When People Go Away
                                       a Simple Little Love Story *

by
Sir Frankie, Sir Alan, Sir Michael
& David Alan Dedin


​S a m p l e  C h a p t e r s

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THIS IS NOT A FINAL DRAFT 
Due to the EXTREME limitations of the Weebly platform, these Chapters lack many of the story's 4D word games & wordplay.
I have done my best to transfer as many as possible, but a few didn't work or are missing completely.
I'm sharing this content to demonstrate my writing style.

ALL CHAPTERS, complete & polished, are available in MSWord by request.  

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Three Dimensional beings think in linear concepts, while Four Dimensional beings think in VISUAL METAPHORS.​
*  *  *  *  *
"The only thing greater then the bond between Sir & Boy
is the Power Exchange connection between two Sirs in love."

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Prologue
Because Frankie Only Comes at Midnight

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            You know that you were born to be a writer if you can’t even write a suicide note without thinking,
            “Damn – what a great way to start a book.”
 
 
 
            Chicago, Illinois
            IML Weekend
 
            The lights of the downtown skyline twinkled white, amber and red, and reflected within the parade gloss shine on the toes of the black Wescos loggers.  The boots were big, high-heeled things, and disappeared below the hem of black leather pants.  Above the pants was a studded belt, a buttoned leather vest, a starched black dress shirt, and a tie so red it could be seen in the dark.  The owner of the boots was wearing a biker’s jacket of course, but considering the crowd in the Beekman Place Hotel below, that really wasn’t a surprise.
            It was cold this high up.
            Frankie could feel the building’s updraft beneath the brim of his officer’s Muir.
        He could also hear the distant cry of “Memory” from Cats, wafting through the air from a room below: “Midnight, not a sound from the pavement.  Has the moon lost her memory?  She is smiling alone…”  It was funny how even in life’s most devastating of moments, his mind always found a way to set the world to music.
            The grey concrete ledge stretched for miles in every direction, running the length of the building’s rooftop.  Frankie’s boots peered over the ledge’s very center, perched together with insteps touching.  All around, the streetlights of the Loop reached outward in electric branches; they glowed with delivery trucks’ flashing red lights & the diamonds reflected off the fingers of the couples walking on the sidewalks below. 
 
             “ Memory, all alone in the moonlight –
               I can smile at the old days … I was beautiful then.”
 
            An iPhone chirped in his jacket’s inner pocket.
           Frankie paused for a moment, pulled it out, touched the Golden Microphone wallpaper, coughed, and read the screen.  There was a notification from his Recon app –
           
            SIR, please…don’t!
 
            With his phone in hand, Frankie calmly sent a smiley-face emoji – Don’t worry, be happy! – and turned up towards the brilliant white moon, surrounded by clouds that looked like crumpled wax paper.  The sky was a sheet of frozen black glass with a spattering of dusty stars.  The wind felt harsh on the skin of his face.  He closed his eyes to relish the frigid air, and the sting was wonderful – like the first hot swallow of a neat glass of whiskey. 
            He opened his eyes when his phone chirped a second time.
 
            SIR, I’m almost there.
 
             “Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise –
             I must think of a new life, and I mustn’t give in…”
 
            Ignoring the message, Frankie returned the phone to his pocket.
 
            “Touch me, it’s so easy to leave me –
             All alone with the memory, of my days in the sun…”
 
            Silence.
            “If you touch me, you’ll understand what happiness is,” Frankie sang quietly to himself, finishing the song’s closing lyrics.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
           
            From the FaceBook group, “Leather World”
            Membership at the time of posting: 11.3K Followers
 
              IMPORTANT NOTE TO THE READER: 
         The posting’s attached photo (a carefully-crafted image of Frankie in full leather, posed like a silhouette in front of a full white moon) is unavailable to view in this current written format.
 
            We are able to show you the text, however.
            It reads as follows:
 
Where are you, boy?
I’ve been searching for you for years.
I’ve looked for you in every leather bar I’ve encountered, in the front bars, in the back rooms, and in the eyes of every dude I’ve tied down like a predator.  I’ve even looked for you in the clubs’ darkest places, in the sex rooms’ unlit corners, in the shadows between the red lights.
 
I know you’re out there somewhere.
I know that you can hear me.
 
And I know that I can never be complete until you feel my gloved hand on your shoulder …
 
Again, where are you, boy?
 
I remember the night I first saw you.  It was late, near closing time.  We were at opposite ends of the bar.  I don’t know who saw the other first, but I remember you were tall & lean, and leaning on the counter.  You weren’t watching me, but … “observing” me.  Fuck, you were HOT.  And I was totally wasted.  Just seeing you made my heart go bang, and I remember slamming my drink as you walked over, and how I sucked in my gut while attempting to look as cool as possible.  The sound system was playing “Runaway” by Real McCoy, as you paused before introducing yourself in the most perfect way possible – “Hey.”
 
I remember drinking with you until last call, then asking you to grab a bite at a nearby Greek restaurant.  I was too drunk to remember the conversation we had, but I do recall giving you my number on the only piece of paper I could find in my car.  You laughed in my face when you realized I had used the back of a psychiatrist’s receipt.
 
In the week that followed, I remember watching my corded phone, hoping you would call. When you finally did, I remember pouring a stiff drink so I had the courage to talk to you.  I tried to sound clever, but I’m sure you saw right through that.  In hindsight I realize that you knew a lot more than you let on, only you chose to keep your observations to yourself to protect my insecurities.  I remember how carefully you chose your words, pausing when you talked, controlling every sentence. You were always so guarded …
 
Where are you, boy?
 
Over the course of the next month, I remember going to dinner a few times.  We always seemed to hit Italian restaurants, first the Olive Garden, then Leona’s.  I remember the first time I walked into your house, and saw all the things you’d chosen to surround you.  Your ugly-assed couch was huge to accommodate your height.  There were dogs in the kitchen just off the bedroom, in a cage that smelled like feet.  Your houseplants were thriving.  You had a copy of “The Way Things Ought to Be” on your packed bookshelf, next to a placement card that read “Rush Limbaugh Touched This.” I remembered that you like to read, and that Stephen King was one of your favorite authors.  Your place was cluttered, but organized somehow, like everything had its spot.  You let me pour myself a drink to relax, and then said something like, “That’s so strong, I can pour it directly back into the bottle.”  I also remember your black Vanson biker’s jacket, haphazardly draped over a kitchen chair …
 
I think that was the night I realized I was in love with you.
 
Again, where are you, boy?
 
I remember the evening we were at Leona’s again; you took me there because I told you I liked their cheese sticks.  I remember I’d just ordered another glass of wine, when you leaned in close and told me you had HIV.  I remember cocking my head and looking at you in confusion.  The world went silent.  I watched your lips move, but there wasn’t any sound.  I remember whispering, “…(what?) …”, causing you to repeat yourself.  I remember that was the very first time you ever had to tell me something twice.
 
I kinda’ remember the talk that we had later that night, at your place, in the dark.  I was completely drunk at that point, but I can still recall how scared you were.  That you might not see your family again.  That you’d have to use all your money for medical bills.  That the only thing keeping you alive was the workout you got daily from your job.  You showed absolutely no outward emotion, but your hot, shiny eyes told me your story.  You were so … intense.  Rigid.  Controlled.  And I so wanted to hug you – I really, really did – but, I just … couldn’t.  And it wasn’t because I was afraid of the virus, I was afraid of losing –
 
You.
My Sir.
Christ, how I wish I could have seen that …
*
Dude, I have absolutely no idea how I drove home that night.
And I would eventually write my first book for you.
 
(Softer – where are you, boy?)
 
In the weeks that followed, my alcoholism hit me hard & heavy, and my emotions burned as hot as fire.  I remember stalking you in the bars, calling you incessantly, and getting so completely shit-faced, I forced you into a situation where you had no choice but to take me to your home.  I remember laying naked beside you, inhaling your scent, pulling your chest up close against my stomach, feeling the heat of your breath on my neck before I passed out cold.  I remember that DAYS went by with absolutely no contact with you, and when you finally did call me, you told me firmly to leave you the fuck alone.
 
I held it together after hanging up the phone, but I completely lost my shit when I took a shower the next evening; I was sobbing so violently, it looked like I was fucking.  I remember wiping the steam in the mirror, and staring at my angry, bloodshot eyes.  And then I went … away.  I was gone.  Just gone.  I vaguely remember watching someone comb my hair and pull on my boots.  And then that person went out for the night, walked into Touché, slammed a couple shots, then headed directly for the back room.
 
But then, the memories stop.
And thirty years disappeared …
 
            I’ve just been told that we need to stop here, and wait until the Epilogue to finish showing you the post.  I humbly offer you my most heartfelt apology, and encourage you to continue reading – and enjoy –  “When People Go Away,” as its numerous, interconnected plotlines unfold. 
And again, I am reeeally sorry about all this –
            I hope that someday, you can forgive me.
 

                              Part One:
                    The Book of Frankie

Chapter One
When Smokey Sings

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            Chicago, Illinois
            2022
           
            “What’s your biggest insecurity, Sir?”
            Frankie looked at the twenty-five year old boy in confusion, taken back –
            “… ( what ) …?”
            “Err…I’m sorry, Sir,” the boy backtracked quickly, realizing he had overstepped.  His arms went rigid, and his wrists made crinkling sounds within their locking leather cuffs.  He suddenly realized how exposed he was in this position, so he swiftly made fists and puffed out his chest.  His body had been restrained on the Saint Andrews Cross in an X – or a “vertical spread-eagle,” as Frankie liked to call it.  He cleared his throat and took a deep breath –
            “Again, I’m sorry, Sir.  I shouldn’t have asked that question.”
            Frankie smiled coyly.
           “That’s a ballsy thing for you to ask me, considering your present situation,” he said. “Are you always this inquisitive, when someone has you in this position?”  Frankie gave the boy’s testicles a harsh slap – Crack! – with his gloved hand, before taking an exaggerated step backwards.  The boy winced in pain, but smiled at the same time.
            “Jesus Christ!” he grimaced, turning his head to the side.  “Okay, okay, okay!”  His words that followed were riddled with both pain & pleasure –
            Tightening his gloves, Frankie came forward.
           “I’m so sorry, Sir,” the boy repeated, gasping through clenched teeth.
             Frankie tried not to smile.
           “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he told the boy.  “Quite frankly, if you didn’t have a ‘mouth,’ I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you in the first place.”  Frankie took out his iPhone and checked his Recon messages before pulling up iTunes.  He scrolled through the playlists, then found one that fit the moment.
            “Besides,” he added, “I hate guys who are afraid to speak their minds.  I find them dull and boring.  I mean, Recon gives you what?  Three-thousand characters to use in your profile’s text?  So, why not use them?  Show us the kind of person you really are inside.  And have a sense of humor, for God’s sake.  Not everything that happens in the dungeon is about sex.”
            Setting his phone on a nearby table, Frankie touched PLAY on his Doors playlist.  The basement filled with late sixties synthesizer, as Jim Morrison sang “Touch Me.”
 
              “… Come on, come on, come on, now touch me, babe …”
 
            Taking a quick moment to close his eyes and enjoy the music, Frankie pivoted on his heel and spun around to face his wall of leather gear on peg hooks.  Nearly the entire basement wall was covered in 4x8 sheets of black peg board, all of which displayed Frankie’s carefully-organized collection of leather gear: wrist & ankle cuffs, thigh cuffs, collars, hoods, muzzles, various buckling straps, and an unzipped pistol-shaped cock & ball sheath by the phone. 
            Frankie’s gloved fingers perused the selection, pausing at the riding crops.  He selected a long, leather paddle-style one before turning to face the boy, with a shit-eating grin on his face.  He brought the crop down hard on his hand – SLAP! – then answered the question:
            “My biggest insecurity is simple.  I don’t feel attractive anymore.”
            “What do you mean, Sir?” the boy said carefully.  “Sir is very attractive,”
            “Attractive on the surface maybe, but anyone’s attractive in the right clothes and the right leather,” Frankie told him.  He took a moment to look at himself in the far wall’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and he had to admit for a man of 53, he was still easy on the eyes. 
            “Besides, everyone looks good in a thumbnail.”
            Frankie’s reflection showed a guy growing older sure, but his clothes were perfect and hid all the flaws – while showing his personal style at the same time.  Frankie was wearing his standard playtime outfit today: a starched, long-sleeve dress shirt, black silk tie, buttoned leather vest, pressed black jeans, studded belt, and polished, black, high-heeled Wescos Loggers, buffed to a parade-gloss shine.  He also wore police-style gloves, and his favorite officer’s hat in the “basic Muir” style.  He liked to mix traditional leather with formal wear, even though it was a bit unconventional for the Old Guard.
            “It’s strange, you know,” Frankie continued, “that even though I’m fifty-three, I still feel twenty-five.  And I don’t mean twenty-five at heart, I’m being quite literal here: I honestly feel I’m still in my twenties.  Sometimes it actually startles me, when I catch my reflection in the mirror in the morning.  I see the face of the old man looking back and think, ‘Who the hell are you?’”
            Frankie slapped the riding crop again. 
            His profile looked “slinky,” as he crept towards the boy like the Slender Man.
            Slap!
            “And who the hell are you, while we’re on the subject?” Frankie said in a deeper voice, his demeanor changing as fast as a split-personality.
            His eyes narrowed into slits – 
            “Again, that was a reeeeeeeally ballsy question for you to ask.” 
            He came up to the boy, and brought his face in close, nose to nose.  Frankie used a gloved hand to gently caress the boy’s cheek, before using the other to slap him painfully across his clamped nipples.  The boy howled in pain, but Frankie didn’t give a shit.  He was having far too much fun this afternoon, a much-needed diversion for what was to come in the days ahead. 
            He moved his hand from the boy’s face to his dick ...
 
           “… Now, I’m going to love you … till the heavens stop the rain …”
 
            Twenty minutes would pass before Frankie allowed the boy to climax.  And when he did, the boy shot so hard, his semen splattered across the shiny concrete floor, and left little puddles that twinkled from the red spotlights above.  Frankie stepped backward, to wipe lube off his hands and to admire his handiwork.  Of course, when he did this, he wasn’t paying attention.  His heels lost their footing on cum, and he slipped without dignity, falling flat on his ass. 
            Still restrained, the boy choked back laughter. 
            Frankie stood up, then got into his face –
            “YOU THINK THAT WAS FUNNY?” he yelled so hard, spit hit the boy’s cheeks and mouth.  “I SAID, DO YOU THINK THAT WAS FUCKING FUNNY!!!?”
            The dungeon fell silent as Frankie waited for an answer.
            One beat, two beats, the boy accidently pissed on Frankie’s boots.
            Frankie’s hot, angry eyes glared into the boy’s very soul.
            Three beats, four beats…
            Frankie smiled disturbingly.
            Silence.
            “You’re right,” he admitted, looking down at his wet Wescos –
            “That was kinda’ funny.”
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
            The following morning, rain fell from the overcast sky as Frankie stood at the base of the stairs that led to the entrance of RUSH Copley Medical Center in downtown Chicago.  He was dressed a bit more casually today, and his hair was a sculpted flattop – with enough product to make it waterproof.  His long goatee was also stiff, and rain collected in little beads on the perfect strands of his wiry brown & white-streaked hair.
            After taking a moment to galvanize himself, he climbed the stairs.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Frankie Downs?  I’m Victoria Tinzer” – 
            “Going forward, I’ll be your coordinator during the transplant process.”
            His leather jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape, Frankie sat attentively, with his gloved hands folded on top of his crossed legs.  His boot toe was gingerly moving to his iPhone’s playlist; right now, he was listening to “Year of the Cat,” an Al Stewart song from the mid nineteen-seventies.
            After suggesting he use the restroom if needed (as it was going to be a very long morning), Ms. Tinzer pulled up a PowerPoint presentation that covered both today’s initial meet-and-greet, as well as information on the liver transplant procedure, itself.  Frankie clearly absorbed every piece of information provided, but if one were to observe him from outside the room, his eyes looked distant somehow, as though his body were there, but his mind was in a completely different place.
 
               *  *  *  *  *
 
            “You’re home early,” Michael said as he entered the room.  “Didn’t you have to work, today?”  Throwing his jacket on the leather couch, Michael came up from behind and laid his chin on Frankie’s shoulder.  A cat appeared next to him.  He read the computer screen out loud:
            “Packard Twelve, boy in search of Sir.  Twenty-nine years old, five foot eight, one hundred and eighty pounds.  Interests: Bondage, Recon men, Master and slave, Protocol.”  Michael gave Frankie a firm pat on his arm before standing up – 
            “Don’t do it.”
            “He looks like an action figure,” Frankie told Michael, pulling up PackardTwelve’s gallery photos.  “He’s built like an upside-down triangle. And his calves are so big, they’re comical.”
            Michael headed for the kitchen after setting Schrödinger down – 
            “Are we eating out, or do you want me to cook something?”
            “And by ‘cook,’ I’m assuming you mean ‘heat up something?” Frankie said sarcastically while scrolling through the gallery.  The pictures he saw were of a gorgeous young man in various leather costumes, many of them shirtless – with a chest harness.  “Your meatballs are good, but not good enough to eat two nights in a row.  Besides, you make them so sweet.”
            “That’s because I’m a sweetheart,” Michael said, smiling, coughing into his hand as he appeared in the kitchen doorway.  He was eating cold meatballs from a Tupperware container.  The sauce had gotten so sticky in the refrigerator, it had actually coagulated.  Michael stopped chewing, grimaced, then spat out a mouthful of yuck.  He set the container on the counter, out of view.
            “You’re right,” he told Frankie.  “The meatballs are disgusting.”
            “So, we’re eating out then?”  Frankie spun on his office chair to face him.
            “Get your coat,” Michael said.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            The sky was the color of Reynolds Wrap as the early-evening rain had faded into a cold drizzle.  The lights of Chicago were just coming on as Frankie & Michael – each dressed in boots, jeans, gloves, zipped leather jackets, and officers’ hats – walked side-by-side down the water-soaked streets of Halsted, the epicenter of Boy’s Town on the city’s northern side.  Colorful neon sizzled in the rain all around, with signs that advertised gay bars, neighborhood shops & businesses, and the occasional dirty bookstore & bathhouse that was still around from the eighties.  Taking off their hats together, the two men ducked into the doorway of Sapori Trattoria, a trendy Italian restaurant.  Michael held up his fingers in a V – “Table for two, please.” – and the tattooed hostess gave him a look before showing them to their seats.  The men sat down in unison, placing their hat on the right and their gloves on the left at the same time.
            They unzipped their jackets and carefully placed them of the backs of their chairs.
            The server gave them a menu.
            “Seriously, I thought you had to work today,” Michael told Frankie.  Frankie seemed to ignore him at first, but answered his question while looking at the menu.
            “I had my initial consultation at the doctor today,” he said flatly.
            “Oh,” Michael said, with genuine concern.  “How’d that go?”
            “As expected, I guess.  I read about the process online first, so I knew what I was walking into when I got there.”
            “What did they say?” Michael asked.
            “Again, nothing unexpected,” Frankie told him.  “Just a lot of information, that’s all.  I’ve been assigned a coordinator, I met with a nurse and then with a nutritionist.  I even got to meet one of the doctors who will be doing the surgery, if I decide I’m going through with it.”
            Michael was surprised.  “What do you mean ‘if’?”-
            “You have cirrhosis, Frankie.”
            “I don’t” – Frankie said, while motioning the server to come and take their order – “want to talk about that right now.”  He set down his menu, and moved it perpendicular to the table’s edge.  “Can’t we just eat and forget about it for the night?”
            The server approached with an iPad.
            Frankie & Michael looked up together.
            “Water,” Michael said, ordering for them both.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            The following morning, Frankie laid in bed under the covers, iPhone in hand with his reading glasses on.  As usual, he was scrolling through Recon after reading the news, and as he scanned the inner-city profiles, he, once again, stopped at PackardTwelve’s nearly-blank page.
 
 
 
PackardTwelve
Deliver Me from Doctor Evil - NOT
 
29 years old, 5’8”, 180lbs.
Interests: Bondage, Recon men, Master & slave, Protocol.
Serious boy ISO serious SIR for M/s, 24/7.
 
