,” he went on. “The people who come in here wouldn’t applaud the Second Coming – but they seemed to like you. Why?" He looked at me as though he really expected an answer.

I shrugged. "I like to sing, but I have no idea why people like to listen," I said, without much enthusiasm. He shook his head.

"Well, I guess whatever it takes, you’ve got it. You’re welcome to sing in here on the weekends, for tips."

I laughed. "No, thanks, I’m afraid I need a real job." I drank some more free beer.

He looked pained. "Well, what else can you do? Can you play the guitar or piano?"

I looked over at the beat-up spinet at the back of the little stage. "Not Beethoven - but a little ragtime, maybe."

His eyes narrowed and he studied me to see if I was laughing at him. I looked at the piano, wondering if it had ever been shined – or tuned. Finally he nodded, the barest possible smile quirking his lips. "Well, if you can play and sing too, I’ll pay you what the waiters get – OK?"

I scanned the current clientele. Unless this place filled up with big spenders on weekends, I doubted the meager pay would help me much but, hell, I enjoyed singing. How many people can say that about their jobs? I knew I’d have to look for something else to do during the week, but this was a start.

"OK," I said, finishing the beer and going over to try out the piano.

And, just like that, I had a job. I’d looked all day and yet, when I quit trying, a job fell into my lap. That had happened to me before. I had read somewhere – you could be either lucky or smart. To my way of thinking, lucky was better.

The good-looking bartender, who said, “Call me Jesse,” told me that the boss-man’s name was Tony Galesco, and that he owned a restaurant as well as this bar. The emcee, a short thin guy with reddish hair who waited tables most of the time, was Alvin. Jesse volunteered that the bar had always been called ‘Randy’s Place," nobody knew why – or cared.

Since this gig wouldn’t start till Friday night, I decided that tomorrow I’d be less picky and find some sort of a weekday job.

After another restless night in the hotel, I got up even earlier – without the wakeup call – dressed in jeans and my leather jacket and walked to a place I’d seen advertised in the paper – an office where they hired men for day labor. A mixed group of men were standing in the cold. Some looked at me with interest as I entered the tiny office; some never looked up at all. I took care of the paperwork and joined the guys outside. According to them, the drill was that trucks arrived every morning and hauled away the guys they wanted. All we had to do was wait. The weather was still nasty, and nobody thought there’d be much work, but we stood around under the awning out front and smoked. A fellow standing next to me said his name was Joe, bummed a cigarette and we got to talking a little. He was down on his luck and looking for something permanent, but in the meantime he’d take any money he could get. After a while an old Chevy suburban pulled up. The driver rolled down the window and asked if any of us knew anything about building greenhouses. Most of the guys just scratched their heads, but Joe said he did. I figured I knew enough to fake it and the man picked Joe and me along with a couple of others.

Our driver, Charley Deacon, owned a landscaping company. He explained that one of his greenhouses had been damaged in last night’s storm and if he was going to save any of the plants, it had to be repaired today. It was a simple structure; all that was needed was a lot of glazing, involving wood molding and small panes of glass. We set to work, climbing ladders when necessary and reinforcing the roof supports as well. Some of the plants had been smashed flat, but others just needed repotting and a chance at warmth and sunshine. I knew how they felt. By noon, the four of us had the place pretty much back together and the mess swept up. Mr. Deacon seemed pleased.  

We hadn’t even worked a full day, but the honest exertion had been good for me, and I was feeling a bit easier in my mind. Things would work out; they always did.

I thought we’d be leaving, but Mr. Deacon sat us down at a plywood table and brought in a hamper of food and sodas. The greenhouse was tight now, and beginning to warm up. Surrounded by the smell of growing things, the meal was almost like a picnic. Joe and the other two guys, Larry and Buck, were in a good mood, and we joked around like old buddies. It was nice to feel accepted.

As we were finishing the last of the chicken, Mr. Deacon came back and sat with us. “You boys are good workers; I thought this job would take you a lot longer.” I was kind of wishing that we’d dragged our feet a little, but it was done and that was all right. “I was wondering,” he went on, “if you’d like to do something else for me.”

