Hustler at the Capitol
By: Kenneth Kirk
(© 2022 by the author)

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

kkirk@tickiestories.us

Chapter 10

We only drove a couple of miles out of Green River on I-70 before taking the US-6 exit for Price and Provo.  The drive was easy on a less-traveled 2-lane road through the desert mountains of central Utah.  Several clean and neat small towns broke up the two and a half-hour drive and we stopped in Provo near the BYU campus for lunch.

On the way, Mike educated me in the Mormon beliefs and culture, including the polygamy which was rampant in the nineteenth century and was still practiced quietly on compounds scattered around some of the rural areas of the state.  He shocked me with the news that boys would be driven out of the compounds when they hit puberty in order to preserve all the women for the patriarch and his special cronies. 

“Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief.

“As a heart-attack.  I’ve seen a few cute but dirty 14-year-olds begging on the streets in Salt Lake during my own childhood.  Some of them are lucky and get rescued by some do-gooder group.  Some are lucky and get picked up by kind men who will take care of them in exchange for sex.  Some of them are not so lucky and get drugged, robbed, beaten, raped, and killed, thrown away in a dumpster or the desert.”

“Holy shit, Mike!  That’s horrible.”

“It is, my friend.  It’s the dirty underbelly of Mormonism.”

“I thought Mormons were supposed to be really good people, like you.”

“Almost all of them are.  Thank you, by the way.  But those old family patriarchs consider themselves God in their own little kingdoms and are not going to be challenged.  They banish their sons and turn away as if the boys had never existed.”

After lunch we strolled around the campus of Brigham Young University, which was pretty quiet on this holiday Sunday.  The few people we did see were universally white, blonde and fair-skinned, handsome or pretty, well-groomed, well-dressed, and friendly.  We found a very pleasant bench surrounded by trees where we had plenty of privacy to talk while observing a section of the beautiful grounds.

I shared my observation of the people with my buddy.

He grinned.  “Straight out of Scandinavia, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen such uniformity of people before.”

“Yep,” he laughed, “we make beautiful babies who grow up to be beautiful people.  Unfortunately, the uniformity is not limited to how we look.  Everyone pretty much thinks alike, too, and that isn’t with a lot of originality, either.  Everyone has the same upbringing, the same values, the same ideas.  It’s kinda stifling to say the least.”

“Are you sure you’re going to like it here?” I asked quietly.

He stared out at the perfect lawn for a few moments.  Turning to face me, he said, “Only if I can stifle my own feelings that fall outside the Mormon expectations.”

That sounded incredibly sad to me.  I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by that.  Finally, I asked, “Do you mean your experiences with men?”

He chuckled.  “That, too.  But mostly I’m referring to centering your life around the church, letting the elders sort of tell you what to think, say, and do.  And being completely inundated with family obligations and expectations.” 

“Oh,” I nodded.  “It sounds challenging.  I don’t think I could live that way.”

“The weird thing is that it is a good life.  Everyone watches out for everyone else.  You are never left to sink or swim without help.”  He leaned close and looked pleadingly into my eyes.  “You see, if I stay here and marry Barb or another Mormon girl, I know exactly what my life will be.  I’ll be reliving my father’s life 25 years later.  I’ll work the farm with Dad until he gets too old.  I’ll have a bunch of kids, spend every spare minute at the church, become an elder, be taken care of by my own kids when I get too old.  So, you see, it isn’t a bad life.  It’s really rather good.  The problem is it is totally predictable and it doesn’t allow anyone to fully embrace their own uniqueness or pursue their dreams.”

“Such as moving to California and becoming an actor,” I stated for him.

He smiled ruefully.  “Exactly.”

I had a lump in my throat to imagine how repressive that life sounded.  “Mike,” I said my voice cracking a little, “I pray you can either fully embrace that life, let it become your dream, and be the happiest Mormon elder ever … or … that you can find the opportunity and the strength to follow your dream, for better or worse.”

“Thank you, Art.”  His eyes were damp.  “That’s the most supportive, loving thing anyone has ever said to me.”  He took my hand for a moment, squeezing it firmly.  “I’ll always have a special place in my heart for you, dude.  You’re the best friend I’ve ever had and, probably, ever will have.  I love you a lot.”