            His profile speaks the truth, Frankie observed, evaluating the words: 
            Maybe it’s because “NOT” means KNOT – like Sabari bondage?
            Or because “Deliver Me from Evil” insinuates Catholic guilt?
            I can be the Devil if needed.  That’s honestly not an issue.
            Returning to the galleries, Frankie took a second look.
            Cool, but wait – isn’t Doctor Evil from the sixties?
            Hey - Michael Myers had son in that one, right?
            Oh, I almost forgot: Warren liked 007 a lot!
            Realized something: His name, Michael.
            Um – Michael York in Logan’s Run?
            Some Nights by Fun, I’m thinkin’.
            Okay Sir, please hear me out:
            is Chumbawamba better?
            Fuckin’ Jesus Christ!
                     +                  +                        +          +
                 +     +       +       +         +         +             +
                         +        +      +     +          +         +    +       +         +
                 +         +      +    +         +        +              +
                  GOD!
                 +           +    +          +         +          +               +
                        +           +        +       +                       +
                  +                +            +        +       +           +
                      +           +    +                 +                 +                       +
                +              +                    +              +                      +               +
            I’d wake up with a clearer head when I was drinking!
            Now that I’m sober, I can see patterns in the text. 
            Reason prevails: INS looks for aliens – LOL.
            I’m thinking, at this point, just screw it!
            Frankie touched the profile’s CRUISE button before jumping in the shower and heading off to work.  He had laid out his clothes the previous evening, and everything had been ironed & polished.  Of course, no matter how hard he tried to control everything in his life, ultimately, obviously, and with a wildly-inappropriate sense of humor, whenever he left the house, he usually just closed the door behind and made the sign of the cross.
            Oh light, the heart, that lingers in Merano …
 
              +  +  +  +  +
 
            Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker’s Street” played softly over MUZAK, as Frankie came through the bookstore’s revolving doors, dressed in pressed tan khaki’s, boots, gloves, a leather biker’s jacket, and aviator-style sunglasses.  He waved to the cashier before passing the Bestseller & New Release displays, then headed up the escalator to the store’s second floor where Rudy – his fellow ASM – nodded to him from behind the Information Desk.
            Threading his way through the Romance and Fiction aisles, Frankie passed a table themed with “Fifty Shades of Gray”-style books before darting down a short restroom hallway, and through the locked door that led to the managers’ office.  Five minutes passed before Frankie reappeared, now revealing what was underneath his jacket: a black, long-sleeved dress shirt with small purple paisleys, and his favorite leather vest.  Coming onto the sales floor, he pulled his nametag lanyard over his head, and headed for the Info Desk.  Once there, he looked at today’s DAS (Daily Assignment Sheet) before grabbing a phone, and a radio & headset.  He looked at Rudy, who was surrounded by piles of books that needed reshelving –
            “How goes today?” Frankie asked.
         Rudy shrugged his shoulders.  “Same old shit, I guess.”  He was scanning books with a PDT, and sorting them into stacks, based on their subject. 
            Frankie looked at the piles and winced –
            “That’s a lot of books for a Thursday.”
            “It’s worse than you think,” Rudy told him.  “Most of them were left in Café.”
            Frankie walked around the desk and typed on the booksellers’ computer.  He brought up e-planner, and scrolled through today’s projects, noting what still had to be done.  He stared at the screen while speaking to Rudy.  “I see the octagon changes tonight, for some reason.”
            “There’s a new Patterson book,” Rudy told him.  “I think it’s an Alex Cross.”
            “Huh? And that justifies the need to reset the entire table?” Frankie asked.
            “Uh, yeah – it’s Patterson, so he gets what he wants.”
            “Nice. Any call-offs, tonight?”
            “Don’t think so.”
            “Err, café order put away?”
            “Raphael did it.”
            “Brinks?”
            “It’s done – locked up nice & tight.”
            “Really?  They weren’t supposed to come today. Oh – what’s up with the fuckin’ PA?”
            “Don’t know. MUZAK is having a security chip overnighted. It might fix the disconnect.”
            “You knoooooow, once we finally resolve that issue, I am bolting our fuckin’ key to the wall and never letting it go,” Frankie informed him, pausing to cough in his fist.
            “Anything in the Managers’ Log?” he added – 
            “Cory had the door closed, so I couldn’t get to the computer.”
          “Just that thing about Kirk,” Rudy said while scanning a book.  “But we all know what that’s about.”  His PDT made a buzzing sound as he scanned a large, thick hardcover.  Rudy looked at the handheld scanner, then the book’s bar code.  He tried to scan it again – Bzzt!  He turned it over and looked at its cover.  “Well, that explains it.”
            “Explains what?” Frankie asked.
            “X-ray gun.”  He jiggled his PDT. “This book won’t scan.”
            “I need to know this because?”
            “This book,” Rudy repeated, thumbing through the pages – and pausing at the dedication. 
            He then read a random passage:
 
            “What’s the saddest you’ve ever been?  Mine is so deep, I can only face it in the moment of clarity immediately following a drinking bender.” 
 
              He flipped to the copyright page.  “Author House,” he noted – 
              “Now, that’s the seal of quality.”
              “That’s a self-publisher, right?” Frankie asked.
           “Yup,” Rudy said.  He flipped to another page and winced.  “I can already see a spelling error.  This guy thinks he’s fuckin’ Capote, but I’m guessing he doesn’t have the talent to write a check.  Oh – and look at this” –
               “What am I looking at?” Frankie put on his reading glasses.
               Rudy pointed to the right side of the novel’s text: “The author forgot to right-justify the margins.  This book is clearly a total piece of crap.”
             “Let’s see.”  Frankie took it.  The novel’s weight surprised him. 
            “Well, it’s certainly heavy, that’s for sure.”  He flipped it over: Goodbye to Beekman Place, by David Alan Dedin.  Frankie opened the story and read its dust jacket.  Surprisingly, it was about murder in the Chicago gay leather scene. 
               Looks like a Good Book to me…
               After a moment, he closed it and carefully tucked it under his arm. 
              “Mr. Frankie?” Cory asked, coming up from behind –
              “Busy? Can I see you in the office for a moment?”
               Acknowledging her, Frankie turned around.  It was Cory, his boss. 
             “Sure,” he said, nodding to Rudy before following her to the back –
             “Tell you what?  Just let me put this in my locker first.”
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
                Cory closed the door when Frankie took a seat in her office.
               He crossed his legs as she took her own chair, then opened a manila folder and gave him a copy of his latest write-up.  He briefly scanned the document – his third IP in just four months – then carefully set on the desktop’s edge, moving it perpendicular.  He looked at Cory.
               “Cory, just fire me already.  This is starting to get painful.”
               “Frankie, we’ve been through this before.  Your performance has not been meeting standards for the ASM position.”
              “I’m not going to change,” Frankie told her.  “I’ve been a retail manager for almost thirty years, and the last seventeen of them have been with The Noble Bard.”
              “Experience means nothing, Frankie.  You’re not doing your job.”
              “I’ve done the job the way I’ve always done the job,” Frankie said, feeling for his reading glasses.  “I supervise the staff, I write the schedules,                  I  screen and interview new-hires, I cover shifts in the Café” –
             “Frankie that’s not the point, and we’ve been over this several times.  You’ve failed to properly supervise an inventory, causing shrink.  You’ve failed to embrace the new company directives, specifically our ‘cluster strategy,’ and the mentoring of employees.  You’ve failed” –
          “AND” – Frankie cut her off – “I’ve been featured on the company website personally three different times, as well as in an article in Bookselling Matters magazine.”
               “That doesn’t matter,” Cory told him.
             “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Frankie snapped. He set his glasses on the desk, at a perfect 90 degree angle to the write-up. “I’m the one who normally writes these IP’s, remember?  I recognize the verbiage that you’re using because I’ve used the very same language, myself.  Seriously, Cory.  It’s clear that I’m being pushed out.  So, just fire me already and get this fuckin’ thing over with.”
              Cory paused –
            “And then there’s the matter of your language.”
          “My language behind closed doors with other managers,” Frankie shot back, repositioning his glasses slightly.  “We’ve all been through the ‘Five Dysfunctions of Team,’ remember?  I mean, isn’t that what the program was designed to do?  To teach us to be honest with each other, and to feel comfortable enough to speak bluntly?”
           “Then, let me be blunt,” Cory told him –
           “This is your third IP.  That means third-and-final” –
          “And you need to see ‘immediate & sustained improvement,” Frankie finished her sentence.  “Otherwise my actions will lead to consequences, up to and including termination.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Frankie leaned into his chair as his eyes narrowed into slits. 
            Cory cleared her throat –
          “Jesus Frankie, just sign the damn document.”
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
       “What’s wrong?” Michael asked, as Frankie entered the apartment in a huff.  Michael knew Frankie was in a foul mood, as he was wearing sunglasses – at night. 
          “What happened?”
          “I got another write-up,” Frankie told him, plopping on the sofa.  He put his boots on the coffee table, and unzipped his jacket as he crossed his feet.  He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling.  The lava lamp beside him was making fluid blobs of yellow & red.  He took out his phone.  There was a message waiting on his Recon app.
        “But you knew that was coming though, right?” Michael asked.  He was sitting at the desk where Frankie was the day before, an open Excel spreadsheet filled with payroll numbers on the iMac’s screen.  He had brought his work home with him again.  “So, it’s not a surprise?”
            “Nope,” Frankie said, opening Recon –
             He had a message from PackardTwelve:
 
            Thanks for the cruise.
 
           “What are you going to do now?” Michael asked.
         “Same thing I always do,” Frankie said, replying to the text.  “I’m going to find some young, unsuspecting victim and use him to take out my frustrations.”
           “The Packard kid?” Michael asked, looking up.
           “Yup.”
          “Wait – you guys hooking up?”
         “I don’t know,” Frankie told him.  “I just replied to his mess – hold on.”  No sooner had he spoken, than PackardTwelve responded.  Frankie read it and smiled.  “Yes.” –            
          “Apparently we are.”
          “And is he coming here?”
          “No…it looks like he wants to meet downtown.”
          “Does he live in Wrigleyville?”
          “Dunno.”
          “Oh – what name is he using?  What’s his screenname?”
          “No clue.  I have trouble with names, remember?  I just shot him a happy-face.”
        “Err…trying not to be concerned, but do you know anything about him at all?  I know you have lots of guys over, but even you can remember their names.” –
           “Point is, at least you don’t forget about them.”
           “Oh – I couldn’t say his name if my life depended on it,” Frankie coughed, standing.
           “And at this particular moment in time, I honestly don’t give a shit anymore.”  
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
           The lights of downtown Chicago glowed in little boxes of blue & white.  All around, the Loop’s skyscrapers rose in gothic splendor, massive piles of steel & marble, with terra-cotta facades and ornamental bas-reliefs.  It was raining again, naturally.  Typical for early November.  The sidewalk had pretty much cleared out by this point, as most of the surrounding buildings were offices or corporate firms, places that maintained a strict 9-5 work schedule.
          Frankie stood on Rush Street, under a harsh sodium vapor streetlamp, below the rusty CTA platform.  The L rumbled noisly above, while passengers descended the station’s metal staircase, and dispersed along the sidewalks, their faces buried in smartphones or behind Apple ear-buds.
Frankie had changed before leaving the apartment.  He now wore his high-heeled loggers, leather pants, Vanson biker’s jacket, Structure scarf, and a single glove.  His second glove was held between his teeth while he used his free hand to check his phone messages, as well as Scruff, Growlr, Grindr, and of course, Recon. 
           The iPhone’s glow was reflected in his reading glasses.
           A car pulled up to the curb.
           It was an older Cadillac, a Smooth Criminal’s 1996 Fleetwood Brougham sedan, charcoal grey in color with a matching landau top.  The vehicle was spotless.  It was totally “stock,” with no aftermarket modifications like obnoxious rims & garish ground-effects.  The Caddy glided to a stop directly in front of Frankie, and parked.  Frankie tucked his phone & glasses into his pocket and waited for the passenger window to roll down.
          Nothing.
          Omniously, there was no movement behind the tinted windows, whatsoever.
          Noting this, Frankie crept closer.
          So…is he going to get out of the car, or at least tap the brakelights or something?
          Engine running, the old sedan sat quietly, its LT1 350 cubic inch V8 purring like a cat.
          Now what? Does he expect me to knock on the window? – 
          Should I try and get his attention, or should I just open the door and get in? 
          Evaluating the situation, Frankie waited another few moments, then rolled his eyes and opened the passenger door.  As soon as he did, he heard music: “…En la jungla, la jungla poderosa, el leon duerme esta noche…” 
          It was the Token’s “In the Jungle,” but in Spanish.
         Frankie got into the car, and closed the door behind him.  Once inside, he turned left.  The man sitting behind the steering wheel seemed slight in stature, with solid, skinny arms, long slender legs, and a tiny waist.  He also wore blue jeans, boots, and an elegant leather jacket with decorative braided trim.  Frankie’s eyes took in the man’s appearance, starting at his designer, lace-up ankle boots and up to his face, which was staring ahead in profile.  Frankie waited for him to speak, but he didn’t.  His eyes gazed forward at some unseen horizon, in a way that was almost detached from the moment, and lost within the beautiful Peruvian music.
        The man was Latino, with a styled ebony pompadour & sideburns.
        Frankie called uncle.  “I’m assuming you’re PackardTwelve?”
        The man nodded slowly, silently.
        And then, he spoke in a whisper: “Have you ever heard of Yma Sumac?”
 
        “…En la jungla, la jungla tranquila, el leon duerme esta noche…”
 
         Frankie inhaled cautiously.  “No, I haven’t.  Is that who we’re listening to now?”
         The man nodded again. 
       “I see,” Frankie said, observing his surroundings. The car’s interior was impeccable.  Not only was it meticulously detailed, it was obviously kept that way on a daily basis.  Even the floormats were clean.  The two men sat quietly for a moment, as exotica music swirled around them.
        “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,” Frankie said bluntly.
       “Carlos,” the man told him.  “And this is Smokey.”
       “Smokey?  Wait – you named the car?”
       “I did.”
       “I see,” Frankie said carefully, sizing up the situation.  Did he drink his Tom Ford cologne?  He went to speak again, but Carlos jumped in –
       “I like your profile.  It’s very well-written.”
     “Thank you for noticing,” Frankie told him.  “Yours doesn’t have much to it, though.  I couldn’t help but notice that I didn’t see a background story…”
       “It has pictures,” Carlos said, his liquid eyes moving to the grey interior headliner.  Frankie watched where he was looking.  Just above the rear-view mirror, several small photos of famous singers had been pinned to the ceiling, including Elvis, Dusty Springfield, Smokey Robinson, and Aretha Franklin.  “Those are my musical heros,” Carlos explained, sensing Frankie’s question.
       “Is Yma Sumac a musical hero as well?” Frankie asked.
       “She is,” Carlos said.
       “I’m guessing you have a favorite song?”
     Frankie watched as Carlos’s gloved fingers moved slowly across the dashboard, and stop at the vehicle’s only modification – a top-of-the-line Alpine stereo, to which Carlos had his own iPhone connected.  He fussed with the dials.  “Wimoweh” stopped and a different Sumac song began. The car’s interior filled with a ghostly melody, a song that wasn’t really quite a song, but stylized sounds to incinuate the “music of the jungle.”  It was clearly recorded in the fifties.
      “This is Chuncho,” Carlos said –
      “It has one of the highest notes from a human vocalist to ever be recorded.”
    “It’s beautiful,” Frankie told him.  “But it doesn’t have much of a melody.  There’s no music at all, really.  It doesn’t have any patterns.  And speaking of patterns” –
       “That’s because Yma used her voice as an instrument,” Carlos cut him off. –
       “Most of the animal sounds you hear are from Yma, herself.”
     “That’s very interesting,” Frankie said, uncomfortably.  There was something very off right now, and it was time to pull the ejection-seat lever, before the night turned into an episode of Dexter.  He reached for the door handle.  “Listen, Carlos, I think I’m gonna” –
       “Don’t go,” Carlos said suddenly, putting his hand on Frankie’s thigh – 
       “Please…don’t go away.”
        Frankie released the handle.
        Carlos chuckled.  “I’m just not very good at…”
       “Talking?”  Frankie finished his sentence.
        Carlos smiled sheepishly. 
      Frankie cleared his throat.  “Tell you what. If you reeeeeeally want, we can get some coffee somewhere…but it has to be someplace public, with people around.”
      “So, not your place?”
      “No – Halsted,” Frankie told him.  “Let’s hit a Starbucks or something.  Preferably someplace with CCTV.  No offense.”
      “Got it.”
      “Ugh – are you on any kind of watch-list?”
      “None that I’m aware of,” Carlos said, grinning. 
      “Say – could we put on some different music please?  I’m more of a power ballad kind of guy.  Or Moby.  Or anything by Zevon.”
     “I don’t have anything like that on my phone,” Carlos told him.  “I could put the radio on, though.  Maybe find something for someone your age.  You look like you could use a little Queen.”
      “I prefer Rush, actually.”
      “Hemispheres was a decent album. What’s your favorite radio station?”
      “Err, what?”
      “Like, the radio station you listen to more than the others,” Carlos repeated.  “Is it WLS?”
      “Probably.  I mean, it was at one time.  I actually don’t listen to the radio anymore.”
     While Carlos searched YouTube for Gen X music, Frankie pulled out his phone to check his messages.  He switched the phone to “silent,” then pretended to cough as he discreetly dialed Michael and put the call on speaker.  He returned the phone to his outer jacket pocket – so Michael could hear every word that was said, and call the police if necessary.
        It was best to be prepared.
 
         *  *  *  *  *
 
        Many hours later, Frankie stood on the corner of Roscoe & Halsted, watching in apprehension as Carlos pulled away.  The night had been…surreal.  Carlos was a space cadet.  Their conversation had meandered from music to movies, from art to architecture, and ended up on a lengthy monologue about finding a job with a good 401K.  Their discussion had covered every possible topic BUT kink, and Frankie had given up all notion of a hookup a solid two hours ago.  The meeting went so badly, that the highlight was holding the door open for the kitchen’s early delivery when they finally left the coffee shop at an ungodly hour.
         Fuckin’ kill me already …
        He was about to head home, when Carlos texted:
 
        I had a really good time SIR.
 
        Rolling his eyes, he shoved the phone back in his pocket, then pulled up his jacket collar, tucked his hands into his jeans’ front pockets, and kept his head low & angry as he rushed down the sidewalk home, once the light went from hazard red to Electroluminescent green. 