The four of us looked at each other and everybody kind of nodded. Joe spoke up, “Sure.”

“Good, good.” Mr. Deacon smiled. “No one expected this bad weather to go for on so long. Still, I have contracts to keep and I think some extra hands are just what I need.” He went on to explain that his regular crew had been busy just keeping driveways clear for their customers. If the four of us would take over that non-skilled work, then his crew could get on with the planting – at least such things as would tolerate the cold.

So, that afternoon found us facing the weather head-on, bundled in overalls and slickers and wielding shovels and brooms. Joe had his driver’s license and a good knowledge of the city, so he drove us around in one of the company trucks that had a country church painted on the side of it and ‘Deacon’s Landscaping’ stenciled below. By five o’clock I had completely forgotten the fried chicken picnic – my thoughts were mostly of frostbite.

When Mr. Deacon dropped the four of us off near the jobs office, my first thought was to get warm. Looking at my shivering fellow workers convinced me that they had the same priority. “Hey, guys,” I offered, “how about a drink – I’m buying.” The stampede would have knocked me down, except for Joe and Buck dragging me along by the arms.

Three beers and a hamburger each did a lot to promote warmth, relaxation and camaraderie. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so comfortable around straight men but we’d worked side-by-side and, as far as these guys knew, I was one of them. We talked for an hour or so, mostly about the job and the money we’d been paid – as promised – for the day. It wasn’t long before Joe said that his wife would be thinking he’d frozen to death or maybe found a mistress, and Buck chimed in that his old lady would be on the warpath if he wasn’t home by 8. Larry said he was fancy free like me, so we ordered another round while the married men went off to do their duty. Larry mentioned the reasonable rates at the rooming house he was living in and told me that I should consider moving there if I was in town for the long haul. It sounded interesting and we made tentative plans for me to check it out, but considering that we had another cold day’s work ahead of us on the morrow, we went our separate ways as soon as the last drinks were gone.

That was Tuesday and the routine was pretty much the same for the rest of the week. The weather was just plain miserable. Even hard work didn’t warm us enough for comfort, and we looked forward to the lunches Charley (somewhere along the way we’d dropped the Mr. Deacon) continued to provide in the warmth of the greenhouse, and especially to a beer or two after the long day was over. I had sore muscles the first couple of days – unused to prolonged stretches of strenuous activity – but I felt better as the week progressed. Friday was the big day for me at “Randy’s Place” and I hadn’t even been there to practice. So, Thursday night I begged off having drinks with the guys. There was an unexpected (to me) chorus of ‘aww’s’ at that and a dirty look from Larry which really surprised me, so I tried to compensate by inviting them to come to my ‘debut’.

“You can sing?” Joe asked, mouth hanging open like he’d never heard of the pastime.

“Well,” I said modestly – actually feeling kind of foolish in front of the guys. “The bar owner seems to think so.” For that, I got laughter and a promise that they’d all come and watch me make a fool of myself. Joe even said he’d bring his wife. Ah, the pleasures of straight brotherhood.

“Randy’s” was all but deserted on a Thursday night, which meant I had space to get a feel for the piano and the stage. I even sang scales and stuff, which I hadn’t practiced since my choir days – too long ago to think about. The two drunks at the bar and the guy with the girl in his lap couldn’t have cared less if I’d done a strip-tease. Mr. Galesco was nowhere in sight and Jesse, the cute bartender, had been replaced by a blonde woman with frizzy hair and a cigarette permanently attached to her lip. Skinny little Alvin was the only waiter and also the only one who paid any attention to me. He seemed fascinated that the beat-up piano could make any music at all. There were a couple of clinkers that I had to avoid, but I played around them and at least Alvin thought it sounded good. I figured I’d sing a couple of my favorites to start out on Friday and then take requests, if there were any. Alvin found me a big glass vase, probably left over from a funeral arrangement, to collect tips in. A mayonnaise jar would probably have been plenty but, on the other hand, optimism couldn’t hurt. I was glad the bar was within walking distance of my hotel – the wind shoved icicles through my topcoat on the trip back and the weather man was predicting more snow by morning.