My throat was closed by that lump and my eyes were moist, too.  I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded, my mouth screwed up to hold back a sob.

“We should probably get back on the road now,” he said quietly as he released my hand.

*********

Half an hour later, Mike directed me to exit from I-15 onto a road with the very non-name of 12300 S.  We headed east toward the Wasatch Mountains, turned onto a country road that soon became a gravel road passing between pastures and occasional cultivated plots.  A couple of miles down the lane, he directed me to pull off into a field access road where a few hardy trees provided a modicum of shade.  I parked and killed the engine.

Mike slid across the bench seat until he was close beside me, put his arms around me and pulled me into a long, good-bye hug.  We kissed gently and tenderly for a few minutes.  This wasn’t the time for passion and lust, but for love and farewell.  My heart was tumbling with a mix of emotions, from love and joy to pain and sorrow.

He pulled a small scrap of paper out of his wallet and slipped it into my shirt pocket.  “My address,” he said.  “I’ll give it a year here, but after that no promises.  So, you must write soon and again when your address changes.”

“I will,” I promised.  “I will for sure.”

“Take me home now, babe,” he said as he finally released me.

“Okay,” I nodded as I started the car. 

He directed me further down the dusty road about a quarter of a mile to a large farmhouse nestled among some beautiful old hardwoods.  The house was painted a strong gray color with clean white trim and was carefully landscaped with shrubs and trees.  It had a long, wide porch facing the mountains a few miles away.  There was a barn and some other out-buildings scattered behind the house and, to one side of the house, a little playground with swings, a slide, some monkey bars and at least one red wagon.  I saw horses in a pen, some cattle in the pasture, and, in the distance, a tractor creating a mini-dust storm.

He had me stop 50 yards from the porch.  “This is it, Art.”  He leaned across to hug me, planting a quick kiss on my neck, then backed away.

“I love you,” I croaked.

“Me, too,” he said as he opened the door and stepped out.  He pulled his bags out of the back seat, closed the door, and began walking toward the house.  About then a woman with disheveled blond hair and an apron, came out the front door onto the porch.  She looked momentarily bewildered as she stared at him.  Then, she shrieked, “Mike!”  She stumbled down the steps to the ground and began to run full-tilt until she reached her son.  He dropped his bags just in time before she crashed into him so hard they almost landed in the dirt.

I watched the reunion for half a minute before I realized I was intruding on something very private.  So, with tears in my eyes, I turned the car to drive away.  Mike turned to smile at me as I moved back into the driveway to return to Denver.

*********

After I left the reunion of Mike and his mother, I stopped briefly at the pull-off where we had had our good-byes.  I was going to miss him deeply, but I was also aware of a profound sense of gratitude that my path had crossed with his.  He had made a mighty contribution to my life and he would always be in my heart.  I stood awhile among the trees shading the spot.  I noticed a place on one of the trees where the bark was gone, exposing the wood beneath.  I took out my pocketknife and carved a small, ragged heart in the tree.  I didn’t put initials or a cupid’s arrow or anything with it.  I just wanted to symbolize that some of my heart would remain there with Mike.  Feeling much better, I climbed into the Monte Carlo and drove away.

Later

My trip back to Denver was not fun like the trip with Mike, but it was beautiful, peaceful even, and it allowed my heart to settle and my mind to think a little about my future.  I decided that I could afford to get a real apartment and that I needed to make some friends, especially a gay friend or two.

In October, I moved into a small apartment a few miles from our office, bought some second-hand furniture and began trying to live like an actual adult.  I sent my new address to Mike with a note about feeling better about myself than I had before.

A couple of weeks later, I received a short note from Mike, along with this picture.

On the back of the picture he had written: “Me and Hercules off to work.  September 1979.”

“Oct. 24, 1979

Dear Art,

Being home has been wonderful after the years in the Army and the difficulties after that.  Mom has been so doting on me that my other siblings are getting a little jealous, I think.  Paid off my brother and that put us on better terms.  My three sisters welcomed me warmly and went back to their own agendas – boys, school, church, dance and voice lessons, boys, parties, and more boys.  I’ve enjoyed hanging out with my younger brother – he’s 17, graduates in the spring – we play catch and a little football.