Chapter Two
The Lion Sleeps Tonight

---

             
            “What’s the saddest you’ve ever been?”
            “Oh, huh?” Jordan asked, looking up from his iPad.
            “What’s the saddest you’ve ever been?” Russ repeated, standing in the doorway –
            “It’s a pretty straightforward question.”
            Jordan sat up in his bed.  He’d been lying on top of a vintage Star Wars comforter, and his head and shoulders were propped up by pillows with faded pictures of Luke, Han, Leia, Chewie, and Darth on the cases.  He was wearing a pair of jean-shorts and nothing else.  The young man had been reading Sean Hannity’s Live Free or Die on his tablet.  He looked at Russ in amusement.  “Why do you always say things like that?”
            “To keep you on your toes, of course,” Russ told him.  “If you’re looking for a Sir, then you need to pay attention to cues, little details and such.  Now answer the question.  I don’t like repeating myself.”
            “Well, I guess” – Jordan thought on his feet – “The saddest I’ve ever been is twofold.  First, I was sad when you answered my roommate ad, and then I was even sadder when I offered you the room - which is not Section 8, btw.  Yeah – that’s it.  That’s the saddest I’ve ever been.”
            Russ shot him daggers.
            “And why do you say things like that?”  He dropped Jordan’s laundry basket onto the hardwood floor, and kicked it across the room like a hockey puck.  The basket hit Jordan’s bed – thud.  “That’s what’s wrong with your generation.  You don’t respect the Old Guard.”
            “But I do respect you,” Jordan said, smiling, jumping off the bed.  He bee-lined for Russ and gave him a bear-hug.  “You have no idea how much I respect you.”
            “That so?”
            “Yes, Daddy.”
            “Dammit, I told you to stop calling me that.”
            Jordan & Russ were a strange sort of Odd Couple, two “boys” from different eras, one from the past and one from the present.  Russ was tall, stocky, in his late fifties.  Jordan was short, skinny, had just turned twenty-five, and was a dead ringer for B. Dylan Hollis from YouTube & TikTok fame.  They had met as Jordan said, through a Craigslist posting for roommates wanted in Roscoe Village.  Despite their age difference, they’d instantly “connected,” and had been living together for almost a-year-and-a-half.  One of them was a clean-freak, to boot.
            “Are you cooking, or are we eating out?” Jordan asked.
            “Neither,” Russ said.  “I want Chinese.”
            “Oh? Take out?”
            “Noodles.”
            “You Won Kok?”
            “My, you know that I do.”
            “Okay. You need me to pick it up?”
            “Um – if you don’t mind, please,” Russ told him, turning towards the hallway. – 
            “Seriously – my knee hurts again.  I think I need another cortisone shot.”
            Jordan smiled at him.  “I’ll get dressed.”
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            The air was cold & crisp as Jordan scampered down the apartment building’s exterior stairs, then onto the sidewalk, where he headed for the restaurant.  He looked a bit like a skinhead today, with a shaved scalp, tight white T-shirt & blue jeans, a wide black belt, combat boots, and a vintage, beat to hell motorcycle jacket that was clearly from the seventies.  He zipped up his coat and pulled on his leather gloves as he walked.  He then put on a pair of round, John Lennon-style sunglasses and made sure that his wallet – an old, square brick on a shiny silver chain – was still in his back pocket.  He lit a cigarette before trotting down the sidewalk, listening to music on Bluetooth ear-buds.
 
              *  *  *  *  *

               Ding-a-ling!
 
            The thick aroma of batter and peanut oil filled the air of the small Chinese hole-in-the-wall.  The place was a cement pit.  Its décor was mainly comprised of cheap, gaudy folding fans, knockoff prints of Asian landscapes, and lots of fake, shiny gold shit.  As the harsh fluorescents buzzed from above, Jordan came up to the greasy carryout counter.  Baltimora’s “Tarzan Boy” could be heard when he took his ear-buds out.
            “You here for pickup?” the shameless knockoff of Mad TV’s “Ms. Swan” asked.  She wore a shapeless, floral housedress that was straight from Barbara Bel Geddes’s Dallas wardrobe, and her grating singsong voice was enough to peel paint off the walls.  Jordan nodded, gave his name, paid, took his bag, then replaced his ear-buds and bounced out of restaurant like Tigger.  On his way out, he passed Carlos (still in the same clothes he was the previous night with Frankie), who was coming in.
            Continuing his journey down the pavement, Jordan swung his take-out bag and nodded to passerby, many of whom he recognized.  Like Dawn Davenport in Female Trouble, he strutted along the boulevard as though the entire world were watching.  Neighbors carried groceries, Goths lugged heavy guitar cases, drunks took swigs from brown paper bags, bull dykes bickered with bull-dykier girlfriends, and muscular slave-boys struggled to keep up with prissy, mincing Yorkies – dogs whose elaborate leather collars were more expensive than their own.
            Returning to his apartment, Jordan scurried up the stairs just as Michael (in his biker’s jacket again) walked by with purpose, below.  Michael followed the sidewalk to the corner of Western & Damen, waited for the light, shot across the crosswalk, then rushed past the flashing red lights of a delivery truck to catch the next train at the Belmont station.  Gripping a pole to keep his balance, Michael kept his gloved hand tight around the chrome, as his weight was distributed evenly on his boots, moving rhythmically to the motion of the L.  The city zipped by the cabin’s many windows, and Michael closed his eyes, focusing on the mechanical drone of the Moviefone-voice above:
 
          “… Now approaching … Sheridan … Exit to your right …”
 
            Once the train stopped, Michael was the first to get off as soon as the hydraulic doors hissed open.
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Good morning, Sillycakes,” Sybil said from behind her desk as Michael entered the office, and hung his jacket on a coat tree.  Taking off his gloves & sunglasses, he brushed off his navy Dockers and straightened his shirt and blue No Boundaries tie before sitting down at his workstation.  He placed his phone next to the keyboard as Sybil brought him coffee.
            “Oh, Syb – you didn’t have to do that,” he said, taking it from her.
            “Yes, I did,” she said, heading back to her own desk.  “Martin’s having an episode this afternoon.  I think we’re overspent on payroll again.  Or, HR got another complaint from the lighting guys.  OR, maybe his girdle just got pinched in his fat rolls – I don’t know.  I honestly have no idea what’s wrong with him today, but whatever it is, he’s been making my life a living hell.”
            “Oh no,” Michael chuckled.  “That’s not good.”
            “No, it’s…not,” Sybil told him, turning towards her computer.  “I’m barely in the mood for union reps today, let alone a bitchy little queen with a stick up his ass.”
            She started typing.
            Taking off his coat, Michael smiled when he remembered something –
          “And hey, I got this for you.  My roommate works in a bookstore.”
          “Nice.  Is it a Stephen King?” she asked dreamily.  “I’m still waiting for a sequel to IT.”
         “Draining the sewers of Derry,” Michael reminisced.  “Personally, I like his long, winding stories.  Under the Dome is my current favorite, but the one I cherish is The Shining.  I actually own a signed copy.  I remember buying The Stand twice, once, the edited version, and the second when it came out, uncut.  I loved the mini-series too.  I had the biggest crush on Corin Nemec, especially when he played Harold Lauder.”
            “He was the fat kid in the book, right?” Sybil asked.  “The one in leather, in the miniseries?”
            “Oh, you’re doing that on purpose,” Michael warned, tossing her a book –
            “Ok, bitch: Read it!”
            “Really? Oh my god – my ovaries are quivering!”
            “Are you surrrrrre you like it?”
            “YES! Thank you, Sir,” she said with a wink, carefully tucking the copy of Eats, Chutes and Leaves into her purse.  “I’ll be masturbating later.”
            He turned towards his own computer, and pulled up the spreadsheet he’d been working on at home.  He opened a few Excel files, arranged them on the desktop, and pulled up the Drudge Report in a second window.  He was about to start crunching numbers, when his iPhone buzzed with a Chrissie Hynde ring tone:
 
            “My city was gone …”
 
            It was Frankie.
            Michael answered it on speaker –
            “What’s up?”
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
 
            “You’re not going to believe this,” Frankie replied, talking on his phone while watching the downstairs cashiers from the bookstore’s second level.  “There’s a posting for my job on the company website.  They’re not even being subtle about it.”
            “You’re on your third write-up, right?” Michael asked.
            “Eh. Third and final,” Frankie said.
            “Tell you what, if I were you, I’d steal as many office supplies as I can,” Michael said –
            “I’ll take some Sharpies.”
         “Sharpies are about the only thing I’d take from this place,” Frankie said, turning to face the Info Desk.  The staff was gathering again, gossiping. “My employees spend more time watching YouTube on their phones than helping customers.  Sigh – they’re always playing music videos for some reason.  Of course, in their defense, our computers are so old it’s easier for booksellers to Google books than to use our in-house database. Our software looks new on the surface, but it’s actually DOS-based.  I wish that someone with cash would by this place.  The concept is solid, I mean, people will always read books, but the way we currently market them is outdated.”
            “Atari!” Michael said playfully –
            “Break out the joysticks.”
            “No shit,” Frankie told him.  “Our corporate office still uses an IBM mainframe that’s as big as WOPR from Wargames.  Getting our systems to talk to each other is like trying to shove an 8-Track into a flash drive slot.”
            “Seriously?” Michael said, astounded.  “Those things were great back in the day, but so was the abacus.  No wonder Amazon is kicking your ass.”
            Frankie smiled and looked at his watch.  The clock is ticking, he thought.  He brought his phone to his cheek again. “What are you doing tonight?  Do you have any plans?”
            “Bondage,” Michael told him.  “But it’s also Gear Night at Cell Block.”
            “Eh, that’s right,” Frankie said excitedly, remembering –
            “Err, are we going?”
            “Kroywen? Well, I was planning on going,” Michael told him –
            “Might you want to come?” he asked with a chuckle.
            “Ah-huh!” Frankie said excitedly. I need to have some fun tonight.” 
            “Not to mention,” Frankie added, “it’s been a long time since we played together.”
            Michael laughed out loud in Frankie’s ear –
            “Oh, so THAT’S what we’re really talking about –
            “You want a +wing-man!”
          “A wing-man or a friend,” Frankie told him.  “Or a body I can dump in the lake – I honestly don’t care anymore.  I just need to forget about reality for a night.  Are you game?”
            Michael inhaled deeply, then let out a long, slow sigh. 
            He smiled again. 
            “Of course, I’m in, Frankie” –
            “But I think you already know that.”
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
       IMPORTANT NOTE TO THE READER:
 
            The following scene will be described as a movie, so you can see exactly what was in the Author’s mind, at the time it was written.

            SETTING:
           Halsted Street at 10pm, as seen from a crane-shot.
             
          The camera pans slowly across the busy nighttime sidewalks, then stops above the neon “Cell Block” sign, that’s hung directly above a bustling Boys Town bar.  Frankie & Michael are seen coming down the sidewalk, each dressed in full gear: black leather police shirts, leather ties (Frankie in a red one, Michael in a blue one), padded leather pants, wide leather belts, knee-high lace-up Wescos (Frankie’s have tall heels, Michael’s have small ones), black “fetish” biker’s jackets (with diamond, quilted accents on the sleeves & shoulders), black leather gloves, and tall leather hats (Frankie in a chrome-tipped officer’s Muir, and Michael in a sharp black Garrison).
            The two men walk at the same pace, but Michael stays three steps behind Frankie, to his right.  They enter the bar together.
​
             BACKGROUND MUSIC:
            (Played over the entire following scenes)
            Donnie Iris’s “Ah Leah.”
 
             “… Leah, it’s been a long, long time…you’re such a sight …”
             “… You’re looking better than a body has a right to …”
            “… Don’t you know we’re playing with the fire …”
            “… But we can stop this burning desire …”
 
 
           INSIDE THE BAR:
 
          Immediately upon entry, the two men look directly at each other (like two sharks in profile, nose to nose), nod once in exaggerated unison, then separate with Frankie going one direction, Michael the other.  The bar is busy, with two types of men in particular: younger guys with simple or no fetish wear (chest harnesses, kink-themed T-shirts, boots from JCPenny or Kohl’s, inexpensive “suburban” bikers’ jackets from Wilson’s, etc.), and older guys with better leather and a stronger “presence.”

             “… Ah!  Leah! … Here we go again …”
             “… Ah!  Leah!  Is it ever gonna end? ...”
 
           With the bar patrons in the foreground, Frankie is seen walking slowly in the background, cruising.  Michael mirrors Frankie’s movements, on the bar’s other side.
 
              “… Ah!  Leah! … Here we go again …”
              “… Ah!  Leah! ...”
 
             Frankie is observed talking to one young man (a young, Midwestern-type, Caucasian, approximately 25 years of age), while is Michael talks to another (a proud young African-American, similar age).  Both Frankie & Michael pair up with their selections, then meet at the entrance, where all four leave together.
 
             SCENE CHANGE:
            Frankie’s Dungeon, later that evening.
 
              “… I see your lips and I wonder who’s been kissing them …”
             “… I never knew how badly I was missing them …”
             “… We both know we’re never going to make it …”
             “… But when we touch, we never have to fake it …”
 
             We see Frankie’s boots coming down the basement stairs, followed by the two boys’, and Michael’s.  Frankie leads the three men into his dungeon (red lights on), and points out its features: wall of restraints, wall of mirrors, Saint Andrews Cross, sling, cage, bondage table, etc.
Jump cut to the dungeon again, but a different angle.  Now, both boys are naked, side-by-side, with their hands folded behind their backs.  Frankie explains the scene to come, while Michael observes silently, standing three steps behind.
             Many jump cuts now.  Various close-ups of the boys’ wrists and hands being buckled into locking leather restraints, and their limbs being extended into vertical spread-eagles, side-by-side, in the middle of the room.  Both Frankie and Michael do the ropework.
 
               “… Ah! Leah! … Here we go again! ...”
               “… Ah! Leah! … Is it ever going to end?...”
 
               “… Ah!  Leah! … Here we go again! ...”
               “… Ah!  Leah! … We ain’t learned our lesson yet …”
 
               We now see the boys side-by-side in the foreground, both secured in vertical spread-eagles in the middle of the room.  Frankie & Michael are in the background, side-by-side, moving in perfect harmony, raising their whips together and flogging the boys at the same time.  Their movements are so choreographed, they look like they’re dancing together.
 
              “… Baby, it’s no good, we’re just asking for trouble …”
              “… I can touch you but I don’t know how to love you …”
 
              “… It ain’t no use, we’re headed for disaster…”
              “… Our minds said no, but our hearts were talking faster …”
 
              After flogging, Frankie frees the slaves – who immediately fall to the floor, crying.  The nanosecond their bodies hit the ground, both Frankie & Michael get down on their knees (so fast, they almost skid to a stop) and take the boys into their arms. 
The Doms console the subs tenderly, like lovers.
 
            “…Ah! Leah! … Ah! Leah! … Ah! Leah! … Ah! Leah! …”
 
            The music draws to a close, and the page fades to black.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            The following morning, Frankie lay in bed again, reading glasses on, iPhone in hand, Recon on the screen, and Michael – naked – sleeping beside him with his head on Frankie’s stomach.  Frankie was scrolling through the nearby subs, stopping occasionally on profiles that caught his interest.  He paused when he came across Jordan’s profile:
 
            Abuctedboy1998
            Hug Me or Hit Me – Those Are Your Only Two Options
 
            Raising an eyebrow, Frankie opened Jordan’s primary gallery, which featured numerous photos of him in various leather jackets, spotless white T’s, tight faded blue jeans (many with holes), and always with the same beat to hell biker’s jacket, with skinny arms, wide lapels, and a dirty gold lining.
            It was the lining that caught his interest, actually.
            He typed:
 
 
Nice profile.
Nice photos, specifically.
 
I love your vintage jacket.  It reminds me of what San Francisco must have been like, back in the late 60s/early 70s … or, maybe even New York, in early 1980s.
 
Speaking of NY, did you happen to catch American Horror Story NY this year? 
If yes, what did you think?
 
- Sir Frankie
 
            After doing a quick proofread to make sure each word was perfect, Frankie sent the message, then carefully scooted out of bed, so as not to disturb Michael.  He yawned, creaked, scratched his balls, and farted.  He then went to the kitchen for coffee, and returned a few minutes later, carrying a steaming EIB mug.  He set the drink on his nightstand, then walked to his closet and turned on the light.  He selected today’s bookstore attire and brought the patterned dress shirt & khakis into the kitchen to iron.  When he returned to the bedroom fifteen minutes later, he looked at his phone and saw a new message on Recon. 
            Putting on his reading glasses, he opened the response:
 
 
Thank you for the message, SIR.
 
I enjoyed your profile as well, and appreciated the time you took in reading and responding to mine. 
 
To answer your question SIR, yes – I did watch AHS: NYC.  I liked the season’s “concept” – that is, I appreciated the fact that they chose to set last season within the time & setting that they did … but … I felt the story completely dropped the ball.  Yes, it was a good idea, and yes, it had many interesting visuals (the crucifixion scene in particular, in the woods at night, where the boy is restrained to the tree and left to die as the ghosts in antlers gathered around them) but still, a story cannot stand on visuals alone … and, to be frank, a straight man (Ryan Murphy), as talented as he may be, cannot possibly tell a story as delicate as the arrival of AIDS into the NYC Leather scene, in 1981.  It’s just too … raw.
 
“A” for effort, “C” for execution.
 
 Again, SIR, thank you for your message.
 
- boy Jordan
 
            Frankie’s eyes widened, as he literally gulped for air.  You know how to WRITE, he thought, sitting on the bed and rereading Jordan’s message.  His eyes scanned the words Jordan used, and he noticed how the skinhead had clearly taken cues from Frankie’s own Recon profile before crafting his reply. 
            Every word is perfect, he thought. 
            Every word is perfect except –
            A follow-up message appeared in Frankie’s inbox:
 
SIR-
 
I apologize for this message, but I made a mistake in my own.  When I said, “the ghosts in antlers appeared gathered around them,” I meant to say “around HIM,” not “around them.”  I'm a stickler for grammar, and I wanted to correct it immediately.
 
Please forgive the unintentional misstep.
 
- boy Jordan
 
 
            Frankie literally dropped his phone.
            Picking it back up, he read the message a second time, and his eyes tightened with intensity.  Taking a long, deep breath, he exhaled slowly.  He touched the screen as Michael stirred behind him, holding on to a Barnsie Bear.  Pulling up Abductedboy’s primary photo, Frankie cocked his head slightly to the side, and took a moment to absorb the image, and to imagine what he smelled like: 
 
            I’ll bet you smell like B Dylan Hollis, on a day where he royally fucks up a recipe.
             
            He closed his eyes for an instant, then reopened them a few seconds later –
 
            Enamored by Jordan’s picture, Frankie’s eyes narrowed into little slits –
 
            Oh, Dear Lord, I can totally see it now: 250 Ways to Prepare Meat –
 
            Our menu:  HEART  EN  CASSEROLE  ITALIANE, with a twist –
 
            Ingredients: A well-brazed calf’s heart, membranes removed –
 
            Additional condiments: Dylan, absinthe, poppers & rope –
 
            iTunes Dungeon playlist: Toto’s Rosanna, 80’s mix  –
           
            His place or mine? Oh, hell yeah: MY PLACE! –
 
            Age issue?  Go for it, you lecherous pig! –
 
            A custom-fitted Gothels, perhaps?
           
            The way things ought to be –
 
            And for desert? Hmmm …
 
            Oh yeah, bon appetite!
 
            Don’t forget the –
           
            Tip!
 
            *
 
           Who are you … ?

Chapter Three
A Man of Maine Character

---

            “Hi.  My name is Richard, and I’m an alcoholic.”
            “Hi Richard,” said everyone in the circle, in unison.
            The room was the typical cavernous basement … dingy, dated, harsh fluorescent lighting that buzzed. The asbestos tile floor was yellow from years of waxy buildup, and the mismatched folding chairs were predominantly brown, with worn vinyl cushions that were patched in fresh duct tape.  The long, folding tables were arranged in a “U,” with middles that sagged like hammocks, and exposed particleboard around the edges.  The walls were festooned with the expected assortment of religious-themed posters, and crappy children’s artwork. On the wall behind tonight’s speaker, two large plastic placards displayed the Twelve Steps in bullet points –
            There was also a picture of Jesus with sparks coming out of his head.
            And Alan was eating Doritos –
            He typed on his phone:
 
            DEAR GOD –
 
          I must really like this guy because I just sat through his fuckin’ AA Home Group meeting – which reminds me of why I HATE AA.  Everybody mumbles, everybody “regrets” their drinking, and everybody says the same goddamn thing – over & over – never even realizing that by talking about their past, they’re still trapped inside it.
 
