Gerry soon discovered that Frank had left for parts unknown. Without even saying a single word. Without leaving a note of explanation.

Years later, Gerry would come to the realization that Frank had used him. Used him for his own sexual gratification. Used him in order to get out of the Navy. There was no love there, from Frank. There was no reciprocation. There was only the opportunity of an early release (in more ways than one!), with no regard to any resulting outcome.

However …

After Gerry signed-out his Navy issued clothes (including his duffle-bag, his dog-tags, and even his shoes and skivvies), he received his travel chit to San Francisco and his final pay. His single, small piece of hand-carried luggage was stuffed with the few civilian clothes he'd either purchased or had had sent to him from home.

He picked it up, slowly walked down the long corridor, with head bowed in order not to look into any of the gawking faces. Finally he reached the door, and as his hand touched the doorknob, he suddenly thought of Zed.

Gerry quickly turned and scanned the long, narrow passageway, hoping against hope for just a glimpse, so that he could rush to him and proclaim his sorrow for having 'outed' him. But such was not to be the case. Shit! Someday, our paths will cross … they've just got to! I've got to apologize, even if it means…

He dared not think what kind of retribution or punishment Zed would mete out for ruining his life. But Gerry knew and affirmed to himself that at some time in the future, he would say, 'I'm sorry.'

Feeling the pains of sorrow and of emptiness and of finality, he very slowly turned again, and left the building for the last time, stood at the curb, and waited for the bus.

During the ride from BESSRECSTA to the train station in New London, he was downtrodden, thinking, weighing the pros and cons, debating with himself.

So, with only a tiny bit of hope in his heart, Gerry cashed in his travel chit, purchased another ticket to a closer destination, and had quite a bit left over.

On the twelve-hour trip, with stops and half-hour layovers in Worcester (Massachusetts), Manchester (New Hampshire), and Portland (Maine), he was happy once again, with the thought of some new adventure, if only for a little while; this time, with a new prospect.

Needless to say, once departing New London, he settled back, closed his eyes, and the clickety-clacking of the railroad track began flashing vivid scenes from his memory of the happenings of the past seven hours.

He remembered the wonderful mutual salutes between the doctor and himself, and everything that that simple courtesy had meant. And the mutual hug.

He remembered the blurting out of his youthful, intimate discoveries, and the anger he felt at the military for preferring a liar to one who would willingly and openly declare a sexuality different from that of the bigoted, mis-understanding, UN-loving, condemning, so-called, 'Christian' majority of U.S. citizens. Yes! He was angry at those with whom he'd grown up, thinking that they were all the embodiments of 'The Truth.'

And yes, he realized that … someday … he would learn to forgive their ignorance. But that 'someday' would turn out to be far in the distant future; perhaps even into another incarnation.

But then he thought of the feared, but anticipated, telephone call from his beloved grandmother. And his trying to lie to her. But she already knew. She'd even suspected, since he was about eight years old. Why didn't she tell me, THEN? he wondered.

He remembered how she had made him keep the doctor's nurse waiting a moment longer, just so that she could tell him something very important to his own well-being.

She'd said, "Honey … no matter what you've done, no matter what you are, or where you've gone, or who you've loved, or will love … I've always loved you. And just remember this … I always will." Until her dying day, and perhaps even beyond, she would love him. And his love for her, would help her across The Great Golden-White Threshold -- but he didn't know it at the time. That would come to pass, many years in the future.

But he did know that he had to call her as soon as he arrived in Rockland!

As much as he tried to hold back from making a public spectacle of himself, his eyes began to tear, his nose to run, and his throat to feel choky. He retrieved the handkerchief from his right rear pants-pocket, dabbed his eyes, blew his nose, snorted any remaining mucus back into his sinuses, and vocally cleared his throat.

He knew he had to change his thoughts quickly, or he'd end up bawling like a baby. He felt so terribly alone for the first time in his life. But he had to move onward. Something seemed to be pushing him, ever forward, to find new meaning and new purpose in his life, which had been altered only by his own damned innocence and naiveté.

He would learn. He would survive. Things could only get better.

The countryside passed along, beyond the window. At least, no one could see the redness of his eyes if he were looking outward.

Gerry's eyes darted here and there, trying to absorb everything within their vision as the train slowly progressed toward his new adventure. Soon, his fingers began tapping his thighs as he softly began whistling that old swabby's frolicking tune that momentarily brought back happier memories of his bus trip to Groton, only six-and-a-half weeks earlier … but with a few words changed here and there.

Yes, Gerry had finally accepted what the Navy had forced him to acknowledge; that fact being … that he was homosexual.