I’m sure you are curious about how it’s going with Barb.  Hard to say, I guess.  We’re trying to get to know each other again.  She’s finishing at the U of Utah in May with a degree in history, planning to teach.  Of course, as you know, I’m not well educated, so I wonder if she thinks I’m beneath her.  I found out recently she had a boyfriend for a couple of years at the university, but he graduated and is now in New York serving as a church missionary.  So, she is kind of a free agent and seems content to hang out with me until she decides who she likes the best.

I’m glad you have an apartment now.  I think you’ll be happier.  Have you made any new friends yet?  I hope so, but if not, don’t despair.  I know you will soon.  You are such a good friend somebody will grab you up.

Thanks again for encouraging me so much while I was in Denver.  You’ll never know how important you were and still are to me.

Your Buddy,

Mike”

We exchanged Christmas cards in December and wrote letters every couple of months. 

Wonder of wonders, I met a guy flying home from Dallas after the Christmas holidays. 

George was a handsome, sexy, amusing, blond guy who sat beside me on the 2-hour flight.  We exchanged contact numbers and hints about liking men.  He called the day after we got home to ask me to dinner.  We had a great time, quietly came out to each other, and started courting.  It was a tremendous change in my life and I was truly happy about him. 

I was thrilled to share my news about George with my good friend Mike.

“Feb. 15, 1980

My dear Mike,

I hope your first Christmas back home was really special and that Santa brought you everything your heart desired.  (Do Mormons believe in Santa?)  I had a nice but quiet visit with Mom and Dad in Dallas, but life took a wonderful turn on the flight back to Colorado.  I met a man!

Not just any man.  His name is George and he is about a year older than me.  He is a voice major at UC in Boulder and he is very handsome.  He reminds me a bit of you because he is blonde, sex-y, masculine, kind, romantic (I’ve never told you that you are more romantic than you pretend to be.), and loving.  In 6 weeks together, he’s made me lovely dinners, taken me to a couple of campus stage productions, held my hand, made spectacular love to me, and generally captured my heart, totally and completely.

I know you will be very pleased for me.  I’m realizing how much you helped prepare me to have a boyfriend, so thanks, dude!

Your Pal,

Art”

Very soon, Mike wrote back.  He seemed to be ecstatic at my news, writing:

“Oh my God, Art!  That’s the best news I’ve ever gotten.  I’m so happy for you.  Nobody deserves to be treated so well more than you do.  Tell George if he hurts you, I’ll come to the university and rip his heart out and stomp on it!  But I know that won’t be necessary.  Something tells me George is the real deal.  Bless you, my friend!”

Things progressed well with George, who was working intensely on his doctorate, but still very invested in spending time with me.  I spent all that winter and spring with a big smile on my face.  People at work noticed.  I just said I was happy living in Colorado.  In April, I sent Mike this photo of George and me taken backstage after he had appeared as a part of the University’s spring musical review.

A couple of months later, I got a reply from Mike.

 “June 14, 1980

Dear Art,

I’m thrilled that you and George are doing so well together!  He sounds like such a great guy.  Thanks for the photo of you two together.  He’s gorgeous and you, my friend, look so much happier and – more peaceful – than when I last saw you.  I love your beard!  Good luck to you guys.

As we have wondered, Barb finally made her choice.  Her other beau came home on furlough from the mission and had the audacity to propose to her.  And she had the audacity to accept.

She was very nervous about telling me, but I took the news with very good grace.  (Actually, I was relieved.)  Everyone has been very supportive of me.  Obviously word is out because the young ladies at church have taken to chatting with me a lot more, dropping hints that they would love to go for a lemonade sometime and stuff like that.

But, I have decided to let my dreams live!

I leave for LA as soon as our harvests are done in late summer.  I said I’d give it a year and that is how long I will have stayed.  I’m bored and unfulfilled at the church and feel like I’m not progressing as my own self.  I haven’t told my parents yet, but I think they sense that I’m just feeling like a misfit.

Write to me here before September 1.  Please!

Your best pal,

Mike”

To be continued...

Posted: 03/18/2022