            Most importantly, NOBODY knows how to tell a fuckin’ story …
 
            - A
 
            “Is someone sitting here?” Frankie whispered to Alan, coming up behind him and gesturing to the empty chair to his right.  Alan shook his head quietly, putting away his iPhone while observing the room as Frankie sat down next to him.  Tonight, Frankie was wearing standard Saturday fare: long sleeved dress shirt, a bright red tie, buttoned leather vest, leather pants, studded belt, high-heeled Wescos, gloves, and a Vanson biker’s jacket.
            Alan was dressed exactly the same, except his tie was an older shade of red.
            Taking his seat, Frankie unzipped his coat and crossed his legs at the knee.  Alan also had his own legs crossed, except his knees were separate, with his ankle resting firmly on his thigh.  From a distance, both men were nearly identical, only Frankie was a little more “fem” than Alan.  And though they seemed to be the same age, Alan had an air of being older – at least when compared to Frankie, who despite being fifty-three, still acted like he was in his mid-twenties. 
            “Did I miss anything?” Frankie whispered.
         “Same…old…shit,” Alan complained, replacing his iPhone into his jacket’s inner pocket.  He sighed audibly, and popped several soft cough drops in his mouth before looking at his iWatch.  How is it possible that a single hour can feel like a lifetime?  He sank in his chair, crossed his arms, and stared at the speaker bitterly.
          “Christ, Dick says the same thing every goddamn meeting,” Alan muttered.  “And he’s a writer too, so you’d think he’d come up with a new story every now and then.”
            Frankie smiled.  “I like Dick’s stories.  I grew up with them, actually.”
            “So, you had no real friends?”
            “Kind of.  To a lonely kid, books are friends.”
            “I don’t want to be…depressed,” Alan said.
            “No? The worst thing about my depression is that it has a sense of humor.”
            “Good God, if you’re that depressed, you should listen to music or something,” Alan told him.  “That’s what I do.”
            “I thought you were a talk radio guy?”
            “Not anymore.”
          “Is Dick on a heroin kick again?” Frankie coughed, changed the subject.  “Reliving his glory days, I assume?  I thought drug addicts were supposed to go to NA.”
            “Well, apparently AA welcomes everybody now,” Alan grumbled, cocking his head and leaning to the side.  His eyes narrowed into slits.  “Pretty soon, we’ll have separate bathrooms for the drunks and the druggies” –
            “Besides, everyone here is fuckin’ high anyway.”
            Frankie chuckled.
            His eyes then scanned the room, before settling on a man who was wearing a leather biker’s jacket, a brown leather officer’s shirt, a black leather tie, fitted leather pants, and knee-high Wescos – with laces that went on for miles.  His head was shaved, but he had a thick, black beard.  Frankie knew him as “Big Bad Brian,” but Alan had actually messaged him a few times on Recon over the years, and knew who he really was.
            “I see Brian is wearing leather again,” Alan noticed.
            “And that’s a surprise?” Frankie told him, smiling – 
            “You only wish you had the balls to be that bold in public.”
            Alan smiled slightly.  “You’re being an ass again, Frankie,” he said without eye contact.  Frankie smiled back, and twirled the toe of his boot.
            “Are we going out after this?” Alan asked.
            Frankie sighed and rolled his eyes.  “I will follow you, follow you wherever you may go,” he quoted Sister Act.  “You know that’s the present arrangement.”
            “Well, I want to follow him to Touché and see if I can talk him into the dungeon,” Alan said bluntly, staring at Brian while he spoke.  “I have a brand…new…set of nipple clamps. And I know you wouldn’t mind that yourself, so don’t even try to lie to me.”
            Frankie grinned again.
            The speaker finally ended his long, winding, and gut-wrenchingly boring story.
            “All in good time,” Alan told Frankie, standing to clap –
            “All in good time.”
 
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            The club sound system was playing The Communards’ “Don’t Leave Me This Way” as Frankie entered Touché – Chicago’s storied leather bar – at the stroke of midnight, followed by Alan.  Frankie touched base with the doorman, and Alan – in sunglasses – immediately headed for the clubroom; Frankie lingered in the front for a bit, working the room and saying hi to friends. 
            “Hey Frankie,” Bob the bartender said.  Frankie stepped up to the front bar’s drink window, tipped his officer’s hat in greeting, and leaned in close when Bob motioned him forward. 
            “Bob, what’s up?” Frankie asked.
            “Oh – I  read your Recon profile,” Bob pulled him aside –
            “Buddy, you really ought’a change it.”
            “Why?”
            “Your text,” Bob warned him. “It says you’re Republican.  If some of the guys notice that, you’re gonna’ get keyed.”
            “Today? In 2022?” Frankie scoffed. “Seriously?”
            “Oh yeah.”
            “Ugh! Just for saying I’m not a Democrat?”
            “Christ, I know, but that’s how it is.”
            “Hell Bob, that’s bullshit.”
            “Easy, Frankie,” the bartender said. “I hear what you’re saying, not mine to agree or disagree, but you’re in Chicago, buddy.”
            “Yeah, but I would never tag someone’s car just because they don’t vote like me.”
            “Unfortunately, though most people are nice, there are those who aren’t.”
          “Pfft! Thanks,” Frankie grumbled, passing him a twenty for a bottle of water.  Bob went for change, but Frankie shook his head – Keep it. Taking his “adult beverage,” he turned to face the crowd.  The club was cheek-to-cheek, ass-to-ass, shoulder-to-shoulder as usual; Touché was always busy on Saturday night. 
            He entered the multitude.
 
             “… Baby, my heart is full of love and desire for you …”
 
            “Hey Frankie,” a regular said, coming up.  It was Sir Zack, one of Chicago’s well-known Doms.  Zack was an African American man in his 60s, a member of ONYX, thin as cellophane, dressed in classic, Old Guard leather – though he still wore the first vest he ever bought under his attire; it was his most treasured piece of gear.  He had a cigar in his mouth, but it wasn’t lit.  He also had a bottle of water.
            Both men tipped their hats at the same time.
            “Annnd, how’s it hangin’ tonight?” Zack asked.
            “Mightily,” Frankie told him, smirking.  “Any fun lately?”
            “Meh, do you mean, fun as in the kind of shit that you do in your basement?”
            “Are you talking to me?  Seriously, dude?  Please…you do the exact same thing.”
            “Really?” Zach smiled. “Even Blanche Devereaux turns fewer tricks than you. Exactly how many men have you played with this week?  Be honest.”
            “Are we counting Grub Hub drivers?”
            “Yes.”
            “Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
            “I’m not kidding, Frankie.”
            “We have absolutely no idea,” Alan jumped in, coming up from behind.  “But if it’s any consolation, we do use almost all of the carcass, so as not to be wasteful.  I will admit though, that we can only make so much lube from the remains – and we’re running out of room in the freezer.”
            “Jesus, that’s dark,” Zach cringed.
            “Hey – I watched that Netflix show you recommended,” Frankie grinned, shoving Alan backwards as he quickly changed the subject. 
            “Diana: The Musical?” Zack asked, perking up –
            “And what did you think?”
           “Dude, it was like what would happen if the Mommie Dearest people were allowed to stage a Broadway show,” Frankie critiqued.  “Who thought this was a good idea?”
            “Did you enjoy the number where she sings to AIDS patients?” Zack asked, on pins & needles.
            “Gosh, I felt like I was watching Hasa Diga Eebowai,” Frankie said –
            “And by that, I mean it was so bad, I had to gather myself when it was over.”
              Referencing the lyrics, Zach quoted: “I may be unwell, but I’m handsome as hell.”
            “Brilliant!” Frankie giggled. “Sondheim has risen!”
            “With the price of meat, as it is,” Alan slipped in.
            “Gee, and what did the reviews say?” Zack asked, covering his smile.
              Eating this up, Frankie bit his lip before answering: “Reading the reviews of Diana: The Musical is like watching YouTube reaction videos for Two Girls, One Cup.”
            “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
            “Thanks.”
            “I’m heading back,” Zack said – 
            “Are you coming?”
            “In a minute,” Frankie said.  “There are a few more people I want to say hi to, first.  I’ll be back in like…twenty minutes?”
            “Great,” Zack said.  “See you there.”  Light blue hanky in his back-left pocket, Zack disappeared into the clubroom, followed by Alan.  Frankie spun on his heel, and did a 180.  He stopped when he found himself face-to-face with Jordan.
            “Hello there,” Frankie said, surprised.
            “Hello Sir,” Jordan said back, smiling broadly and holding out his hand in greeting.  “I’m Jordan.  We’ve been talking together on Rec” –
            “I know who you are.”  Frankie looked the boy up and down for a moment, and his eyes lingered on his combat boots.  He grinned –
            “So, what are you then?  Some kind of London skinhead?” 
            Jordan looked exactly like his Recon photos – short, skinny, tight ripped blue jeans, white T-shirt with a Tom of Finland graphic, black studded belt, spiked collar, and the same beat to hell biker’s jacket that he wore in his pictures.
            “And what is this?” Frankie added, tugging on Jordan’s lapel –
            “It looks like you found it in Sheldon’s old dumpster.”
            Jordan smiled and looked down at his beer.  “It’s actually from The Alley, Sir.  But it wasn’t new when I got it.  The Alley used to sell used old leather as well, and I think this originally came from a store near Skins on Skins in San Francisco, back in the early seventies.”
            “Sir” – he quickly added.
              Interested, Frankie cocked his head and looked at Jordan from behind his Muir –
            “Riiight.  So, the jacket has history,” he clarified.
            “Yes Sir, it does.  That’s why I bought it.”
            “That so?”
            “Yes, Sir – it is.  I appreciate things that reflect the history of the Leather Community, especially from places where it started, back in New York and San Francisco.”       Jordan cleared his throat nervously, as he waited for Frankie’s response – which did not come.  
            “I mean…that’s why I like Touché,” he went on. “The bar has history within the Chicago community.  I mean, it’s been open – what?  Since nineteen seventy-seven?  Not only is it the oldest leather bar in Chicago, it’s also the oldest gay bar as well.”
             Softly, he cleared his throat a second time.
             Eerie silence.
            “Course, it’s a shame what happened about that puppet” –
            “Of course Sir,” Frankie cut him off.
            “Now what am I missing?” Jordan asked, smiling slightly.            
            “Don’t forget the details,” Frankie told him.
            “Come again?”
            “Sir,” Frankie repeated, smiling. “It’s also the oldest gay bar as well, Sir.”
            “Sir,” Jordan stammered, “I mean, yes Sir.  SIR.  I understand, Sir, Yes SIR!”
          “Oh my God, dude – chill.”  Frankie put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.  “And don’t apologize without actually saying the words.” “That’s just Catholic guilt – it makes you feel like you have to justify yourself.”
            “Christ,” Jordan said, relaxing, shaking his head. 
              His eyes then widened –
             “Really? Shit! I’m sorry, Sir! I shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain!”
             “I honestly don’t mind,” Frankie assured him.
             “Seriously?”
             “Tell you what?  How about if, just this once, I forget you said it.”               
            Smiling & nodding, the boy lowered his head in Sir’s presence.
            Frankie grinned ear-to-ear.  “Much better.” He used his gloved hands to motion the young man to the bar, where he flagged Bob down at the drink window –          
            “Whatever the gentleman wants.”
            Jordan stood rigidly, not sure what to do next. Frankie positioned himself on his left, adopting a pose of classic Dom in profile, like a biker-hieroglyphic.  He folded his hands on the counter’s shiny surface, and leaned in forward so his cheek & hat were parallel to the bar.  The two men became dark shadows, silhouetted in the neon from the wall of glass shelves, liquor, and flickering television screens behind.
            Frankie spoke first: “I enjoyed your messages on Recon.  They were very well written, and I appreciate the fact that you clearly took the time to do your research on me.”
            Jordan smiled, relaxing a bit.
            Frankie came closer. “So, what’s on your mind this evening?” His eyes stayed fixated on Jordan’s own, waiting for an answer.  He watched the boy start to speak, but hesitate.  He was being distracted by something over Frankie’s shoulder. 
            Frankie spun around to find Carlos –
            “Can we talk, Sir?”
            Frankie inhaled deeply, then turned back towards Jordan – Wait.  He then took Carlos’ arm, and deliberately led him through the crowded front bar, down the S-shaped hallway by the urine-scented bathroom, and into the clubroom, beyond. 
            Alan appeared out of nowhere –
            “What the fuck is your problem?” he asked Carlos directly – 
            “And take the hint.”
            “Leave? But Sir, I just want to see you again” –
            “Let us be,” Alan snarled, getting in Carlos’s face.
            “Sir, I” –
            “Why does a grown man wear makeup?” Alan cut in, running his gloved finger along Carlos’ cheek.  When he pulled it back, his fingertip was the color of sandwich spread.        “You look like a corpse in a casket.”
            “Alan, don’t,” Frankie warned.
            Alan shoved Carlos with his shoulder, as he left the young man standing alone; he quickly returned up front to make a point.  But once he got there, he realized that Jordan was nowhere to be found – Dammit. 
            Frankie came up to Alan’s side –
            “You want me to get him?”
            “No,” Alan grumbled.  “He just got spooked.  He’ll be back.”
            “How about Carlos?” Frankie asked, nodding to Alan that Carlos was now standing in the clubroom hallway, watching.  “What should we do about him?”
            “Nothing at the moment,” Alan said –
            “But you need to be more careful with who you meet online.”
            “And now?” Frankie asked.
            “Now we have some fun,” Alan told him, pulling down his Muir.
            Taking his cue, Frankie did the same.
            The two men returned to the clubroom together, joining the back bar’s lights, shadows, and many, many men.
            The house system was now playing “Gridlock,” by Warren Zevon.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Love means never having to say you’re sorry about all the viscera,” Alan said with a Hitchcockian smile, when he noticed that Michael was awake the next morning.
            “How was your night?” Michael asked groggily, sitting up in bed beside him.  Alan was up already, lying under the covers and scrolling through his Recon messages.
            “I hate it when someone uses the phrase ‘show me the ropes’ in a message to me,” Alan told him.  “I swear to fuckin’ God, the next time a dude does it, I’m coming at him with a machine gun.”
            “Want some coffee?” Michael asked, standing, coughing, adjusting his junk – clink!
            “Yes please.”
            “Oh – and I think this is yours,” Michael said.  “I found it in the bathroom, next to the shower.”  He handed Alan Frankie’s cock & ball sheath from downstairs.  “What was it doing there?
            “I had someone over a few days ago,” Alan told him.  “He wore it during play, but he must have taken it off when I let him clean up afterwards.”
            “The Master bathroom?” Michael asked, surprised. –
            “Why not use the hall bathroom?”
            “I had him tied to the bed,” Alan explained.  “It was easier.”
            “I see…”
            Alan’s eyes followed Michael out of the room, before returning to his phone, where he was updating his social media.  As soon as he was alone, he messaged:
 
                 Dude, sorry about last night.  Here’s my number:
 
            Alan sat up in bed when Michael brought him coffee & a brownie – Thanks, buddy.  Michael climbed back into bed with his own cup, then picked up the remote, and turned on Fox and Friends.  While Michael watched television, Alan grabbed the copy of Goodbye to Beekman Place that Frankie had brought home a few days before.  He opened it up to the bookmark, and started to read.
            The two men lay in silence, as the news of the world unfolded.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “What’s wrong?” Old Guard Russ asked Jordan, when the young man finally came out of his room.  The boy was wearing a black tank top and white cotton sleep-pants.  He looked…uneasy. 
            “Everything okay?”
            “Yeah, it’s fine,” Jordan told him.  “Just a weird night, that’s all.”
            “Did something happen?”
            “Not really,” Jordan said.  He disappeared into the laundry room for a moment, then returned carrying his Outback Steakhouse uniform – which had been in the dryer.  He hung the bushman’s shirt on a hanger on the doorway molding and folded his jeans neatly, laying them on the edge of the living room couch.  He grabbed the iron and board from the hall closet.  He set it up next to the loveseat, so he could watch TV while he pressed his clothes.  Before he did however, he went to the kitchen for a fresh can of starch.  When he returned, Jordan noticed his iPhone screen light up on the coffee table.  Seeing it was a Recon notification, he plopped down on the sofa next to Russ and unlocked the screen before opening the app.
            The message was from Sir Frankie.
            Russ observed that Jordan’s demeanor changed as he read the message.  The young man smiled slightly, then took a moment to craft a reply. 
 
            No worries, Sir.  It’s all good.
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
            From Goodbye to Beekman Place:
            The following is a first-person monologue, positioned at the start of Chapter Seven, entitled “The One Armed Man:”
 
When I think about the men I’ve been with in my life, I lost count eleven years ago.  If I had to guess a total today, I’d say, realistically, around two hundred & fifty, give or take 15 in either direction, for those nights I was really wasted. Compared to some gay men I’ve met over the years, my belt has hardly been notched; I know a few guys who were over a thousand, by the time they hit their thirties.
             I also have some straight friends who can count their sexual partners on a single hand; I don’t know if I should envy their commitment, or pity their boring sex-life. I sure as hell couldn’t stay with the same person forever; I can hardly walk through a public place without seeing an opportunity.
            You know, there was this one guy I met, around 1996.  I remember I fell for him hard, after cruising him in a club.  I think we went out twice, but my own drunk-dialing killed even the slightest chance of friendship.  I thought infatuations were supposed to fade over time, you know?  But I still think about him every day, and it took me a decade to figure out why.
            The day that I finally stopped calling him wasn’t the first time the elevator opened-
            It was the first time I actually got in.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
             The hissing cat stood in the center of the elevator doors, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike.  Its body was a stylized silhouette, a featureless insignia that was void of specific details, but clear in both its shape and stance.  The cat had been created to fit perfectly into a circle, a designer’s logo that came together in two pieces, formed when the doors were fully closed. 
On the wall beside the elevator, a handwritten sign was stuck to the ornamental trim with a piece of duct tape:
 
               Alcoholics Anonymous
               9pm in the basement
               STEP ONE meeting 2nite
               Please clean up after yourselves
 
             Walking towards the sign, Alan’s high-heeled boots made muffled clomps on the polished granite floor.  The footsteps echoed softly throughout the hotel’s long, quiet corridor, and Alan’s profile looked “slinky,” as he crept towards the elevator. 
                  He stopped just before the threshold.
                  His body went rigid against an approaching cloud of smoke.
                The perspective pulled back to reveal a second man by the elevator.  He was also in leather like Alan, only his shirt was red with a black tie, while Alan’s was black with a red tie.  The man was smoking a cigarette in silence.  He stood with one knee-high boot on the floor, with the other bent upward at the knee – and resting against the white marble wall.  He looked up as Alan approached.  The two men gave each other the once-over, like lions on the shared border of the other’s turf.
                  Alan was the first to speak this time – “Hey.”
              “Hey,” Brian said back, stamping his cigarette out on the wall, before pressing the elevator’s call button and waiting for the car to arrive.                         “You here for the meeting again?”
                Alan nodded – “Yeah.”
                Ding!
               The doors hissed slightly as the elevator opened.
               Brian stepped inside first – “You coming?”
              “Yeah,” Alan said again, putting his phone away, joining him in the cabin.
               The two stood side-by-side in silence, as the doors shuddered closed after Brian hit the button for the basement.
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
               “I’m Libby, and I’m an alcoholic.”
               “Hi Libby,” the room said in unison.
            A slight old woman in a slinky black cocktail dress, Libby looked more like a hostess at a New Year’s Eve party than drunk in a late-night meeting for drunks.  She stood from her chair, wobbling slightly on her Chanel heels.  She fidgeted with her long bead of pearls, and Alan couldn’t help but think of Ruth Gordon from Rosemary’s Baby.
              He also couldn’t help but notice that the old woman was shitfaced.
              His eyes grew wide as she spoke: 
             “It’s been, what? Three hours since my last drink?” she slurred cheerfully.  She brought a white-gloved hand to her pruny lips and hiccupped – “Shhhhorry” – (hic) – “I’m jusssht a little drunk.” 
              She steadied herself on her chair for a moment. 
              She had no idea where she was. 
              She burped again before repeating herself:
              “I’mmmmm Libby…and I’m annnn” – (hic) – “allllllcohhhhholiiiich…”
              “I thought we weren’t allowed to come to these meetings drunk,” Alan whispered to Brian, who was seated next to him.
            Brian smiled, and quietly shook his head.  “It’s Libby,” he told him.  “She’s always this way.  I actually think that she lives in the penthouse upstairs.”
             “Seriously?”
            “Yup.  She’s like some trust-fund heiress, who’s lived in the hotel her entire life,” Brian said.  “She rarely even leaves the building.  She’s always here, whenever I come to this meeting.  And, she’s always drunk, but at least she’s safe, I guess.”
              “Sometimes the guys have to help her back upstairs,” he added.
           “At least she’s not driving drunk,” Alan said.  “The last thing we need is another fuckin’ white cross on the side of the road, where someone died.”
             “Yup,” Brian winced – Dude, lighten up!
           “I actually drove by one yesterday,” Alan continued.  “The grieving family had literally put real accident debris on the cross.  This one had a shredded leather vest.  I’ll bet if you swabbed it, you could still find brain matter.”
             “Ah.”
           “Yeah – fuckin’ funny. The best way to immortalize little Billy – who died unexpectedly when his motorcycle hit a wall at 90 mph – is to recycle his bike’s scorched, twisted license plate to use as an INRI sign.” 
              Stunned silence …
              Crickets.
             “Sorry,” Alan said, after a few awkward minutes.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Hey,” Alan said later, stopping Brian after the meeting, on the sidewalk outside The Beekman Place Hotel.  “You know – I’ve seen your profile on Recon.  I’ve been watching it for a couple of years, to be honest.”
            “Did I block you?”
            “Ah – no.”
           “So…your point?” Brian asked indifferently.  He didn’t even look at Alan, as he lit a cigarette in the dark.  For just a brief moment, his face went brilliant orange within his Zippo’s glow.  Alan sighed in frustration, puffed his vape, and rolled his eyes while shaking his head.
            “Point is, I’d like to grab coffee with you sometime. I mean, if you’re interested.”
            He waited for a response, but Brian kept his distance.  Alan’s eyes narrowed into slits – Whatever.  He put on his sunglasses when Carlos’s Fleetwood stopped in front of him.  He could hear ABC’s “When Smokey Sings” playing on the stereo.  He gave Brian one last, quick once-over as he pulled up his jacket collar and tugged on his Muir. 
            He went for Smokey’s door.
            “Hey,” Brian said from behind his shoulder.  Pausing at the car, Alan turned to face him in the dark.  “Shoot me a message on Recon” –
            And then he was gone.
         Inhaling deeply, Alan watched the tall leatherman disappear into the shadows, the tip of his Marlboro Light growing fainter & fainter in the distance.  Alan returned his attention to Carlos.  Taking one last vape, he opened the Fleetwood’s door and climbed in.  He yanked it closed, and the Cadillac pulled away quickly. 
            He had one more mess to clean up, before Frankie made it worse.