*****

The constant, repetitive sound of the clickety-clack as the wheels rode the tracks; the steady rocking back and forth of the railway car; the passing scenery; the on-coming of the dark nighttime sky; the occasional telltale whiff coming through the open windows of the smoke from the coal-stoked engine; all slowed Gerry's thoughts and weighed rather heavily on his eyes, bringing on tiredness and eventual closure.

The mid-August, 1949, First Quarter moon had risen and was near setting into the western horizon.

Somewhere along the stops and layovers, the coach had become full. Gerry was restless, moaning, mumbling unintelligible words, beating the air with his balled-up fists, kicking his feet and banging his heels on the wooden floor of the third class coach, fighting some unknown monster, like a young child throwing a temper tantrum.

And then he was crying, tears streaming from his closed eyes. And between the choked sounds emanating from his throat, he was begging, "No. No, Sir! Please! I don't want to. Please, Sir, don't make me. Don't make me go!" His voice grew louder; "I want to stay;" then louder, yet again, "I want to stay," and finally he screamed, "I … want … to … STAY!" He was sobbing. And shaking uncontrollably.

Several fellow passengers, sleeping in their upright seats nearby, had suddenly awakened from the disturbance. One of them, an older, huge, gruffy-looking giant of a man with tousled dirty-blond hair, several days of unshaven beard, and wearing scruffy, rank smelling clothing, was sitting in the adjoining seat just to the right of Gerry. Cautiously, he turned in his seat, put his left arm around Gerry's shoulders, put his right hand around and behind Gerry's head, turned the younger man slightly toward himself, and pulled his chest and face into his own breast.

"There, there, young man. Shhhhh, shhhhh, it's all right now; it's all right, shhhhh. You were dre…"

The foul odor of the man shocked Gerry to his senses, he jerked his head back and brusquely pushed himself away. "Wha…" he interrupted the other. "Whe…?"

The stranger's peaceful gaze and calming smile took hold of Gerry and eased his tenseness away. He closed his eyes and began sobbing once more, though in silence. His lungs and chest heaved with his erratic, choppy breaths.

The giant gently motioned for the other passengers to return to their resting, their reading, their sleeping, whatever. Everything was under control.

Once again, Gerry felt himself being drawn back to the smelly man's chest. He didn't resist.

"Now, now, young fella, everything's going to be all right. You're safe. No one's forcing you to do anything that you don't want to do. Just relax and let go. Shhhhh. Relaax and let go. Relaaax and let go. It's done. It's gone. Just relaaaax. It's behind you, now. Relaaaaax."

The man's gentle, soothing, hypnotic voice had it's desired effect, and soon, Gerry was breathing easily, no longer crying. He even wrapped his arms around the gentle giant's waist … at least, as far as he could reach. His legs bent at the knees, and his feet nestled into the seat. His posture showed what looked like an over-grown little boy, stretched across the seats, yet cradled in his loving father's lap.

A very soft, comforting voice began singing.

Then the words disappeared, but the older man began humming. Unconsciously, Gerry not only heard the sound, but felt it, too, vibrating between their intimate contact. For the first time in nearly three weeks, Gerry was sleeping peacefully; peacefully, at last, on what some others might have considered a sub-human dung heap.

*****

"End of the line. Rockland, Maine. Coming up in ten minutes," announced the porter, walking through the coach. "All passengers will disembark. Ten minutes. Rockland, Maine."

Gerry felt some light, persistent taps on the back of his left shoulder, and as his waking consciousness returned, he felt rested and at peace with all that he had left behind.

Sitting up, with his feet once more on the floor, he yawned and stretched and twisted, ridding his body of the several kinks and the tightness brought on by the couple of hours of sleeping in a somewhat awkward position. He looked out the window to his left, and saw that it was still dark outside. He yawned and stretched yet again.

Taking several short little sniffs of the air around him, he slowly turned his head to the right and quickly looked up and down at the huge, dirty older man sitting next to him. The man was smiling at him.

Before Gerry could formulate any thought or speak any words, the man inquired, "Feel better, son?"

"Sir?" Gerry asked, as he sniffed the air again, as a slightly restrained but disgusted, almost nauseated expression spread across his face.

"Please forgive my appearance, young man, and I do apologize for my foul odor. I shall move to another seat if you would be more comfortable … which, I am sure, you would be." He made to take his leave.