Shivering in my rented bed and making a mental note to buy another blanket as soon as possible, thoughts of that first Kansas summer came back to warm me.

* * *

Mr. Kirkland’s house, when we reached it, at the end of a long, well-maintained blacktop road winding through woods and dips in the plain, was built in layers, flat-roofed and blending into the land around it like something conceived by Frank Lloyd Wright. A little creek had been led into a detour and circled the structure like a miniature moat. The landscaping looked somehow perfectly natural and yet every leaf seemed to have been personally placed by an artist. Flowers of all description bloomed in tasteful profusion, and the cool scent of growing things was a treat after my long walk on the dusty plain.

Jeffries held the car door open while Mr. Kirkland and I got out, then grimaced at me when I was steered up the wide steps and he was left to carry my stuff. I barely suppressed a snicker.

The house was crawling with servants, from a butler who opened the double doors to a maid who offered drinks, but Kirkland himself escorted me up a broad stairway and down a hall to the room he said was to be mine, then left me there to ‘freshen up.’ Before I could close the door, Jeffries arrived with my pack and tossed it deliberately on the floor at my feet. “Thanks,” I said, giving him my sweetest smile. He rolled his eyes to heaven and turned away, presumably to seek his own quarters.

I had been told that ‘luncheon’ would be in the dining room in an hour and supposed that a wash would be a good idea. I turned, wondering where the bathroom might be, and was stunned by the most lavish room I’d ever seen. Larger than some houses, there was space for an oversized bed as well as a sofa, table and chairs, and a desk under one of two wide windows. All the wood was gleaming golden oak, and a wide door led to a bathroom the like of which I’d never seen before. The walls were done up in pale green tiles, interspersed with some painted in a fish motif. The tub was white porcelain and big enough for a swimming party. There was a glassed-in shower stall, a sink with faucets shaped like swans, and a very modern flush toilet along side what I imagined had to be a bidet – though I had never before seen one. Feeling brave, I turned a knob on the thing and almost caught a blast of water in the face. Suddenly I felt like Dorothy stepping into the Land of Oz.

A shower, shave, and a change into my cleanest and least wrinkled shirt and jeans made me feel a bit more presentable, though I knew I was still seriously underdressed. I was just about to try and find the dining room when there was a discreet tapping on my door and a girl in a black and white maid’s uniform came to show me the way. I could have been a dog for all the expression she showed. She led me down the stairs, around a couple of turns and into a mammoth room hosting a dining table that might have comfortably seated twenty. It was set at one end with only two places. Mr. Kirkland, nattily dressed in a royal blue smoking jacket with a white ascot nestled at his throat, was already seated at the table’s head. I assumed that the chair on his left was for me.

He smiled, again studying me intently from head to toe, then motioning for me to sit. He nodded - to himself, I thought. "Splendid," he said, then looked me over again. "You certainly look a bit more presentable, but I believe that a more suitable wardrobe is in order.”

Proper garments were a major topic of Mr. Kirkland’s lunchtime monologue, delivered between courses of consommé, chicken Florentine, and mixed salad. The plan was for Jeffries to accompany me on my shopping trip but, in the end, Mr. Kirkland went along too. I don’t think he trusted either me or Jeffries to pick out things that he’d like.

After the longest and most arduous afternoon of shopping in my life, including a haircut and manicure, I stood at last before Mr. Kirkland in a hastily altered outfit that was one of his personal picks. Three other suits would be delivered to the house later in the week. The extra shirts, underwear, and shoes made enough parcels to fill up the Packard’s trunk. I’d never had such a dressy and varied wardrobe in my life, and I stopped looking at price tags after the first one scared the crap out of me.

Kirkland’s smile was proprietary. “Why don’t we have dinner in town this evening?” he suggested. "I can’t wait to see the looks I get with you at my side."