Chapter Four
And Then He Was Gone

---

             Hello, Reader.
             My name is Jordan.
            I’m often referred to as “the boy,” “boy Jordan,” “the skinhead,” and occasionally “the slave” – but in the case of the story, it’s best for you to just call me “Jordan” to keep things as simple as possible.
            All of us have specific jobs, and I’ve been chosen by the others to help you along, going forward.  I’m not sure if you realize this yet, but the story you’re reading is far more complicated than it appears on the surface, and it’s been decided that without my help, you’re likely to miss something important – specifically, the book’s “true intent."  You probably already sense that something is going on in the background, which most attentive readers tend to do at this point.
            Though a stand-alone novel, When People Go Away is actually the third story in a trilogy – a series that started with Goodbye to Beekman Place, and continued with a second “bridge” novel called The Saturday Night Everlasting.  Like the television anthology American Horror Story, each Beekman Place novel is interconnected with the others, in the same way that AHS seasons are all linked together in some way –
            Remember that. 
            It’s very important that you always remember that.
 
         - J
           *  *  *  *  *
           
              “Hold still, Sir.”
            Frankie’s face was positioned in the center of the small mirror, and he could see his reflection up close & personal as the CAT scan’s laser sliced a neon-red, perpendicular line across his face, from right to left –
            “Again, Mr. Downs – please don’t move.”
            It was hard not to shiver in the flimsy hospital gown, as Frankie stood almost naked in the cold Loyola examination room.  The lights had been dimmed – they usually were during tests – and Frankie could see his clothes, leather jacket hanging on a hook in the corner.
            The machine buzzed and whirred.
            It made little clicking sounds, like Amtrak wheels on tracks.
            Frankie, as usual, had “detached” himself from the procedure, and the person who stared back at him in the mirror had unfamiliar eyes. 
            The scan continued for another ten minutes.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Welcome to Outback.  Have you been with us before?”
 
             “… Love me … hold me … love me … hold me …”
 
            The Soup Dragons’ “I’m Free” chirped merrily from MUZAK in the restaurant’s Aussie-themed dining room.  The place was packed, as was typical for the weekend rush.  The lobby – on a “wait” – was standing room only.  The eatery’s air was filled with the aroma of savory smoke, delicious grilled meat, and 100 different perfumes & colognes – all fighting for the others’ attention.
 
             “… Love me … hold me … love me … hold me …”
 
            Jordan stood at the end of a table, giving what the Outback called a “menu presentation.”  He looked particularly sharp tonight.  His shirt was crisp, his apron was spotless, and his shiny combat boots were tucked neatly under clean, pressed blue jeans; his freshly-shaved head looked shiny in the soft-pink lighting that rained down from above, from the flush, recessed can-lights that illuminated the dining room.
            “Because, if you haven’t, may I recommend the Outback Special?”
 
              “… Love me … hold me … love me … hold me …”
 
            Taking the table’s drink and appetizer order, Jordan darted through the restaurant, and into the kitchen’s harsh fluorescent lighting.  He turned in his Bloomin’ Onion – “WALKING IN – ONE BLOOM!” – then shot to the Bobcat computer, where he entered his bar order.  After that, he ran some food, checked on his other tables, then backtracked to the bar again to pick up his table’s Wallaby Darns.
            As the evening’s Headwait server, he wouldn’t leave the building until close to midnight, many hours later.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “You smell like a French-fry,” Old Guard Russ told Jordan when he entered the apartment, around twelve-thirty in the morning.  Russ was in rubber tonight.  He wore a tight gray officer’s shirt, rubber pants, tall engineer’s boots, rubber gloves, and a black fisherman’s cap.  He looked like he was on his way out.
            “I’m going to Jackhammer,” he said to Jordan.  “Wanna’ gear up and come?”
            “Maybe,” Jordan said, unzipping his biker’s jacket and tugging off his gloves.  He reached into the coat’s inner pocket, and took out his phone – which he checked for messages.  He read his texts and smiled.
            “Yeah,” Jordan exclaimed to Russ –  –
            “I will come.”
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “… Lay your hands… lay your hands on me …!”
            “… Lay your hands… lay your hands on me …!”
 
            The haunting chorus of the Thompson Twins’ megahit blasted through the Touché sound system at nearly two in the morning.  The club was slammed.  The front bar was  filled with so many people, it was hard for Alan to move, let alone breathe.  He had only just noticed Frankie talking to Jordan in the corner, and was trying to push his way through the crowded space without actually touching anyone –
            Alan hated 2 be touched. 
            Frankie looked UP when Alan finally made it through.  “You okay?” he asked.  Alan glared at Frankie.  He seemed both jealous and pissed –
            “I might ask the same question of you.”
             Alan was shaking.
              Uncrossing his legs, Frankie cocked his head – what’s up with you?
            “You do realize that you talk to yourself, Sir?” Jordan asked.
             “I’m not talking to myself,” Frankie told him. “I’m talking to God.”  
              He took a swig of bottled water as the young man considered this. 
            “You’re out late, tonight.” Frankie said to Jordan –
            “I thought you had to work.”
            “I did,” the young man admitted.  “But I came out when I got your text, Sir.”
            “Nice.  And you still came out to see me,” Frankie purred, touching the Jordan’s cheek with his gloved hand –
            “Let’s get out of here.”

 
             “… Lay your hands… lay your hands on me …!”
             “… Lay your hands… lay your hands on me …!”
 
            “No,” Alan interrupted, getting between the two.  He motioned for Frankie to look over his shoulder, and onto the front bar’s entrance.  Brian had just come in.  Frankie looked back to Alan – “What?  It’s just Brian.”
            “You take this,” Alan told him, sweating.  “I’m not in the right headspace tonight.  I think I’m having another pa-pa-pa-panic attack.”
            “Seriously?”   
            Alan nodded quickly.
          “You haven’t had one of those in a long time.”
            “Jesus, can we just do this?”
            “Of course,” Frankie said, taking his hand –
 
            “… Lay your hands… lay your hands on me …!”
            “… Lay your hands… lay your hands on me …!”
 
             - And the music stopped COLD.
             - And the patrons stopped COLD.
          - And the house lights went BLACK, with the exception of a single white spotlight that illuminated Frankie & Alan from above.  Their faces came together like John Travolta & Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, and the unseen camera circled around their frozen figures – like special effects from The Matrix.
            One beat, two beats, the men switched places while their faces remained the same.
            Three beats, four beats, the lights came back up, the music came back on, and the club resumed its normal operations – completely unaware that anything had happened.
 
             “… Lay your hands… lay your hands on me …!”
             “… Lay your hands… lay your hands on me …!”
 
            Frankie went for Brian, while Alan took his place, talking to Jordan.
            “I’m sorry,” Alan told him, relaxing noticeably, chuckling for a brain-fart moment.  “I completely lost my train of thought just now” –
            “What were we talking about, again?”
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            Alan’s loggers came down the basement stairs, followed close behind by Jordan’s combat boots, scampering like a puppy.  The young man shadowed Alan into Frankie’s dungeon, where Alan turned on the crimson lights and set his iPhone on a table.  Taking off his biker’s jacket, Sir Alan motioned for the boy to do the same.  Alan then positioned Jordan in the room’s very center, and placed the skinhead’s hands behind his back – Keep them there – before using his boots to spread Jordan’s skinny legs.
            He brought his gloved hand to Jordan’s cheek again.
            He then brought his other hand to Jordan’s neck, coming in closely and inhaling his scent.  “Tell me what you were thinking about, the last time that you masturbated.” 
Jordan, clearly excited, didn’t miss a beat:
            “Bondage porn.  Skinhead stuff, like how they play in London.  Master and slave, heavy restraint, manacles, chains, and guys wearing boots – tall ones, like you see in Touches’ clubroom.”
            His hand still on Jordan’s cheek, Alan brought his other to the young man’s crotch.  He squeezed.  “Hey Siri – play the album ‘Transverse City.’”
 
                 “Told my little Pollyanna, there’s a place for you and me” –
                  “We’ll go down to Transverse City, life is cheap and death is free.”
 
The eerie Warren Zevon lyrics filled the dungeon with haunting, articulate poetry.  The song intertwined with the symmetry of the red spotlights, slicing through the basement darkness in hot sharp lines of rubicund. 
            Moving with the grace of a coryphée, Alan took the boy in one hand, while reaching for Frankie’s restraints with the other.  His body was “posed,” as though being watched, and his motions were fluid, like Al Stewart’s watercolors in the rain.  RIP! RIP! RIP! – Jordan’s clothes were off in a heartbeat.  The young man gasped as his shoulders were slammed against Frankie’s Saint Andrew’s Cross, and his wrists and ankles were padlocked so fast, he was firmly in an X before he had time to react.
            He swallowed hard when Alan buckled his posture collar.
            Alan’s body became a blur, as additional restraints were added, securing Jordan even firmer against the cross, with leather straps around his elbows, shoulders, thighs, and knees.  A sharp CLICK-CLICK-CLICK echoed through the chamber as a hard leather weight belt was added to the young man’s waist, ratcheted on either side by tie-down fasteners from Home Depot.
 
            “… I went walking in the wasted city … started thinking about entropy …”
            “… Smelled the wind from the ruined river … Went home to watch TV…”
 
            By the time Alan stepped back to admire his handiwork, Jordan was literally frozen.  “Transverse City” morphed into “Run Straight Down,” as Alan turned so his officer’s hat was in profile, brought his hand to the brim, touched it for a moment, then rolled his head in a single, fluid motion, so his Cat’s Eyes now looked dead into Jordan’s own.
            Alan closed his eyes and inhaled.
            And when he released his breath directly into Jordan’s mouth, his eyes reopened with deadly intensity, now seeing the boy through Frankie. 
He smiled playfully –
            “Hello there.”
            Before Jordan could answer, Frankie brought his gloved hand up to the young man’s lips.  He covered his mouth like a hostage, and used his other hand to pinch his nose closed tight.  He brought his knee to Jordan’s groin.  He leaned in close and whispered into his ear: “What’s your biggest sexual fantasy, boy?”
            “MPH!” Jordan fought against his restraints.
            “I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that,” Frankie said.  “I said, what’s your biggest sexual fantasy?  The one that you’ve never told another, the one that you jerk off to at night, when you’re alone in the dark?”
            “MMPPPHHH!”
            “Oh, come on.  It’s a simple question, really.”
            “MMMMMMPPPPPHHHHH!” The young man’s face was going from red to deep red.  Frankie, smiling, pushed harder on Jordan’s mouth –
            “I said, what’s your biggest sexual fantasy?  I’m waiting for your answer, but I can’t seem to heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeear you.”
            “MMMMMPPPPPPHHHHH!”
            “You’re starting to piss me off, boy.”
            Jordan’s face was now turning purple.
            “What’s…your sexual…fantasy, boy?!!”
            “MMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHH!”
            “WHAT’S YOUR GODDAMN SEXUAL FANTASY?!!”
            Bucking like a sudden stop, Jordan’s chest arched forward, in time with his spine.  His hands went fists, and his fists went numb, his arms – veins throbbing – went out as far as their bondage would allow, as his boots turned inward, pigeon-toed. 
            His face was becoming blue now –
            And Frankie brought his own arms back suddenly, releasing Jordan’s airflow as both men quickly inhaled.  He grabbed the young man’s chin, and locked his lips against Jordan’s own.  Before Jordan could even catch his breath, Frankie filled the skinhead’s lungs with air from his own mouth.  And once this happened, Frankie shot backward, grabbed Jordan’s cheeks, and brought their faces together close, nose-to-nose, so the young man could stare deep into Frankie’s eyes as he gasped for the breath of life.
            This went on for almost two full minutes.
            Once Jordan regained composure, he looked at Frankie with sweat rolling down his temples – “Jesus…thank you, SIR.”
            “Are you good?” Frankie asked.
            Jordan nodded – “THANK YOU, SIR!”
            “Good,” Frankie said calmly, taking a step back to regroup –
            “Because, as far as I’m concerned, this is where the scene gets started…”
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            Ninety minutes later, as Frankie released the final padlock, Jordan’s haggard body collapsed to the floor – chest heaving, sweat rolling off his head & torso – and spread into a fleshy puddle of sweat, drool, and cum.  He barely had the strength to lift his head, as Frankie’s boots approached from above, stopping directly in front of him.
             A gloved hand reached down with a bottle of water –
            “Drink.”
            “Thank you, Sir,” Jordan muttered, taking the bottle.  He downed it with several quick swallows.  He handed it back.  “Thank you, Sir.”
            A second gloved hand appeared from above. 
            Next, it motioned for the boy to stand –
          “On the count of three.  One, two, three” –
            Inching upward Jordan stood on his feet, and collapsed into Frankie’s waiting arms.
          “Now listen – you okay?” Frankie whispered in his ear.
          “Thanks,” Jordan whispered back. “Yes Sir.”
            The two men embraced in the red lights of the dungeon, as the young man broke down while Frankie consoled him tenderly.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
              “ … If I was beautiful, if I had the time … they would flock to me, bathe me in the wine …
               I know that’s not the way, I know that’s not how things are to be …”
 
            Moby’s “Signs of Love” swirled through the air as the sun came up over the brilliant fields of emerald grasses, thorny olive branches, and floating crocodile lilies on top of seafoam pools.  Jordan found himself wandering the joyous landscape, through the mossy shadows beneath the juniper trees, over the rolling hills of spider ferns, against the looming forest of pines with surgical needles.  There was so…much…green, Jordan thought, yet everything was sharp to the touch.  Still, he kept walking, following a path that ran along the water.
 
              “ I was always looking and I held until the time began –
                Subtle things come at me, I look to see where loss had ran –
 
                I can have the sun it come, and touch me on my shoulder –
               … think of all the things that I had wished that I had told her!”
 
            The sun was a brilliant white, with blinding rays that reached out across the panorama like cut glass.  In the center of the radiance, a statue of Christ stood on a hill with arms outstretched.  As Jordan approached the effigy, the features on Jesus’s face came into focus.  His eyes were staring directly forward, but one pupil was rotating clockwise, the other counter-clockwise.  The image was both creepy & schizophrenic.  
 
              “I fly so high!”
              “Then fall so low!”
 
            Jordan’s beat to hell biker’s jacket was the only thing preventing him from getting cut by the razor-leafed perennials that seemed to get denser the further he explored.  There were veiny broadleaf and sharp succulents, prickly thistles and pointy blades of crabgrass.  He winced as the weeds serrated the back of his hands, and he shoved his fists into his pockets to protect them.  There was so much joy around him, it hurt.
 
           “ If I was beautiful, if I had the time … You would flock to me, and bathe me in the wine!
             I know that’s not the way, I know that’s not how things are to be! ”
 
            The bubbling pools of water had now become seaweed in color, and the emerald fields had now grown predominantly army green, with pickled asparagus leaves and drab stalks of grassy camouflage.  Jordan could now see a child in the foliage, a young boy with a weight problem, a youth who was so lonely, he was talking to the weeds.  Jordan kept walking.
 
             “ If I was like you, with nothing to get around … then everything would be beautiful,
               as far as I can see … you’ll be sitting here with me, til’ love’s end! ”
 
            The manic Christ statue was now completely silhouetted within the arresting sunlight.  As Jordan approached it, the effigy looked down at him – and reached forward to hug him, like a Father finding a long-lost son.  But Jesus’s eyes had gone completely white.  His body was cold to the touch.  And when he went to pull Jordan closer, the young man started to say his name, but all he could get out was –
            “Chris.”
            His heart pounding in his chest, Jordan awoke with a start.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
          “You look exhausted,” Old Guard Russ told Jordan, as the boy entered the apartment at noon, disheveled, spent, and hiding behind sunglasses. 
            “Rough night?” Russ asked, grinning –
            “Or, should I say rough trade night?”
         “Go to hell, Daddy,” Jordan said playfully.  He came into the living room, stood at the edge of the sofa, then tumbled face-first onto the cushions, like a falling tree – Timber!
            “You want coffee?” Russ asked.
            “Yes please,” Jordan’s voice said from somewhere behind the throw pillows.
            Russ patted the young man’s head before disappearing into the kitchen.  When he returned, he carried two steaming mugs, and set them on the coffee table – before turning on the TV.
            MeTV was running a John Hughes marathon.
            “Soooooooooooooooo, who’s the fella?” Russ asked Jordan, lifting up his boots so he could sit down.  Replacing Jordan’s Corcoran’s onto his lap, Russ carefully untied them, took them off the skinhead’s feet, and set them neatly on the floor with the laces tucked in.
            “Or, did you even get his name?”
              Rotating his body, Jordan was now laying on his back.
            “But I was with Sir Frankie,” he told him. 
             “I have to admit Russ, what he did to me was incredible.”
           Taking a quick sniff of Jordan’s feet, Russ felt the young man’s crotch for a chastity device.  “Looks like you got off easy,” he said.  “And judging by the just-been-fucked glow on your face, I’m guessing you got off more than once.”
            Jordan smiled.
            “How’s it healing, by the way?” Russ asked, tapping Jordan’s junk.
            “The pee tip still hurts,” Jordan admitted.  “But it’s healing fast.”
            “Did you tell Sir Frankie to go easy when you played?”
            “Hell no!” Jordan grinned. “The pain felt good.”
            “You get bred?”
            “Sir Frankie doesn’t fuck, for some reason,” the young man said.
            “That’s odd,” Russ told him, taking off his socks.  He massaged Jordan’s toes while he talked.  “Was there a reason he didn’t fuck you, or did you tell him not to?”
            Jordan chuckled, reaching for his coffee –
            “Didn’t come up.  Sir Frankie wanted to do other things.”
            “Errr, did you clean yourself out beforehand?”
            “Gross, Russ.”
            “Well, did you?”
            “No, but I didn’t have to,” the young man told him. “Besides, I hadn’t even planned to meet up with Sir Frankie.  It just sort of…happened.”
            “Getting fucked in Touches’ clubroom just ‘sort of happens.’”– 
            “You had ulterior motives.”
            “I did not.”
            “Liar.  I saw that shit-eating grin on your face when you got that text from Sir Frankie last night.”
            Jordan sat up and scooched over to Russ’s side.  He leaned on the old sub’s shoulder, and held him by his bicep.  Russ touched the boy’s hand tenderly, like a Father.  He whispered in Jordan’s ear –
            “Enjoy these times,” he said softly, closing his eyes in melancholy.  “Because moments of true happiness are few and far between in life.  Enjoy them right now, while you’re young, while you’re beautiful.  Because there will come a day when you wake up like me, and find yourself full of loneliness and regret…and memories from the past that can never happen again.”
            “Will you always be with me, Russ?” Jordan whispered.
            “Always and forever, my sweet boy.”
            “Never go away?”
            “That goes without question.”
            “Err, will you always keep me safe?”
            “Dude, always…that also goes without question.”
            Jordan hesitated for a moment –
            “What if the memories I have of you aren’t always happy?”
            Silence.
            “Shh! – no talking,” Russ consoled him, caressing his cheek tenderly. 
            “Just enjoy the moment, my boy.  Always…enjoy…the moment.”
            Jordan went to say something else, but tears unexpectedly welled up in his eyes.  Burying his face into Old Guard Russ’s chest, for the second time in just a few hours, the boy broke down in sobs.
 