"Oh, no, Sir. No. Please. It's okay. I didn't mean to insult you, Sir," Gerry hurriedly apologized, trying to ease any embarrassment he might have caused. The man resumed his seat as Gerry continued. "It was just so unexpected, here on the train. I'm sure there must be some good reas…"

"You are very gracious to a dirty, stinky, old man, I must say, and I thank you for your good manners. May I introduce myself? …" he asked, and then continued before Gerry could do other than simply nod his head. "… My name is Michael."

At this, Gerry tweaked his hearing and noticed what he took to be the semblance of a British accent, and immediately began to see him as a very 'proper' English gentleman, befallen on poorer times, underneath … nay … far underneath … his outer appearance.

"And I'm Gerry … Gerry Young, Sir." He extended his hand as a courtesy to his senior, trying desperately to overlook the man's disheveled appearance.

"Very pleased to meet you, Gerry Young," Michael replied, grasping the young man's hand and giving it one firm shake. Then with a tilt of his head and a mischievous grin, as if reading a roster of alphabetized surnames, he added, "YOUNG … Gerry … quite appropriate, my good man, for one of your years, and, I might surmise, a name which may aptly keep you young, not only in mind and body, but also in your heart and soul, in your latter years, some good distance hence, I would venture to suppose."

Gerry laughed uncontrollably, and after he had taken a breath, asked, "Are you from England, Sir?"

"Please, Gerry, kindly dispense with the 'sir,' and just call me 'Michael'. It is so much more … American. But … please … for God's sake, do not overdo the Americanization by giving me the appellation, 'Mike'."

Again chuckling, Gerry replied, "All right, Michael. But are you fro…"

"I spent many years in the Isles, Gerry, but I have now been in … NEW … England for the past thirty years, or so."

No sooner had Michael's last words been spoken, than they both felt a lurch as the train came to a full stop. During their conversation thus far, neither had noticed that the train had even been slowing down.

Passengers began getting out of their seats and recovering their luggage. Michael stood and stepped into the aisle as Gerry pulled his own small suitcase from under his seat and stepped in front of Michael, and they both proceeded to leave the coach.

A few steps away from the railway car, Gerry stopped, took a deep breath, and looked around, taking in the feeling, the smells and the sights of the pre-war train station. Posters promoting everyone to buy War Bonds, and others to Join the Army, or 'Be All That You Can Be,' were still hanging everywhere, in all their glory, if only a little less for wear.

"Will anyone be meeting you this morning, Gerry?" Michael asked. He seemed concerned that no one appeared to be waiting for his new young friend. And beyond the lighted areas of the station, it was still dark with just a hint of the golden dawning rays in the far eastern sky.

"No," Gerry answered softly, with a touch of melancholy in his voice.

"You staying here? Or, if you do not mind my asking, will you be connecting with another train?"

"I think I'd like to stay here for a while, but honestly, Michael, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I don't know anyone here, and I certainly don't know my way around this town," he answered, shaking his head in bewilderment, and at the same time exhaling a deep sigh. "I was so sure this is where I was meant to come to."

"Gerry …" Michael said, putting his hand on the young man's shoulder, "… if you can tolerate this dirty, foul smelling, old man's company for a bit longer, what would you say to going to the station buffet, inside, and joining me in an early morning cup of tea … or perhaps you would prefer coffee? And it will be … as I've become accustomed to hearing you Yanks say … 'my treat'."

At hearing the words, Gerry immediately realized that he was no longer conscious of, nor offended by, the foul odor which had, more or less, shocked him into full wakefulness only several moments earlier. "That sounds nice. Thank you, Sir … uhhh … I mean … Michael."

They both chuckled and smiled at each other.

On entering the café, or 'station buffet' as Michael had termed it, they noticed that all the tables were occupied and only one waitress was running from one to the other, hurriedly taking orders. And only two places were vacant at the long flattened-U-shaped counter with marbleized Formica top and stainless steel pedestal stools topped with red leatherette-covered, round swivel seats.

"Right over there, boys," the only waitress behind the counter, yelled from the far end, indicating the two vacant spaces at the opposite end, near where Gerry and Michael were standing. "I'll be with ya in a jiffy." She continued pouring coffee for three rather ruffian-looking characters.

It seemed that everyone who had been on the train, had come into the café before going about their business. It was indeed hectic.

One big, burly, guy with disheveled bright red hair, seated in the center of the café, yelled, "Hey, woman … when're we gonna git some help over here? I'm hongry!"

"Hold yer horses, mister! Can'tcha see we're workin' as fast as we can, here. One of us'll get to you, soon as we can."

Everyone in the café stopped what they were doing (talking, eating, sipping coffee, whatever), and with all heads jerking back and forth (as if observing a tennis match), watched and listened to the rancor being hurled between the two people.

"Won't be fast enough, sweet cheeks. I gotta git to work soon."