I was sure the remark wasn’t actually meant as flattery, nevertheless, it made me blush. I didn’t remember ever feeling like a… trophy, before. I couldn’t decide if I liked it, or not. But since I had been hired only as a companion and secretary, I figured that, if people wanted to assume something else, then that was their problem.

Dining out in the circles Mr. Kirkland felt at home in made me grateful for what little training I’d had in etiquette. When in doubt about appropriate forks and such, I just followed my new employer’s example. It was during this meal that I actually began doing what I had been hired to do. A gentleman, dressed almost as nattily as Mr. Kirkland, came to our table to remind him of a charity function he’d promised to attend and I had occasion to write the engagement down in my freshly purchased notebook with my brand new fountain pen. But it didn’t escape my notice that the gentleman spent at least some of his time checking me out with a somewhat predatory look on his aristocratic features. I was positive that my new boss was quite aware of that fact as well, because he made a point of smoothing my hair and adjusting the carnation in my lapel a time or two while we had an audience.

The amount that I had been promised as salary was more than generous, and I figured that the smiles I had to pass out to all and sundry were just part of the job description. After a few more visits from admiring socialites of both sexes, I decided to ignore the games and relax. I didn’t see why I couldn’t enjoy myself while giving my boss his money’s worth.

* * *

The threatened snow arrived as promised in the wee hours of Friday morning and I was greeted with no less than six inches of the nasty stuff upon my exit from the hotel. The four of us kept busy on the job, having developed a routine by now. We were all pretty cheerful about it being the end of the week, even though we’d be called out again tomorrow if any more snow fell. The guys joked about my singing, wondering if I was more like Caruso or Sinatra, but I just ignored them except for dumping a little snow down their necks when the opportunity presented. Later in the afternoon, Larry retaliated, tackling me into a snow bank we’d just finished creating. With him on top of me, I yelled and laughed until I realized he was holding me awfully tight and not letting go. An elbow in his ribs took care of that, and I did my best to ignore him afterwards. Maybe all my new buddies weren’t as straight as they seemed.

We arranged to meet at the bar later and I went back to the hotel to shower and change, still wondering if Larry’s actions were more than everyday horseplay.

One thing that had happened to me after the incident with Ed was I’d become cautious about getting involved again - with anyone. I didn’t think little Alvin the waiter was like me, but I’d caught Jesse the bartender sneaking the occasional look at my butt, and now Larry was acting up. If I was encouraging them, it was unintentional. I had decided to be my own best friend for a while – try to get my life in some kind of order before plunging into the emotional maelstrom of any kind of relationship, however brief. A few girls even got in on the act - one a cute little waitress at the diner I frequented early in the mornings before work. She was nice, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I returned her smiles and glances with nods and pretended I didn’t see anything else. She might not know it, but there was one hell of a gulf between us - and the bridge was out on my side.

I decided I’d have to be more careful around Larry. I was happy with the four of us just being friends and didn’t want to lose that for a possible roll in the hay.

Friday night at the bar wasn’t all I might have hoped for. My ‘buddies’ showed up for a couple of beers, Joe and Buck with their wives. Both ladies seemed nice, complimenting my singing – probably out of politeness. Larry stayed on even after they left, chugging down beer after beer, mixed with an occasional shot of whiskey. I had no idea if he was normally a big drinker or not, but a warning light was beginning to blink in my head.

Randy’s Place was maybe half full, and my tip jar, which I’d primed with some pocket change and one lonely single, gained a little weight over the evening. The crowd was mostly couples and I got a lot of requests for romantic standards like “Stardust.” It was too bad there wasn’t any room for dancing. The joint closed about 2 a.m., and Larry was still there, nursing his last beer. It was cold and clear outside, with no sign of snow, but I didn’t relish the short walk back to my place. I wasn’t really surprised when Larry followed me. His blue eyes were bloodshot now and a little vague, but he still had the square jaw and stubbled chin that gave me a twinge below the belt. He was an inch or so taller than me, and I knew there were muscles under that jacket.