 
            “Oh, Daddy…!” he whispered sadly.

Chapter Five
Conversational Interlude

---

            iTunes Playlist: Enya
            Song Title: “Orinoco Flow”
 
            “… Let me sail, let me sail, let the Orinoco flow …”
            “… Let me reach, let me beach, on the shores of Tripoli …”
 
            "I just had the strangest dream this morning."
            "Really?" Old Guard Russ said, offering his hand. "Please Jordan, tell me more."
            "Well, it's quite silly, really," Jordan explained, taking it. "I was a kid in the seventies, like 1977 or 1978.  I was in the house where I grew up.”
            "But you're not old enough to have been a child in the 70s," Russ joked, twirling him around in the white marble hall.
            "I know, I know. As I said, it's really quite silly."
            "Well," Russ said playfully, beneath the crystal chandeliers, "what was your dream about?"
            Jordan chuckled, stretching out his arm as the old man dipped him.  "Russ, you're not going to believe this, but I was in the kitchen with my Father one night. He was so drunk, that he had me in a headlock – and was holding a knife to my throat."
            Russ laughed out loud. "A knife, Jordan? Really?"
            "Really!"
            "Well, that's just silly."
            "Silly, really-really," Jordan said, pointing his toe as he stood back up.
            "Well!" Russ said humorously. "Tell me what happened next."
            "WELL," Jordan answered him, looking down at his shoulder in profile as Russ came up from behind.  "I escaped into my head, of course.  You’d be surprised at how vivid my imagination is for a man my age."
            “And you’re how old again?”
            “Twenty-five.”
            “Of course, of course…”
         “My word, boy.  You weren't really scared, were you?" Russ asked playfully, getting back to the topic at hand.  “Your Father and the knife – remember?”
            "But I wasn’t scared!" Jordan chuckled. –
            "Of course, I always knew just who I had to be whenever he got this way."
            "Meaning, to get him to let go of you?"
            "Bingo," Jordan giggled.
            "And then what happened?" Russ asked amusingly. "I'm just dying to know."
         "WELL," Jordan chortled, extending his toe in a gavotte. "You're not going to believe THIS either. I ran outside into the back yard, and I reached into my pocket, and I actually had a cell phone!"
            "But it was the SEVENTIES," Russ tittered, twirling him around again. –
            "There were no cell phones in the seventies!"
         "And it gets even sillier," Jordan told him. “Every time I tried to make a call, no one would answer.  Sometimes the cell phone's buttons wouldn't even work!"
            "That's just silly!"
            "And it gets even sillier then,” Jordan guffawed, posing with outstretched arms.  “Sometimes Mother would answer the phone.  But when I told her what Father was doing, she said that I sometimes didn’t remember things right, because I bumped my head as a kid.”
            “So, what did you do next?” Russ asked excitedly, taking his hand again.
            “Well, I just went away!” Jordan hooted.  “I don’t even know what happened next.”
            “How can you not know what happened next?” Russ inquired, spinning him around and around and around…
            “Again, I don’t know, Russ.  I just, I just, I just” –
            Gasp!
            Jordan’s eyes went WHITE as they rolled into the back of his head. 
            His face then melted like a stroke victim, seizing:
           
            “I just” – He shook rhythmically.
            “I just” – He shook rhythmically.
            “I just” – He shook rhythmically.
 
          “BLUUUUEEEEEGGGGHHHHH…!”
           
            Grabbing his stomach with both gloved hands, Jordan violently vomited tar-black fluid full of congealed blood, broken glass, rusty razor blades, mucus, nails, viscera, and putrefied chunks of oily, fleshy esophageal lining.  The vomit splattered into a hot, sticky, blob of feces-covered tapeworms that pooled around his combat boots.  Some of the larvae still wiggled when they slithered across the polished-tile floor, in a growing puddle of viscous red that smelled like cigarettes and shit.
            Bringing his gloved hand to his chin in a flutter – Gasp! – Old Guard Russ stepped back from the mess.  “Well, that isn’t silly at all.”
            Silence.
            The big man’s eyes then narrowed into slits –
 
           “NOW CLEAN IT UP, BOY!” he snarled.
 
 
              “… Sail away, sail away, sail away …”
              “… Sail away, sail away, sail away …”

Chapter Six
Intelligent Divine

---

​       “So, tonight’s speaker is a little unusual,” Brian admitted, standing at the podium in his usual Saturday night leathers.  “Let’s just say, he’s a little…odd” – the room chuckled – “and he hates AA because he doesn’t like to share at meetings.”
            This time, the room laughed out loud.
            “So, he wants to read something,” Brian went on.  “And he showed me what it was, and I told him that he could.  So, bear with us here for a moment.”  Brian turned to his side and motioned for the speaker to come up, which he did.  Brian smiled widely, as he stepped away from the podium, allowing the speaker to take his place in front of the group.
             The speaker cleared his throat –
            “I’m David,” he said –
            “I’m an alcoholic.”
            “Hi, David.”
         Shuffling a small stack of papers, David paused to put his reading glasses on.  He avoided pretty much all eye contact with the room as he cleared his throat a second time, and adjusted the microphone to better suit his height.
         “So, I’m going to read something that I posted on a private Facebook group about Personality Disorders,” David explained.  “I’m actually a writer, and this is something I’m including in the book I’m now working on.  And before I read it, just let me make this clear: None of what I’m about to read actually happened to me.  This is all just a fictional story, but it was inspired by my own drinking history, and as I wanted to share something with Rick’s home group before I return home, I decided this was something…well…something you might like to hear.”
            “Anyway, the book that’s it’s from is entitled, ‘When People Go Away.’”
            David fussed with the pages and cleared his throat a third time.  He was just about to start reading, when it seemed like something dawned on him, and he looked up one last time.
            “Oh – and if you don’t mind, as this is just a little personal for me, I am going to share in italics and in a slightly different font.”
            He began:
 
            “I just woke up after a silly little dream.
 
            I dreamt I was a child, in the silly house I grew up in.  I dreamt I was in the home’s little kitchen, with silly floral wallpaper, spotless, clutter-free countertops, and silly little magnets on the avocado refrigerator.
 
            And my Father was there too, and he did something silly.  He was so drunk, he accidentally grabbed me from behind and held a knife to my throat.  He sounded really silly too, with the way he muttered like a growling animal.  And when he threw me against the wall, that was really silly too because Mother had to patch the hole herself, then cover it with a Margaret Keane picture because the wallpaper never quite ‘looked’ right.
 
            And you know what else was silly?  In my dream I had the same smartphone I have now, as an adult, and that doesn’t make any sense at all because there weren’t any smartphones in the mid 1970s.  It’s no wonder nobody answered when I tried so desperately to call them, before Father grabbed the phone from my tiny fingers and threw THAT against the wall as well – after he smashed the china and glass coffee carafe, even harder than what he did to Mother, when she started to cry…”
 
            The point-of-view suddenly changed, and we now see David from behind, with the meeting’s members in a circle in front of him.  He looks like an author giving a talk at a book signing, in front of the silent room.   
            He continued:
 
            “That’s probably why she never came to me.  She was just being silly, too.  Both of my parents were always so … fucking … silly.
 
            And the day that I tried to hug Father as a teen years later – sobbing violently – and begged him to PLEASE stop drinking because I was so lonely, you know what he did?  Huh?  Well, let me tell you –
 
            He stormed up to Mother, hit her across the face so hard it went sideways because she ‘never talked to the boy,’ grabbed his keys, peeled out of the driveway, and left her alone and shaking – with no one to talk to but me.
 
            Oh – and then when SHE stormed up to me – slapping my face so hard, my head went sideways – she told me that it was MY fault Father went out drinking again, and the silly little cunt grabbed her own fuckin’ keys – and left me alone in the house, to think about what I had done.
 
            We now see various shots of the AA members themselves, listening.  Some shots are close-ups, others show “groups” of listeners, in two or three-people clusters.  The various shots include extreme close-ups on peoples’ bodies, their faces, hands, and shoes in particular.
            Alan & Frankie are seen sitting together, listening intently.
            And David went on:
 
            “So, when I saw the knife on the counter – the one that Father had used on me - it’s no fucking wonder that I picked it up, held out my wrist, and SWUNG it as hard as Father could swing, wanting my life to END at the age of eleven.
 
            But then, something silly happened.
 
            My other hand came to life on its own and STOPPED the knife COLD, before it broke the skin.  I watched in serenity as the blade was placed gently back onto the counter, and somebody who looked exactly like me walked calmly into my basement playroom and started tying up my Star Trek action figures with thread that we’d stolen from our Mother’s sewing kit.
 
            That was so many silly years ago.
 
            And there have been so many silly things that happened since then, like the two times I was in love in my twenties, with men who’d been infected by that silly HIV…
            And now, in my 50s, as I’m surrounded by ten invisible people who will always protect me, I finally understand how silly our Father must have felt, when he accidentally drank himself to death, all those years ago …
 
            Of course, it’s a little surprising I’ve learned –
            Cirrhosis isn’t silly at all.
            In fact, it’s just the opposite of silly –
 
            But at least I’ll soon be with the man who always LOVED me, in his own silly way, in his own silly way, in his own silly way …
 
            Silence.
 
            The author pauses to take a moment. 
            He clears his throat, and brings the story home from the podium:
 
            So, THIS is how Father must have really felt.
            He didn’t feel ANYTHING about me at all –
            Just as I feel nothing for my own, silly boy.
 
            And as I watched my own silly son drink his very first can of pop this morning, pouring the soda into the glass I gave him – and downing the Coca-Cola in quick, little shots – I know that I’ve taught him the love that Father always taught me, as his memory will always be three steps in front of me …
 
            … forever in my chrome-plated heart, thanks Mellissa.”
 
            Gathering his papers, David makes quick, brief eye-contact with the listeners & readers.
            “Thanks for letting me share this with you,” he said.
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
              THWACK!
 
            “First, you take the ribeye like this” – Carlos positioned the raw steak on the large, white cutting board – “and then you take the knife like this” – he held a long, shiny Zwilling Henckels in his hand – “lift up, come down” – THAWK! – “and trim all the fat away.”
            “You try now,” Carlos told Jordan.
            The two young men were both dressed in white, as they stood in front of the long, stainless-steel counter in the Outback’s prep-kitchen, adjacent to the cook’s line.  The room was filled with Hispanic women in hairnets, disposable latex gloves, and white food-service uniforms, and the air was thick with the smell of fresh vegetables, wet potatoes, vats of just-made sauces & dressings, and of course, raw meat – from the area where Jordan was standing.
            “I…really don’t want to do this,” Jordan told Carlos.
            “It’s part of your MIT training,” Carlos reminded him. “Everyone who wants to be a manager has to go through with it, before they even set foot in the dining room.”
            “I don’t want to spend my life in a kitchen,” Jordan protested.
            “Think of it as being a symphony,” Carlos told him, moving his hand in a lyrical gesture.  “And you’re…the conductor.”
            “The conductor of MEAT FAT?” Jordan said bluntly.
            “The conductor of a symphony” – Carlos ignored the snotty comment – “needs to learn how to play every instrument in the orchestra.  He does this to understand the music, and to wave his baton with confidence, as he leads the musicians from the podium.”
            “I wish your baton wasn’t so close to me,” Jordan told him uncomfortably, taking the knife.  He positioned a new, uncooked ribeye on the cutting board, and lifted the knife high above his shoulder before bringing it down HARD.  From below, his silhouette in the kitchen’s harsh ceiling fluorescents looked like Norman Bates dressed as Mother, coming up to the shower before hacking Janet Leigh into tiny, bite-sized bits.
            The knife looked sharp –
            THWACK! – “Like that?” Jordan asked.
            “Perfect!” Carlos told him.  “Now, don’t forget the sides.”
            THWACK!
            THWACK!
            THWACK!
            “Looks like you’re a natural with a knife, Jordan,” Carlos said proudly –
            “We’ll make a good steakhouse manager out of you yet.”
            “But I want to do what I love with my life.  I don’t want to spend my life in a” –
            Jordan stopped talking, once he realized that Carlos had gone to the walk-in, for another Lexan of steaks.  Shrugging his shoulders, Jordan resumed cutting the meat he had – THWACK!
            “This is just the first step, my friend,” Carlos said from the open refrigerator door, coming through its long, vinyl strips.  He was carrying more raw steaks.  “Once you complete kitchen training, you move onto the cook’s line for a few months.  You’ll learn how to run all the stations, and then the month after that, you’ll work the Expo window on the server’s line.  And then after that” – Carlos kicked the walk-in door closed with his foot – “You’ll move to the dining room again, only this time you’ll have total knowledge of how the restaurant works.  At least you don’t have to do dishes anymore.  The Hobart station used to be part of the training.  He brought the plastic container up to where Jordan was standing with the knife.
            “It only takes about four months,” Carlos reminded him.  “Just a drop in the bucket, in the grand scheme of time. Well worth the effort when you consider the 401k plan.”  He lifted the steaks onto the counter, next to Jordan –
            But then, the Lexan fell from his hands, dumping raw meat on the floor.
            “My God, Jordan…what have you DONE?”
            “What?” Jordan asked nonchalantly, turning towards Carlos – who now, rushed up to his side.  “What?” Jordan asked again.
            Carlos grabbed the kitchen knife from him and threw it into the sink – clatter! It left a long, red trail of fresh blood on the soaking dishes.
            “… (what?) …” Jordan asked softer now, following Carlos’s wide-eyed stare as he looked at his wet, red fingers.  The young man had done something silly.  He had accidently slashed both his wrists long-ways, causing blood to blood to spatter like water in a drinking fountain.
            Jordan’s eyes went white as he collapsed to the floor –
 
           “JUANITA, CALL NINE ONE-ONE!”
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
            “What are you reading?” Frankie asked Michael, smiling, who was laying on the apartment sofa, reading a book.  He leaned over sideways to see the title:
            “In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote,” Frankie read out loud –
            “C’mon now.  Is there something you’re not telling me, Michael?”
            “Oh, now, now.” Michael smiled –
            “Like, I think you’d really enjoy it, Frankie.”
            “Dude, why’s that?”
            “Bloody hell, Capote was a monster,” Michael said honestly.  “What he did by giving those two murderers false hope was an act of deliberate cruelty.  He intentionally sacrificed human life, just to write his masterpiece.”
            “You do remember I work in a bookstore?” Frankie reminded him from the kitchen, taking off his leather jacket and draping it haphazardly over a chair. “I’ve read most of Capote’s stuff, including the short stories.  I even read Answered Prayers, the unfinished novel.”
            “Well, you’ve got the ‘monster’ part down,” Michael said with an ahem.  “But there’s actually a lot more to it than that.  And I’m serious about what I said, too.  Can you imagine if someone with Capote’s gift lived in today’s times?”
            “Well then, you’ll definitely like this,” Frankie said, reaching into his messenger bag and pulling out the book that he, himself, had been reading on his break.  “It takes the idea of a multi-leveled communications platform – including Facebook, Twitter, and websites – then applies it to what’s happening in the world right now.”   
            He tossed it to Michael.
            “How so?” Michael asked, interested.
            “It’s about quantum computing,” Frankie told him, sitting down next to him. “It starts with the concept of Schrödinger’s Cat and expands it in a very clever way.  It actually demonstrates how words contain technology, in a manner that humanity doesn’t yet realize.”
            “We’re talking about you,” Michael told his cat, who was dozing on his chest, not a care in the world.  “Please continue.  Why is this important?”
            “Well, traditional computers have kind of reached their limit,” Frankie explained. “They think in two-dimensions.  Even if we add more RAM, our current processors can only go so fast, and that prevents our understanding of the next generation of physics, math, and time.  Quantum computers think in three-dimension like a cube, and exponentially expand the device’s processing power.  The book even suggests that our brains are designed to interface with quantum computers, as our species evolves.  It’s all part of the universe’s intelligent design.  That’s actually what this book is about.”
            Ding!
           “Ebony & Ivory” filled the air.
            Adjusting his position, Frankie stretched over Michael, and grabbed his phone.
            Reading the screen, he saw his Recon messages and winced: “God dammit.”
          “That didn’t sound good,” Michael said, sitting up and setting Schrödinger on the floor –
          “Hey – what is it?”
          “Life-sucking Carlos,” Frankie grumbled –
          “I mean, he keeps changing his profile and finding ways around my block.”
          “Now why don’t you have Recon support reverse-block him?”
          “Good idea,” Frankie said, standing up.  “That’s actually a really good idea.  I’m surprised I didn’t think of it already.”
            Michael smiled devilishly.  “I guess I must be smarter than you.”
             Instinctively, Frankie shot him daggers.
           “Now, where are you going?” Michael asked, as Frankie headed for the bedroom.
           “Um, I’m meeting Brian for coffee again,” Frankie yelled from the Master closet.
           “Err – wait, what?  I thought Brian was Alan’s thing.”
           “That he is,” Frankie said, popping his head out of the bedroom doorway.  He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and without his oxford and vest, his chest was skin & bones, as though held together by a small silver Crucifix on a chain around his neck.  “But apparently, I’ve been reassigned.” 
            “Well, that’s interesting,” Michael said, standing up himself.  “Should I freshen up the dungeon?  Break out the crystal ass toys?  Maybe, put a fresh bottle of lube in the microwave?”
            “You’re…just jealous,” Frankie said from the bedroom.
            Michael came up to the doorway and leaned on the threshold.  He crossed his hands over his chest, and did the same with his boots at the ankles.  “You really like this guy, don’t you?”
            Frankie scoffed, tugging on an elegant, long-sleeve Baroque floral.  “Alan really likes this guy.  I’m actually into Jordan.  He’s more my age.”
            Michael raised an eyebrow –
            “Frankie, you’re fifty-three,” he said bluntly.
            Michael shook his head in a ‘whatever’ expression, then came up to Frankie, who was trying to tie his tie.  Michael pushed Frankie’s hands away from the necktie.  “Here – let me do that.”  Frankie stood still as Michael made a perfect Windsor.  “There.  You look nice, now.”  He stood back so Frankie could see himself in the mirror.  Frankie nodded in approval.
            “Thanks.”
            “Right.  So, seriously – what are your plans for Brian this afternoon?”
            “Ummm, coffee?”
            “Maybe. I mean, after coffee.”
            “Ah, we’ll probably go to a meeting.”
            “Nnnnd after that…?
            “Again, Brian’s Alan’s thing…”
            Click! – Michael turned on the lights to the basement stairs. “I can read your mind, you know,” he said directly to Frankie’s face.  He then sang a Gordon Lightfoot song: “If you could read my mind, love … what a tale my thoughts would tell you … Just like an old-time movie … bout a ghost from a wishing well …”
            Frankie smiled, taking Michael into his arms –
            “Well, I didn’t say that Alan might not join us later.”
 