"Well, go on to work, then…" she gave him the finger, "… get outta here and forget about your damn breakfast if you're in such a damned big hurry … Jake!"

THAT was strange -- she even knew his name!

And then, with canine-like snarls in her voice, she started singing, "… Hit the road, Jake, and don'tcha come back no more, no more, no more, no more. Hit the road, Jake, and don'tcha come back no more! You bastard!"

"I love ya, too, bitch, but not as much as I love the salute ya just gave me; as hongry as I am, I just may come back thar behind the counter an' git me own breakfast," he yelled back at her.

"You do, and you'll end up payin' for it, you son-of-a-beehive," she screamed in reply, shaking a butcher knife at him. "You been at sea too long, MATEY," she continued her scolding tirade.

Still holding the knife, she picked up a filled tea ball (a small perforated metal ball-shaped container used for making an individual cup of tea) and a tea-kettle of boiling water, and headed straight for the two new-comers.

"Good morning', boys," she greeted both of them. "Good morning', Michael. You look like hell. Whatcha be…" she started to ask.

But before she could say anything further, the old red headed ogre, who had knocked his chair over while jumping up from the table, had run around to the inside of the counter serving area and was quickly approaching her. Patrons were screaming at the waitress, screaming at the vile man, screaming for someone to get the police, and one brave soul in a business suit had followed the wretch in, and was nearly upon him.

"I warned you, you ol' tart," screamed the irate customer. The waitress, stricken with terror, spun around, and as the man reached out to grab her, she plunged the butcher knife into his stomach. His mouth fell wide open. His eyes squinted closed. And then, from the depths of his soul, a horrible, deep scream of pain flew from his lungs and mouth.

Everyone froze. Hardly anyone took a breath. The silence of death suddenly consumed the café.

The man slumped slightly, eyes wide open -- then, as big as saucers -- mouth hanging open as if in pain. Slowly, he raised his arms and wrapped them around the waitress' shoulders. Gingerly, as if in slow motion, his head began to fall forward and he pressed his lips onto hers. She withdrew the knife and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Such a kiss, few have ever seen in public, but soon they drew back from each other. "Good morning', sweetheart," they both seemed to say in unison.

"I guess I better git to work," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear him, as he reached under the counter, grabbed a white bib-apron, looped it over his head, and began to tie it behind his back.

"Guess ya better. We're short handed this morning'," she replied, as she held the butcher knife out for the customers to see.

Not a drop of blood on it. Everyone was aghast -- everyone, that is, except for Michael, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He had seen the conflict performed many times.

The waitress was holding the handle of the knife in her right hand, and with her left index finger, very easily pushed the blade back into the handle. It was a fake! "Show's over, folks," she announced, "Jake's my husband and the owner of the café, and today, he's chief cook and bottle washer around here. But we got your hearts pumpin' this morning', didn't we? We'll get your orders out as soon as we can. 'Nother train-load of customers will be here in about forty-five minutes."

Cat calls, moans, whistles, and applause thundered. Lucky, some of the older customers didn't have a heart attack.

"I love when you and Jake do that, Marilynn," Michael laughingly said to the waitress. "What a way to wake up and start the day! Jolly good!"

"Michael, you know these two jokers?" Gerry asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I have seen …" he interrupted himself. "… Oh, do forgive…" he pleaded; "… I do believe introductions are in order. Marilynn, I would like to introduce you to Gerry, a newcomer in our little hamlet, here. Gerry, I would like to introduce you to Marilynn, the Manager of this, ahhh, how shall I say, this, this, rather unusual station buffet."

Gerry extended his hand in greeting. "Nice to meet you … I think … Marilynn, but I don't think I'd like to run into you, unexpectedly, in a dark alley, not after seein' how quick you can handle a knife."

"Nice to meet you, too, sweetie. Coffee? Anything else?" she asked, while pouring the hot water over the tea ball in Michael's cup.

"No; just coffee; that'll be fine. Thanks."

Having finished pouring the water, she grabbed the coffee pot, and started pouring some for Gerry. "So what brings you to this neck of the woods, darlin'?"

"Well …" he hesitated; "… I'm just out of the, uhhh, Navy, and was thinkin' I'd sorta like to try my hand at being a lobsterman. I really love the sea."

She gazed into his eyes for a few seconds, then squinted her eyes as she studiously looked around at the customers, until she spotted the three ruffians at the far end of the breakfast counter. She then turned back and asked, "Can you stick around for a few minutes, luv? I think I might be able to put you in touch with the captain of a lobster boat."

(End of Chapter One)

*****