It wasn’t that I didn’t find Larry attractive - for once in my life I just wasn’t ready to fall into the sack with the first good-looking guy that asked me. Maybe this time I wanted more than sex. Maybe I wanted a partner. Maybe I missed Ken, though we had never really been partners. Maybe I missed Ed. Whatever the reason, it just felt wrong.

Larry wrapped one of his big hands around my elbow. “Why don’t you come back to my room with me, see if you like the place?” His voice sounded normal, except for a slur now and then. I shook him off.

“I think I’ll go to the hotel tonight. Maybe some other time.” I didn’t want to hurt his feelings if I didn’t have to.

He stepped closer, until I could smell the waves of alcohol on his breath. “I thought we were buddies. Buddies should stick together.” That gave me a visual that I didn’t want.

“Look, man, you’re drunk. Go on home and I’ll see you Monday, OK?”

I turned away and walked off, leaning into the wind, but I heard a heavy step and then Larry threw his weight against me, pinning me to the worn brick wall of a shop. His face hung above mine, silhouetted by the streetlight. “You going to tell me you ain’t a homo?” he hissed. “Or maybe I’m just not good enough for you?”

I wanted to be pissed, but it was late and I just felt tired. Why did this kind of thing always happen to me? “Larry,” I said slowly. “I’ve always heard that it takes one to know one.”

That was when he hit me. Just a solid right to the gut – my breath whooshed out and I was thankful for the extra padding of my coat and that he was too close to get much weight behind it. I took a breath and straight-armed him. He lost his already precarious balance and his ass hit the sidewalk. But he jumped right up and was back in my face almost immediately. “You saying I’m a pansy?”

I pushed him again, not as hard this time. “Isn’t that what you’re saying about me?”

Larry’s shoulders rose and fell with the force of his breathing. He looked at me, and then his eyes dropped. “I just thought that we… that we could… I’m sorry man. I like you.” His eyes came back up, but all the anger had gone out of them.

“It’s alright, buddy,” I said. “I like you, too. But not that way, OK?”

He looked down again. “Yeah. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have said….” He trailed off.

“Forget it. Go home, get some sleep, and I’ll see you on Monday.” He nodded a little and I turned away, hoping he wouldn’t go looking for another playmate and find worse trouble than he’d had from me.

I can’t tell you why I turned him down. I know I thought about it for a long time before I finally fell asleep. It was damn rare for me to turn down anybody – and Ken was no exception.

* * *

It was after midnight and dark in my bedroom when I heard the connecting door open quietly. It wasn’t the first such occurrence in the month I’d been working for Mr. Kirkland. Before, I’d always played possum – kept my eyes closed and eventually fallen back to sleep. Tonight I decided to discreetly see what was going on. My eyes slitted, I was surprised to see a dressing-gowned Mr. Kirkland silhouetted in the doorway, faintly back lit by a lamp in his room. He didn’t approach my bed but, as my eyes adjusted, I was sure I could see his hand untie the belt of his robe and begin to move rhythmically near his groin. There was no sound but the occasional stifled grunt or quiet moan. Had he come here often to watch me sleep? My course of action seemed obvious.

“May I help you out with that, Sir?” I spoke quietly so as not to startle him.

His whole body jerked a little anyway, then he chuckled. “Since my secret is out, I suppose you may as well.”

I thought maybe he’d come over and get in bed with me, but he turned around and went back into his own room. Maybe he felt more comfortable there.  I always slept naked whenever I could enjoy clean sheets, and Mr. Kirkland had certainly provided those. He’d also bought me a dressing gown, but I didn’t bother with it, just got up and followed him as I was.

He drew off his robe and then sat on the side of his big bed, watching me while I walked toward him. The familiar fire of lust lit his eyes, but he controlled it well, only continuing to stroke himself slowly through the fly of his pajama bottoms.

“What would you like me to do, Sir?” I asked – all of a sudden not quite sure if a gentleman of his caliber would be satisfied with the kind of tricks I knew.

He sighed, lying back, hands over his head, letting me see his hard, circumcised member clearly for the first time. “Surprise me,” he whispered.

I did my best.