              “In a castle dark, or a fortress strong…with chains upon my feet,
               You know that ghost is me….
               And I will never be set free, as long as I’m a ghost, you can’t see.”
 
             *  *  *  *  *
           
            SLAM!
            The hospital doors slammed outward with a crash, as the EMT’s flanked Jordan’s body on the gurney, bypassing admitting and rushing him directly into the OR.  The young man’s entire chest was red right now, and his arms & legs were shaking noticeably, as he began to code.
            “He’s seizing!” the ER doctor shouted – 
            “MOVE!”
            “MOVE!”
            “MOVE!”
            A second set of doors slammed open, as the boy was hurriedly pushed into surgery – followed by a battalion of nurses, who tore off his clothes with scissors as he lay on the rolling bed.  The doors quickly closed, then swung back open just as fast as a single nurse in bloody scrubs scrolled through the contacts on Jordan’s iPhone.
            He dialed the first one on the “Recent Call” list –
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “What’s up with this Warren Zevon fetish of yours?” Brian asked.
            Alan grinned like the Cryptkeeper –
            “He was the only musician who could use words like ‘brucellosis’ in the lyrics of a love song,” Alan told him.  “The dude was brilliant.  Like, Stephen King brilliant.  Zevon was what would happen if Johnny Cash wrote the music & Anthony Jeselnik wrote the lyrics.”
            “I see…”
            “And he was dark,” Alan added.  “Limbaugh dark.”
            “Wait – you mean Rush Limbaugh?”
            “Yeah,” Alan said.  “Not many people realized this, but Rush had a dark sense of humor.  Like, gallows dark.  Only, he was really subtle about it.  Well, except for the caller abortions.”
            “Dammit, Frankie.” –
          “I didn’t even cry when my own Father died,” Alan went on, “but I sobbed like a fuckin’ baby when I was listening to Rush’s show last February, and Kathryn came on the air.  I was in a really bad place for a lot of years, and Rush kept me sane.  Rush Limbaugh is literally the only reason I am still alive today.”
            “My god – are we really talking about this?”
            “Err, sorry.  But at least it got me to start listening to music again.”
            “Guessing that’s why we’re listening to this dark shit?”
            “Ah – yes.”
            “Ditto on liking Zevon,” Brian told him –
            “But would you please change the subject?”
            “I’ve wanted to do this from the first moment I saw you online,” Alan said, obliging.  Brian was standing in his Master’s Leathers and being secured to Frankie’s Saint Andrew’s Cross.  Alan tried to hide his excitement –
            “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
            Brian closed his eyes and nodded –
            “Much better.”
            He brought his face level with Alan’s, as close as his wrist restraints would allow, and stared directly into his eyes.  The two men looked like sharks in profile, nose to nose, Muir to Muir, as Alan watched Brian’s lips move in intentional exaggeration, mouthing the words to the song that was currently on his iPhone:
 
             “ I called up my friend Leroy on the phone …
               I said Buddy, I’m afraid to be alone! ”
 
            “If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to gag you,” Alan warned, trying not to smile – 
            “I’m serious, you know.”
 
             “ Cuz I’ve got some weird ideas in my head –
              About things to do in Denver when you’re dead! ”
 
            “You’re not going to gag me,” Brian mocked, grinning –
            “I think we both know that.”
            “So, you can read my mind, then?” Alan asked, avoiding eye-contact.  He locked the padlocks on Brian’s wrist restraints – Click! – then took a step back to admire his handiwork. 
            “Or, are you just saying that because you know that you’re in trouble?”
            This time, Brian avoided eye-contact as he looked down and smiled with a mouthful of teeth.  He spoke to Alan without looking UP:
            “You think you’re so clever, with all these little word-games that you play, don’t you?”
            “Says the man who thinks he’s clever, himself,” Alan scoffed, running his hands down Brian’s torso.  He stopped at the waist, and tugged at his wide belt.  “What’s this?  Some type of leather drag?  So…many…pretty…leather clothes.  Yet, they’re only a costume to you.  You wear the clothes, but you don’t understand what they mean.”
            “Nice floral shirt, by the way,” Brian said –
            “You do realize this is a dungeon, right?”
            “It’s my dungeon, and I can wear what I want,” Alan told him, realizing he’d forgotten to change after Frankie left.  “As long as you respect the leather you have.”
            “And you’re saying I don’t respect mine?” Brian asked, moving closer.  He strained against Frankie’s restraints, yet somehow kept the scene’s upper hand.  “Do you even own a leather police shirt, Frankie?  I have them in every color, but I’ve yet to see you in a single one.”
            “I have the pieces I want,” Alan informed him, touching his cock & ball sheath.  “And what I have suits me.”
            “You’re wearing a silk tie, Frankie,” Brian said bluntly – 
            “What is that – Men’s Warehouse?”
            Absorbing the verbal-hit, Alan inhaled slowly, then stepped backward to regroup – I can’t believe I fuckin’ forgot to change! He looked at his reflection bitterly in the dungeon’s wall of mirrors – and then onto Brian’s reflection, which came into sharper focus, within the crimson spotlights – You look like one of the Village People.
            Alan coughed into his fist before his head snapped back sideways –
            Seconds later, he was in Brian’s face again.  Posing like Jack Skellington, Alan touched Brian’s chin with two gloved fingers.  He growled: “Do you want me to put you in shackles, Brian?  Put you in the cell?  Strip you down, douse you with ice water, chain you to the floor by your fuckin’ balls, shut the light, close the door, and never give you a second thought – until I smell your rotting corpse in the living room, upstairs?”
            Getting dark, he whispered directly into Brian’s ear –
            “I want…what you have. And not only do I want what you have, I want to take away …what…you…have.”
            He grabbed Brian’s crotch and squeezed hard –
            “And that includes your sobriety.”
            But then, his cell phone rang.
            Alan glanced at the screen, then took a step backwards.  He accepted the call, and brought the phone to his hear.  Brian watched as Alan’s face lost all expression – Oh my God.
            Snapping out of his headspace, Brian looked at Alan – “What’s wrong?”
            Alan motioned him to hush for a moment, while talking on the phone.
           “I do, yes, of course.”  His tone sounded urgent. “What hospital again?” 
           “Now what happened?” Brian asked, realizing something was wrong.
           “Tell the nurse I’ll rush.”  With the phone between his chin and shoulder, Alan used his hands to unlock Brian’s restraints.  “Should I go to the ER, or directly into the hospital?”  Brian watched Alan take in the information.  He ended the call without saying goodbye.
            “What’s wrong?” Brian repeated.
            “Did you drive here?” Frankie asked, ignoring the question completely.
 
              *  *  *  *  *
           
            Brian’s brown Trans Am skidded to a stop in the parking lot outside the Evanston Hospital Emergency Room.  It was late in the early December afternoon, and both street lamps and Christmas lights were starting to glow in the twilight.  Jumping out of the pickup, the two leathermen hurried into the building.  As the ER doors hissed open, the pair stood side-by-side in zipped leather jackets, black gloves, black boots, and black officer’s hats, as a nurse rushed up to them, and explained the situation.
            “He’s lost a lot of blood,” the nurse told them –
            “The doctor has him stabilized, and we’re moving him to the ICU.”
            “Is he in any immediate danger?” Brian asked.
            “No,” the nurse said.  “We got to the wrists just in time.”
        “Was it an accident?” Frankie asked, causing the nurse to hesitate. Brian noticed this, then stepped in to ask a question.  “It was intentional, wasn’t it?” he asked point-blank.  He placed his hand on Frankie’s shoulder, as the nurse nodded his head.
            “We’ll be transferring him to the Crisis Intervention Unit as soon as it’s safe to move him,” the nurse explained.  “He’s going to be there for a while, guys.  Not only were these cuts not accidental, Jordan cut deep enough to take his own life.”
            “He wanted to die.”
            Frankie brought his hand to his mouth, as Brian told the nurse thanks.  The two men watched the caregiver return to the OR, as another ambulance arrived with a stabbing victim, two EMT’s, and police. 
             Brian turned to Frankie –
           “Really Dude, I’ve had something like this happen to me before,” he said –
           “They’re not going to let us see him right now.”
           “I'm not leaving,” Frankie said firmly.
           “No – I don’t expect you to, Frankie.  Here – let’s sit down.”  Brian gestured towards the waiting area.  “Do you want me to get you a cup of coffee or something?  We’re going to be here awhile.”
            Frankie shook his head.  “Thanks.”  He sat in the closest chair, crossed his legs, and brought his hand to his face again.  Brian could tell he was lost in his head.  Taking a quick look both ways, Brian got down on one knee and took Frankie’s gloved hand in his own.
            “Hey,” Brian whispered.  “It’s going to be okay.”
            “But I just saw the guy,” Frankie told him.  “And he seemed totally fine.  We had a really good time in the dungeon, and we planned to meet again this week.”
            “Christ, you never know what’s inside people’s heads.  And you can’t blame yourself for what’s happened.”
            Inhaling deeply, Frankie closed his eyes and shook his head bitterly.  He pulled his hand away, then folded his arms across his chest.  He sank into a little ball in the ugly, bologna-colored chair.  He looked both pissed and terrified at the same time.  Brian patted Frankie’s knee, then stood back up and straightened his jacket.
            “I’m getting you coffee,” Brian said firmly.  “You want sugar or cream?”
            “Black is fine.”
            Brian headed for the vending machines, while Frankie watched in silence.  A few moments later, he took out his iPhone and opened the Recon app while putting on his reading glasses.  He read Jordan’s last message:
 
           I had a really good time, SIR.  I hope you feel the same.
           Can we please meet again, only this time, go a just little further?
           - J
 
            My god, the boy gave me his number! 
           Setting his phone on his lap, Frankie stared at the ceiling, completely lost in thought.  He stayed that way, until he noticed Brian return in his peripheral vision.  He took the beverage Brian had brought, and stared vacantly forward as the leatherman sat down next to him.  A few minutes passed before Frankie leaned on Brian’s shoulder, closing his eyes.  Brian brought his own arm around Frankie’s shoulder, and pulled him in as close as the seating would allow.
            He sipped his coffee quietly.
            The two men would stay intertwined until the nurse came and got them, in the wee hours of the following morning.  

           

Chapter Seven
​Thinking in Visual Metaphors

---

​           
            Hello, Reader.
            I’d now like to tell you a little bit about this next scene.
            It takes place in the “Club Room” of the bar Touché, the real-life Chicago leather bar where many of this story’s important scenes take place.  All good leather bars have some sort of clubroom behind their front bars, and for those unfamiliar with the BDSM community, these places can often be frightening to people with traditional values.
            Until recent times, almost all clubrooms had dress codes; you had to be shirtless or wearing some type of gear to enter.  And once inside, in addition to leathermen who take their roles very seriously, you’ll likely encounter unsettling sexual deviance, like flogging, naked men in cages, guys being fisted in slings, public anal intercourse & oral sex, piss play, pain play, men adhering to strict BDSM protocols, and most of all, the community’s tragic irony: it’s places like clubrooms where many men became – and still become – infected with HIV.
            Like the “pageantry of the dungeon,” the “spectacle of the clubroom” contains both the breathtaking beauty of the leatherman connection and heartbreaking wretchedness of desperate wee-hours cruising.  The leather and the lonely dance together in juxtaposition, with evanescent flesh against hot, black leather … paired with pounding house music, red lights and dark shadows …and the balance between predator & prey – each not only knowing their place, but wanting it just as badly.
            The scene coming up takes place in Touche’s clubroom, and is set to Pentatonix’s “Sound of Silence.”  If you don’t mind, I’d like you to take a moment and pull up their YouTube video on your phone – I’ll wait.
            This next scene is very poignant for me, and I want you to see EXACTLY what was in my head when I wrote it.  There will be other scenes like this in upcoming chapters, but for the sake of this segment, if you haven’t already done so, please do the following:
 
·      Get your phone.
·      Upload and open the YouTube app.
·      Look for: “Sound of Silence Pentatonix.”
·      Please be ready to hit PLAY as soon as I tell you to.
 
          Got it?
 
          *  *  *  *  *
           
         “OH, MY GOD, who chose the fucking music tonight?” Frankie – in full Master’s leather – bitched to the doorman the moment he entered Touché with Brian, at midnight on the dot.  The bar was wall-to-wall people as usual for Saturday, but the mood was unnecessarily somber, as the melancholy Martin Gore ballad couldn’t help but bring people down.  Brian laughed out loud as Frankie complained like a woman:
            “Is this seriously what we’re listening to tonight?” –
            “I feel like an extra in a Judas Priest/Adelle video!”
 
           “ I want somebody to share, share the rest of my life” –
           “ Share my innermost thoughts, know my intimate details …”
 
            The doorman raised his hands in uncle –
            “Jesus, just talk to Bob.  The music is not my responsibility.”
            Leaving in a huff, Frankie pushed through the crowd and stormed up to the bar.  He wedged himself between two men in pup gear.  He then raised his hand and motioned the bartender over.
“Bob!” Frankie snapped.  “What’s up with the fucking music?”  Brian came up from behind, and watched the interaction with amusement – 
            Bob smiled on seeing this.
            “Hey,” Bob said to Frankie.  “It’s John’s show tonight.  He chose the drink specials, he chose everyone’s stations, and HE chose the music…and there’s no way I’m going to cross that scary man.  He’s an ex-cop.  And a former Dean.”
            Sighing loudly, Frankie shook his head and rolled his eyes in frustration.  Brian touched Frankie’s cheek from behind, and calmly whispered into his ear: “You’re acting…like an ass.” 
            Frankie shot him daggers.
 
            “… Somebody who’ll stand by my side … and give me support …
             … and in return … she’ll get my support …”
 
             Raging, Frankie turned back to Bob: “Are we playing the music through blue tooth?”
            “Err, yup.”
            “John’s phone, I assume?”
            “Oh yeah.”
            “Yeeeeeeah, can I see it?”
            “Can’t do that, Frankie.”
            “Eh? Why not?” Frankie became a Karen: “ET phone home?”
            The two stared each other down.
            “Hey, it’s John’s phonnnne,” Bob carefully broke the silence –
            “Only you look like you’re going to throw it into the street.”
            “Me?”  Frankie became exasperated.
            “Errr, can we have two bottles of water, Bob?” Brian asked over Frankie’s shoulder. The bartender nodded, then reached into the cooler.  Brian glared at Frankie. 
            “You’re not going to win this one, buddy,” he said.  “So, back…the fuck…off.”  Brian laid down a ten for the drinks. 
            Frankie turned to Bob again –
            “I’m not going to break his damn phone, Bob.  I just want to see the playlist and pick something else.”  The two men stood in silence, but Frankie capitulated – 
            “Bob, please.”
            Smiling and shaking his head, Bob tossed John’s iPhone to Frankie.  As suspected – as John’s favorite song was “Ain’t Nobody” by Chaka Khan – almost all the iTunes’ music had been exhumed from the “mauve & grey” part of the 1980s.  Frankie found John’s Now Playing file, and pulled up Depeche Mode’s greatest hits.  He chose a different track.  “Somebody” stopped dead, as “Enjoy the Silence” took its place.  He returned the phone.
            “Feel better?” Bob asked.
            “Or do we need to get you a tampon?” Brian jumped in, grinning, eavesdropping.
 
             “… Words like violence … break the silence … and come crashing in … into my little world …”
           
            He handed Frankie a water. 
            Frankie snatched it in a snit.
            Brian grinned like Matthew McConaughey – All right, all right, all right – and led Frankie away from the bar by the shoulder, hand in hand.  The two Sirs walked through the club and into the S-shaped hallway that led into the back room.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
           “This place smells like poppers & ass,” George yelled to all in earshot.
            The Touché clubroom was long and narrow, and lit almost exclusively by red & white spotlights.  A lengthy wooden bar & drink ledge ran the length of most of the left wall, while an extensive wooden seating bench went for miles down much of the right.  Several sections of tall prison bars provided privacy for those seated on the northern wall, while the saloon-style bar counter was circumnavigated by tall, high-backed stools for club patrons who wanted to drink.
            “Hey AmMar,” Brian said, coming up to the clubroom bar with Frankie.
            AmMar was a scary-assed Syrian bear, with tight black hair, a black-as-night beard, and a muscular body that was so fuckin’ perfect, his puffed-out chest could easily deflect bullets.  Not surprisingly, he was an army vet, and he never lost his military presence after coming back to the states, post-service.  AmMar’s Recon profile was as intimidating as he was in person; the muscle-Daddy was into some seriously heavy shit.  AmMar – the MAN – was so badass, he was able to throw drinks by himself at the back-bar, while simultaneously keeping watch on the clubroom, beyond. Brian had once heard a story about AmMar’s journey to get to Chicago.  It was heartbreaking.
              And he was also as soft as a Teddy Bear, when he spoke:
            “Brian!” AmMar greeted him with a noticeable Middle-Eastern accent –
            “And how are you, during this joyous holiday season?”
            “Relaxin.’ Just sittin’ round, lookin’ pretty,” Brian said with an exaggerated wink.
            Like Frankie behind him, Brian was balls-to-the-walls Leather Daddy tonight, with a red leather officer’s shirt, black leather tie, wide leather belt, black leather pants, tall Nazi boots, black gloves & Muir, and a sharp, fitted, top-of-the-line Perfecto, cinched at the waist.  Even his cell phone had a leather case.  If he wore any more leather, he’d look a gimp, but no one in the bar was as adept as Brian in finding used gear on eBay, for cheap. He was genuine master at it.  He once got a Schott biker’s jacket – an $800 find, literally, for free.
            “Took some new pictures for the Facebook group,” Brian boasted.
            “Eh? Gear 24/7?” AmMar asked.
            “Right on,” Brian said.  “I sent you an invite, by the way.”
            “Really?”  AmMar raised his hands –
            “Oh, I don’t do Facebook groups, my friend.” –
            “Right now, there are too many people who aren’t who they say they are.”
            Brian grinned. “Didn’t you first approach me on Recon?”
            “Recon eez different,” AmMar said firmly. “You can say what you want, and cut through all thee bullshit.”  He noticed Frankie standing behind Brian.  “Hello Frankie, my storytelling friend.”
            “Hey, AmMar.”
            “Anything good on the menu tonight?” Brian asked AmMar, leaning on the bar with his boot outstretched.  He folded his gloved fingers on the counter before him, as Frankie readjusted his position, coming up behind.  Both men adopted a cat-like pose, like intertwined Siamese, observing the clubroom with Muirs in profile, hunting.
            AmMar smiled coyly –
            “I think you have that covered.”
            The burly bartender hit the counter hard twice, then went to help other customers.
            Brian & Frankie pulled down their brims together, and mirrored each other’s movements as they slowly scanned the back bar for prey.  The place was nasty-busy.  The shadows between the red lights were filled with both dangerous drugs & anonymous sex. 
            The music of life was everywhere, but overshadowed by the sound of death.
            “Enjoy the Silence” blurred into long, distorted lyrics, yet the club’s sound system seemed to fade, as well as did the voices of the damned, the desperate, and the lost.
            A hush descended over the masses, as the speakers fell silent.
            The white lights dimmed while the red lights brightened, with the exception of the clubroom’s perimeter, which went dark entirely.
          The bar was completely silent now, as AmMar lowered his head, folded his arms across his chest like an angel, and somberly stepped backwards into the shadows.
            Brian & Frankie remained still as a single white spotlight came on from above, illuminating the leathermen in a single, stoic, black leather grotesque.
            And then it began …
 
                      READER:
             PLAY SOUND OF SILENCE
             NOW!
 
 
             “ … Hello darkness, my old friend … I’ve come to talk with you again …”
            “ … Because a vision softly creeping … left its seeds while I was sleeping …”
        
              It was “Sound of Silence,” by Pentatonix.
            And its vocals were being sung through the bar patrons - the Masters, Sirs, & Doms singing the masculine, the slaves, boys, & subs channeling the feminine.
 
            “ … And the vision that was planted in my brain … still remains …”
           “ … Within the sound of silence …”
 
            As the Masters stepped aside, a single, skinny slaveboy came forward, his black leather chest harness, jock, collar, and lace-up boots making sharp contrasts against his tight, tattooed skin.  He stared directly at the Reader, as his fellow slaves came up from behind, providing the background harmony in a haunting acapella.
 