When his breathing had returned to normal, he laughed, throatily. “I haven’t cum that quickly in years.” I smiled from my position between his legs, licking up the last of his cream. I was trying to decide if it was time to head back to my own bed or if I should stay a while. Mr. Kirkland made the decision for me. Reaching out, he pulled me up beside him and grasped my hard dick in one strong hand. His blue eyes smiled into mine.

"My friends call me Ken,” he said, “and, in view of recent events, Sam, I believe that might be appropriate for when we are alone."

So, our relationship changed, or rather, new duties were added to my job description.

I never found out what Ken had done to make all his money. I did learn that his business interests were under the name of Kirkland Enterprises, and that his main job was ‘consultant’, whatever that was. It seemed to mean that he traveled around the country and consulted with companies who wanted his advice. I went with him and sometimes took notes, but none of it ever made much sense to me.

I had nice clothes, a grand place to live, an easy, interesting job that paid well, and a sexual partner that cared about my feelings. What more could anyone want? Ken didn’t even mind the afternoons I spent with big, bad, Jeffries in his little apartment over the garage – as long as I was around when he wanted me.

What with traveling and parties, summer homes on the east coast and winters in the south, Ken had nearly everything, and he shared all of it with me. Looking back, the five years we spent together went by in a snap. What Ken couldn’t buy was time…

* * *

It was Thursday evening again, and I was fiddling with the piano at Randy’s Place. The damn thing had been so out of tune it was pathetic, and compensating for ‘off’ keys is a quick way to ruin your ability to play. Mr. Galesco couldn’t have cared less about the instrument, but it turned out that Charley Deacon knew a guy who knew pianos and now, though it still could have used some furniture polish, the old instrument sounded almost new again. I knew little Alvin was watching me, leaning on the broom he was supposed to be pushing, but I didn’t mind. It was kind of complimentary, how he always managed to be nearby when I was practicing. He cleared his throat and I looked over and smiled. “What’s up, Alvin?”

He grinned, his ugly mug lighting up with the expression. “You know a lot of songs, don’t you, Sam,” he stated more than asked.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” Some people had a gift for numbers or languages, mine was music. Songs seemed to stick to me – even ones I didn’t particularly like. Alvin sidled closer, looking at me like I was Superman.

“I bet you could sing any song,” he said, “any song at all. Couldn’t you?”

Sometimes I wondered if Alvin’s bulb couldn’t have been a little brighter, but he was nice enough. “I dunno, Alvin. Maybe…” I let it trail off and turned back to practicing. He smiled as if his face would split in half, and went back to his broom. I laughed to myself; Alvin’s praise had got me to thinking. After a while I thought up a gimmick. When I mentioned it to Mr. Galesco, he gave me the go-ahead. Why not? It wouldn’t cost him anything and might even bring in more people to buy his booze.

The idea was that I’d offer to sing requests – any song that anyone could name. If I knew it and would sing it they’d put a of couple bucks in my tip jar. If I didn’t know it, I’d buy them a drink. To avoid phony songs, the person who came up with one I didn’t know would have to sing or hum a few bars of the song himself. If there were many that I didn’t know, it would put me out of business in a hurry, but it sounded like fun. I’d always loved a challenge.

That night, everybody that worked at Randy’s Place tried to help me out by suggesting every song they could think of, and there weren’t any I didn’t know. At work I told the guys about it and Charley – Mr. Deacon – set up a little radio so we could all listen to the hit parade while we worked. It made the time go faster.

The weather had finally turned, so our crew was out of the job of clearing snow. I, for one, didn’t mind at all. I guess we all thought we’d have to go out looking again, but Charley surprised us. He had plans and materials stacked in his garage, all ready to build another greenhouse – a more modern one, this time, with a better design. Turned out that between the four of us we had all the skills we needed – carpentry, wiring, plumbing and Buck had even worked pouring cement. Charley was pleased, not only giving us the go-ahead, but raising our salaries a substantial sum.

Even if this turned out to be our last job for Charley, it was good local work experience. With luck, it wouldn’t be long before I could afford my own apartment. After a few weeks in that crummy hotel, having my own place would be heaven.

Larry and I had made peace on Tuesday. He didn’t come in on Monday, calling to plead an upset stomach. I don’t know what the boss thought but, after all the booze he’d had, I believed him. When we took a break, Larry drew me aside and said he hadn’t meant anything – he’d just been drunk and lonely. Seeing Joe and Buck with their wives had made him want someone to be with too. He said he wished he’d just asked me to come over and spend some time – never brought up the sex at all. I sympathized, suggested he find a girlfriend, and never admitted a thing. After all these years, I was ‘passing’ for straight. I hated to lie, even by omission, but that seemed easiest for now.

The ‘Song Challenge’ – the name was Tony Galesco’s suggestion – went well. Randy’s Place was busier on Saturday night than it had been on Friday, and by the next weekend we were jumping. Gambling was illegal, of course, but I personally would have bet that Tony had a little back room action going on how many songs I’d miss.

And it did happen. One was a spiritual – “The Lord Shall Lead” – and, when I came up empty, the lady herself got up and sang the whole song a-capella. She had a beautiful, deep, and smoky voice that filled the bar to the rafters. I learned she was a soloist at the First Baptist Church. I didn’t mind paying; hearing her sing was worth a lot more than the price of a drink.

But I always knew more songs than I missed. People seemed to enjoy the ‘act’, clapping, coming back on other nights and bringing friends. My tip jar filled up, the boss was happy, things were looking up. I kept promising myself I’d find an apartment, but I kept busy instead – partly because it left me less time for remembering.

* * *

Ken didn’t die in my arms.

Even though we continued to sleep together now and then – whenever he asked me – it had become more about cuddling than sex. He never told me the details, but I went along when he visited the doctor in town, and those visits were becoming more and more frequent. After five years of close companionship, I knew Ken’s moods. He was worried, though he never talked about it. His lawyer paid several visits to the house, and Ken was always tired and grumpy afterwards. I had developed some skill as a masseur, and he would often ask me to rub his neck and shoulders before bed. I did what I could to smooth away his tensions.

Ken’s birthday was in the spring and there were big plans in the works for his 83^rd, not that it was his idea. He had been receiving an unusual number of letters from his children, especially his oldest daughter. She had only visited once since I had come along, and she let me know then that I was only a servant and was not to be present during her time with her father. She really got mad when Ken made it clear that either I would stay in the room or she could leave. I had a rough time keeping my face politely blank.

Maybe the family bribed the doctors for information, or just kept track of the increasing number of appointments but, for whatever reason, the whole gang were all determined to help Ken celebrate his birthday.

I’d never thought of him as old before. Now I couldn’t deny the deeper lines in his face and the way his eyes often betrayed his pain. I would have done anything in my power to help, but I couldn’t think of anything except to just be there.

I suppose the party was a success. The great-grandkids were young enough to be sweet and loving, and their innocence went a little way toward counteracting the obvious scheming of Ken’s children. I never knew what was in his will, but I doubt their insincere fawning caused him to make even one small change in it.

Ken seemed to rally a bit during the next few months. The doctors had found some powerful new drugs and we went out to eat and even to a play or two in town, just like we used to. But one night, Ken called me to his bed, asking if he could hold me while we slept. The arms that circled me had somehow become only skin and bones. I lay awake all that night, listening to breathing that stopped for much too long – wondering if it would ever start again. Ken didn’t leave his bed after that night, and he died within the week.

I had packed only a little of what was mine, wanting to be long gone before his family came to take charge. But I stayed in town for the funeral, sitting in the back row of a church Ken had never attended. I left before anyone could see me cry.

I had a new life now, or at least a pretty good start on one. I hadn’t had many friends while in Ken’s employ but I’d never been lonely. Now I knew some nice people, but was lonely almost all the time. When I had time, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me.

* * *

I’d been doing the “Song Challenge” for about a month. I’d been afraid the novelty would wear off, but people kept coming in to hear me and tips were picking up, too. 

It was about eleven on a Saturday night and I was taking a little break, when Alvin handed me a folded slip of paper. "Guy over there has a request. He says he bets you don’t know this one but, if you do, he’ll pay double if you let him sing it with you." I glanced at the paper. The handwriting almost seemed familiar. I looked again. The song request was “Cold, Cold Heart.” Alvin nodded over at a table in the corner. My heart stuttered – it was Ed.

Had he just come in? How long had he been sitting there? Why hadn’t I noticed him? More important, what did he want - and why did I care? Was this just a coincidence, or had he come here on purpose? Part of me was glad to see him – overjoyed was more like it – but the rest was plain scared. Conflicting emotions made waves in my gut.

I actually thought about running out the back door, but he stood up and I knew he’d just follow me. It took all the courage I had to walk over to his table. He looked just the same – a little more tired, maybe. My fingers itched to touch him, remembering the texture of his soft blonde hair. My memory hadn’t exaggerated the warmth of those golden-brown eyes – except they were flashing now, little streaks in them like lightning. Even with the background noise of the bar, his voice sounded loud.

“Damn it, Sam,” he said, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. The ‘Y’ didn’t know anything, and I checked around but nobody else had seen you. Then Mrs. Johannes was walking her dog and said she had seen you with me the night before and that you’d gotten into a cab early the next morning.”  He blinked rapidly. “I didn’t know what to do until finally I thought to look for places where people sang.” He took a breath. “Do you have any idea how many places there are in Philadelphia where people sing?” he demanded - but he didn’t pause for me to answer. “I worried that you had left town, but somehow I knew you were still here, somewhere.” He stopped to run his sleeve across his eyes.

He’d done all that - looking for me? I was speechless.

“I was so scared when I woke up that morning and you weren’t there. I thought maybe you’d gone out to the store and gotten hurt or something. Then I noticed you’d taken all your stuff. I couldn’t believe that you’d used me and then dumped me – without even a note, damn it!” I started to protest. It hadn’t been like that.

The bar was almost full and, though the jukebox was playing, people at nearby tables were looking over, wondering what we were up to. If I wanted to keep my job, we needed to keep the noise down. But logic wasn’t doing me much good, right then.

“But… but… you’re straight!” I told him.

“Who says?” Ed’s voice was rising. “Maybe I had acted straight – but that was before I met you!”

And then I got mad. “I knew you’d feel different in the morning!” I told him, my volume going up too, but Ed was having none of it.

“Shut up! Sure, your leaving made me wonder if I had meant it when I said ‘I love you,’ but you didn’t know anything for sure, and you couldn’t even wait to see how I felt the next morning. You figured you already knew how it would go. You didn’t even give me a chance. You didn’t even leave me a note!” he repeated, louder this time.

He was panting now, face red and eyes beginning to bulge; still, I’d never seen a prettier sight in my life. My anger evaporated all at once and, forgetting my job and everything else, I gathered him up in mid-sputter, planting one on his lips like I’d been wanting to from the moment I saw him. Ed didn’t hesitate for more than a second, and then we were wrapped up so tight I had trouble catching my breath – not that I minded.

"What the fuck is this?!" The voice of my nighttime boss, Tony Galesco, was louder than even Ed or I had been. "You guys need to take it outside… now!”

I hadn’t noticed the laughter and catcalls before. There was even some applause from the patrons and staff, including Alvin and Jesse. Ed and I jumped apart and I grabbed his arm, dragging him through the crowd and out into the alley. He followed me, almost walking on tiptoe. Even in the dim light, his eyes were still shining.

“Does this mean you want me to come back?” I asked, closing the door behind us. My voice sounded thin and had a little catch in it.

Ed touched my face then, very deliberately tracing a line all the way from my forehead to my chin with one fingertip. “You dumb shit,” he said softly, suddenly giving my cheek a stinging slap with his open palm, hard enough that it whipped my head sideways.

Then he kissed me.

The End

Thanks to Rock Hunter for his excellent editing.

Posted: 12/18/09