                “ … In restless dreams I walk alone, narrow streets of cobblestone …”
                “ … Neath the halo of the streetlamp …”
                “ … I turned my collar to the cold and damp …”
                “ … When my eyes were stabbed …”
                “ … by the flash of the neon light, that split the night …”
                “… And touched the sound of silence …”
 
         An African-American Sir now stepped forward, as his companion Sirs & subs joined with the slaves, harmonizing together from every direction.
 
                “… And in the naked light I saw, ten thousand people maybe more …”
               “… People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening …”
               “… People writing SONGS that voices never share, and no one dared …”
               “… Disturb the sound of silence …”
           
            A boy in rubber stepped forward, as the Masters, Sirs, and slaves sang backup together – with the intensity of a Negro spiritual – within the bar’s centerstage floor.  Additional – but softer – white spotlights came on, and illuminated the clubroom’s anonymous “cruisers” in dark silhouettes, all around the chamber’s perimeter.
            The feminine boy sang with heartfelt passion:
           
           “… Fools, said I, you do not know … silence, like a cancer, grows …”
           “ … Hear my words that I might teach you … ”
           “ … Take my arms that I might reach you … ”
           “… But my words, like silent raindrops fell … ”
           “… And echoed in the wells … ”
           “… Of silence …”
 
            A single, tragic, anonymous cruiser stepped forward from within the background shadows.  As he came into the light, his skin was covered in both Kaposi sarcoma lesions and needle tracks along his arms.  He was as skinny as a skeleton, with skin the color of paper.  His face was haggard.  His clothes were dirty.  There was dried blood around the corners of his mouth, from where his gums had been bleeding –
            And he sang with gut-wrenching SOUL:
 
         “… AND THE PEOPLE BOWED AND PRAYED ! …”
         “… TO THE NEON GOD THEY MADE ! …”
 
            The ENTIRE clubroom rushed up around him, supporting him by every part of his fragile body, lifting him high with outstretched arms beneath the dazzling spotlight that showered him with torrents of hot, electric rain.
               Everyone sang together, now:
 
           “ AND THE SIGN FLASHED OUT ITS WARNING ”
           “  IN THE WORDS THAT IT WAS FORMING ”
    
       “ AND THE SIGN SAID ”
      “ THE WORDS OF THE PROPHETS ! ”
      “ ARE WRITTEN ON THE SUBWAY WALLS ! ”
     “ AND TENEMENT HALLS ! ”
 
            A hush fell over the entire clubroom bar as the music & lights came down in tandem, with just enough life for one final line of poetry:
 
           “ … And whispered in the sound of silence … ”
 
            The bar fell dark and silent.
            The entire world went black for a moment, before the house lights snapped back on, the regular music resumed, and patrons returned to their roles & places, unaware that anything had happened –
            And Depeche Mode brought it home:
 
              “Enjoy the silence!”
 
            Frankie stirred slightly, and changed his position at the bar.  Brian sensed this, released his grip on Frankie’s waist, then turned his Muir cap to face him.  “What’s wrong?”
            Frankie shook his head quietly, and set his water on the counter.
            “Let’s just go.”

             *  *  *  *  *
 
            The following afternoon, Frankie was in black leather again as his high-heeled Wescos made sharp contrast against the shiny, sanitized walls & floors.  He came to a junction in the hallway, and paused to let an orderly pass with a patient on a gurney before looking at the ceiling’s directional signs, and following the color-coded arrows deeper into the hospital.  Ten minutes later, after threading through the massive building’s labyrinth of rooms & corridors, Franke’s boots went from polished tile to institutional carpeting as he approached the hushed reception desk of the Crisis Intervention Unit.
            The nurse looked up when he arrived & –
            “Sir?  Can I help you?”
            “Um, I’m here to see Jordan Stevens,” he told her. –
            “I was here when he was admitted through the ER a couple of nights ago.”
            “Currently a patient?” the nurse asked.
            “I believe so,” Frankie said.
            “Downs? Are you a family member?”
            “Eh – no Ma’am, but I was here on the night he was brought in by ambulance.”
             Frankie watched the nurse type on her computer, pause, read, sigh slightly – Oh yes…that one – before looking back up to Frankie. “Do you have a Visitor’s Pass?”
            Frankie nodded as he held up his Vanson’s lapel. 
            “Go in, Sir,” the nurse told him, buzzing open the door.  “He’s in room 117.” 
            Frankie said thank-you, then went through the unit’s secured front entrance.  A few minutes later, he stood at the open doorway to Jordan’s shared room. 
            He knocked on the threshold.

            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Hey,” Frankie said softly, coming up to Jordan’s bed.  He paused at the side of the mattress, set the flowers he brought down on the side table, then pulled up a chair and sat down on the side of the bed.  Rather than crossing his legs as normal, he leaned in close to the young man, and touched Jordan’s arm with his gloved hand.
            Jordan’s vacant gaze went from the muted television to Frankie’s hand, then up to his face.  The two men stared at each other for a moment.  “Hey Sir,” the boy spoke in a whisper.
            “How are you?” Frankie asked tenderly.
            “I’m okay,” Jordan said softly.  His eyes went from Frankie’s own, past his shoulder, down his arm, and stopped at Frankie’s gloved hand. Ever so quietly, the young man brought his other hand to cover Frankie’s own.  He eyes returned to Frankie’s again.  He looked terrified.
            “I know,” Frankie told him – without being asked.
            Frankie paused for a moment, then took his free hand and reached across the young man’s chest and gently gripped his bandaged wrist.  The two men locked eyes – It’s going to be okay.
            “You’re going to be okay,” Frankie added, finishing the unspoken sentence.
            Tears welled up in Jordan’s eyes as he covered his face with his hand, careful not to tug on his IV.  His body became fluid as he began to whimper, curling into a little ball and turning on his side to face Frankie.  Standing up, Frankie took off his Muir and laid it carefully on the table.  He then climbed into bed with Jordan, and brought the young man’s head into his chest.
            And Jordan whispered:
 
         “Please, Sir – hold me like I matter.”
 
            The two men lay intertwined until the nurse gently asked Frankie to leave, once visiting hours were over, later in the evening.

Chapter Eight
Etched in Steele

---

​               What’s the saddest you’ve ever been?
            A few years back, I received an emergency call at work.  A family member had taken her own life, a month after she miscarried.  Even without a baby, she fell into postpartum depression, but none of us had any idea.  On getting the news, I quickly dropped work, bought plane tickets online, and flew 2100 miles to sit with a grieving family in what had now become a death house.  But that was the easy part.
            Over the following week, most people thought I was an ass; I didn’t shed a tear at the wake, the funeral, or even the burial.  They were wrong, of course…I did cry ONCE, but I was alone in the shower, so no one ever knew.  (I had just learned my trip was extended to seven days, rather than my intended five.)  I had no right to complain; family duty far outweighed my own situation.  During those last two days, it was all I could do just to keep myself together.  Chin up, chest out-
            Shh, No Talking.
            The dirty little secret was that the whole death pissed me off.  Unlike an easy passing like cancer, suicide happens suddenly, allowing no time to prepare.  It is the single worst thing a person can do to their loved ones, and the act is so selfish, most families can survive it only once.  For that reason, I had to change my own plans.  I love my family too much to ever put them through that again.
            So, now I’m trapped …
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Frankie, can we have a word?”
            “Oh, God, Cory, another write-up?!!  Will you just fire me already…?!!”
            “Frankie, please watch your language on the sales floor,” Cory said in a rush, coming between Frankie & the Information Desk.  “We are not going to have this conversation again.”
            “What conversation?” Frankie asked sharply, putting down a photo of  Bea Arthur in New Jan Brady drag, on the cover of Vogue magazine. He read the address label; it was taken from an HR office.
            “This is all been very one-sided!” Frankie added, coughing on his way to the –
            “Bank it, Frankie!  Get in my office NOW!”
            Cory’s face became fifty shades of Violet Beauregarde.
            Get-in-my-of-fice-now, Frankie thought, admiring the unintentional singsong.
 
               *  *  *  *  *
             SLAM!
            Michael looked up from the computer desk with a start. 
            “What happened?” he asked, watching Frankie storm into the living room, throw his keys onto the table with a clatter, then bee-line for the bedroom without saying a word.
            Michael jumped up and followed him.
            “Frankie, what’s wrong?” Michael asked from the doorway.  He watched as Frankie yanked off his jacket, throw his gloves onto the bed, and rip off his lanyard before hurling it into the garbage.
            “I got fired,” he seethed.  “Apparently, a customer’s mother called Cory and complained about me.  Read here the riot act, actually. Said I hurt her sixteen-year-old son’s feelings when I interviewed him for a job.”
            “What did you do?” Michael asked.
            “I sent him home without an interview,” Frankie told him.  “The little thug showed up for the interview wearing an explicit concert hoodie, wrinkled pants hanging off his ass, and flip-flops. It looked like he didn’t even wash his feet.  That was his first-impression.”
            “But that’s how young people actually dress today, Frankie.”
            “I don’t give a shit,” Frankie complained.  “When I was a kid, my parents taught me to wear a shirt and tie from the moment I first walked in for an application. I was taught to iron my clothes, polish my shoes, and say ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir.’  Act like a professional, even if I was applying at McDonald’s”
            Michael narrowed his eyes.  “And what did you say to him, specifically?”
            “I thanked him for being on time,” Frankie said.  “But I told him that he was dressed inappropriately for an interview.”
            Silence.
            “Anything else?”
            Frankie chuckled.  “I told him that if he decided to dress like he wanted to work here, to call back and reschedule.  And then I got up and left him sitting alone, in what I can only assume was a cloud of Axe Body Spray – to cover the smell of the joint he obviously had just smoked in the car.”
            “Entitled punk,” he added.
            “You know what you said isn’t considered politically-correct?” Michael asked.
            “I don’t give a shit,” Frankie said firmly.  “I’ve been with The Noble Bard for almost twenty years, and I’ve watched our standards slowly slip – especially these last few years.  First, the shirts & ties for the managers went away.  Then, we started allowing employees to wear jeans and tennis shoes.  Add to that all this cluster/mentoring bullshit, and the whole place is going to hell.  Yes, I know, that’s what everybody is doing these days, but it seemed like the bookstore was the last refuge of professionalism within the retail world.”
            Silence.
             Michael inhaled deeply, puffing out his chest.
            “I gave that company seventeen fucking years,” Frankie added –
            “And today…I’m told to leave.”
            “Sure, but, you did know it was coming,” Michael reminded him, cautiously – 
            “So, this isn’t…really…a surprise.”
            “Ugh. I know, I know,” Frankie grumbled.  He unbuttoned his vest and laid it on the bed.  He started taking off his shirt.  “It just sucks, that’s all.” 
            He plopped on the bed and started unlacing his boots.
            Michael changed position in the doorway.
            He folded his hands over his chest, crossed his legs, tilted his eyes down a tad, then cocked his head to one side.  “Hey – at least you get to enjoy the holiday season as a customer, and not a retail manager,” he offered.  “Plus, if they fired you, you’ll get unemployment.”
            Frankie inhaled deeply, then let out a long, slow sigh –
            He looked at Michael like a sad, little puppy.
            “Also,” Michael reminded him, “As you’ve always wanted to write a book of your own, wouldn’t now be the perfect time?  What other ex-cuse could you possibly make that hasn’t been made before?  If you were a writer already, as you’d wanted thirty years ago, you’d have used up every word in Word, by now.  Any more tricks up your writer’s block?  Shall we throw in the kitchen sink – and then throw that at the wall, as well?  Oh – I know; let’s do this:  Rather than actually writing – because you’re so scarrrrrrrrrd of what others might think – why don’t you blog about it? Nobody reads your site, my dear. Orrr, maybe you should send a tweet – tweet, tweet, tweet.  I guess you could read a book with your time, you know, with one of those novels you keep buying but never reading, then stacking as pyramidal plant stands because, hey – isn’t…it…ironic?  When was the last time you could actually remember someone’s name?  What was that trick’s name, what – was…his…name? Or, how about this:  Let’s use Mother for groceries – as she taught us to squeeze every last drop of blood out of people, and ignore the fact that the cookies she sent were her favorites, not yours – and ponder making a glib HIPPA complaint to your last employer? *”
            Frankie thought about this.
            “By the way, on the subject of Mother, you should just take the first sign you see in DUH window, walk in and just, just, just getta’ job.  Fuck your potential.  Ignore the fact that whenever you mention you had a dream about Father again, she waits ex-actly ninety seconds before asking:
            “Was it a good one?” 
            “Or, how about when she claimed that a coworker had read your first book, and said, and I quote, “That was a good book.” –
            “Isn’t…it…ironic?”
            “Also, if I may pause for a second brief moment, this is even better: maybe you should draw a cartoon?  The last time you did was for the 2016 election, but no one ever saw it because it got lost in FOX’s social media feeds.  And speaking of social media, lay off the fuckin’ late-night tweets, because I can tell which ones you wrote when drunk!  Nobody wants a wee-hours Capote with a Thesaurus between his legs, turning the pages so fast, it looks like he’s masturbating.”
            “You lose things that are really important,” Michael added, seething.
            “What did I lose?” Frankie asked.
            “Something irreplaceable,” Michael said bitterly.
            “What?” Frankie repeated.
            “OH MY GOD, YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”     
            “WHAT?” Frankie pleaded.
            “Were you drinking when you went to Kinko’s?” Michael demanded.  “You sent out something irreplaceable.  Remember what Mike Foster at ICC taught you: NEVER mail a first draft!  You edit, edit-edit-edit! If you don’t properly edit, you end up losing things that are very important, and you, Sir, lost something very important –
            “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
            Silence.
            “And if you were drinking, may I remind you,” Michael went on –
            “Addiction is a disorder of time.”
            He paused for a moment to let this sink in.  Once it did, Michael came up to Frankie and slapped him across the face.  His eyes then narrowed into slits:
 
            “How dare you.”
 
           
            “What did I lose?” Frankie whispered.
            “You send something tangible, you cunt.”
            Silence –
 
           Oh no.
 
            Silence –
            “Where was it?” Frankie muttered.
            “Pfft!  On the last page, which was blank,” Michael hissed –
            “Isn’t…it…ironic?”
            “And speaking of,” Michael went on, “Do I even need to say this out loud?  Anytime you’ve ever told her that you’re writing a book, the very first thing out of her mouth, rather than ‘a job well done, son,’ is – and let me quote again: “Was the book about meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?”
            “And, oh – this, like Mother’s dog-food-meatloaf, is unsettlingly delicious –
            “Allow me to set the scene.”
              Ahem.


            *  *  *  *  *
 
        *Alas,’ By its hue, it was nineteen eighty-two, because we still had the fabulous state-of-the-art Fleetwood Diesel.  She looked as if a Blue Velvet couch had been fisted by Knight Rider, an 1890s steam train made in the 1980s, a relic from the past who had been violated by the dawn of the digital age – with an interior as plush as a pillowed recliner – where a cutting-edge engine sounded like loose change in the dryer – and trumpet horns that were basically Shatner yelling “Fire!” – the color of a cloud-y day!
            Mother hadn’t stop yelling the entire drive home, after I’d given her another failing report card; once we got to the house, she actually forced me to make my own damn phone calls for summer school, while she tore off the TV Guide’s corner, and used it to pick her teeth – the closest that woman ever came to a dentist.  As I anxiously waited for Father to get home, I watched her stand in that erection-killing nightgown, in that hideous celery green kitchen, in our desolate rural ranch home, as she scraped Crisco into the electric frying pan, barefoot. She was visibly excited as tonight was Friday, and in addition to Fish & Chips, that meant curling up in front of the TV and watching the Dukes, the Ewings, and for dessert –  Falcon Crest! 
            Don’t forget the horror of the family home décor, as everything had a pattern.  The wallpapers clashed.  The sculptured shags had competing color palates.  The plaids, literally, kept you in bondage. Estee Lauder’s Youth Dew entertained, I mean intertwined with the aroma of Van de Kamp’s fish sticks as Mother, a lovely woman, used a wooden spoon as a bookmark in her National Enquirer.  When Father’s station wagon skidded to a stop at midnight, his disheveled navy suit was the only tasteful hue of the home, with the exception of the brilliant red of adult-bookstore-neon, splattered across Mother’s face, like glory hole jizz.
            The thermostat was set on a hard 78 and the air smelled like cigarettes, potpourri, & feet. Mother’s cooking – and the disgrace that came with Carpet Fresh – wafted through the air like boiling hot dog water, when Father came into the kitchen with roses for some reason.  When such acts of love didn’t work – he was probably apologizing for losing track of time, again – he had tried kicking things up a notch. Next came the more personal gestures: The Goolagong pant suits. The wooden exercise clogs. The litterbox-sized foot massager that required warm water. And on, and on, and on …
            Next came the Sears watches, the Wieboldt’s silver, and the Helzberg Diamonds that we saw advertised when Father & I watched Hill Street Blues together, on Thursdays at 9, alone, in the dark. He’d never make it through an episode of course, and I’d always have to move his feet from blocking the screen. The “Dogbreath” guy, Belker I think – I’m starting to forget his face, on the night that I first met him in the haze of the Greek restaurant’s pink & teal neon – had a storyline about a gay man with AIDS.
            I wish I could remember more of that moment, but everything fades over time.
            Moving on …
            When, like his genitalia, hexagonal-shaped birthstone pendants finally stopped working, Father kicked things into high gear and switched from Buicks to Cadillacs.  I remember Mother’s hungry expressions – like Paul Lynde on The Hollywood Squares – every time Father rolled up in the latest model, typically following another unexpected overnight absence, involving Canadian Club & stolen hubcaps …
             Again. 
            I remember how practical it was for Mother – stinking of suede work shoes, Thousand Island Dressing, and “Coty Musk” (if Avon made Halston) – to pull out of the Dominick’s deli employee parking lot with nothing to show for her eleven-hour shift but a yellowed MANAGER nametag, a package of pork steak the butcher had saved for her, twelve single rolls of Scotts tissue to save money, and two cases of “Little Hug” juice bottles because her favorite flavors – the blue ones – were on sale.  Oh - and ham. She always fed it to the cats when we ran out of butter.  She used to sit there with the cats in her lap, having margarine licked off her fingers, enjoying a Law & Order SVU episode that she knew so well, it was the one where Benson opens the drawer, then puts the spoon right over there.  In the early days, she’d stay up late in the evening, catching up on All My Children, as we’d just gotten a top-loading VCR.  I’d tape Dallas myself, and also Falcon Crest.  There was also something else I recorded – can’t remember the name, but I really liked the cars in the show.
 
         Ah, I believe it was Remington Steele, Sir.
 
        Oh yes, Remington Steele! Thank you for reminding me. I loved the producer’s subtle fetish for Eldorado’s. Either a guest star would occasionally sign one out for the shift, or you’d catch glimpses of them in the background, through the clouds of Pierce Brosnan’s hairspray.  It was as if John Hughes had pitched the concept, John Waters wrote the episode titles while spitting out his cocaine, and Cadillac was locked in a binding studio contract to provide vehicles for the cast.  The Dukes of Hazard did the exact same thing.  They clearly had an endorsement deal with Chrysler. Oh, wait – that was Plymouth.  There was this one model that they kept using again and again, just in a different color.  It looked like a Tylenol.  Something about a Ford Torino comes to mind, for some reason. I think it was yellow. Yes, yellow is important.  A vague little blur of two lava lights on a timer, and Christmas lights threaded through a ficus tree.  Oh - there’s also something I needed to tell you about Frankie’s cock & ball sheath. I forget what it was, but it’s extremely urgent …
 
        Excuse me Sir, but you’re getting sidetracked.
 
            How so?

            Please forgive us, Sir –
         But don’t forget about your memory issues.
 
            What memory issues?
 
        
        Might you finish telling your story, Sir?
 
            Well, there isn’t much to tell, really.  Besides, I can’t remember how it ends. 
 
        It’s okay, Sir. 
        We understand what you’re trying to say.
 
            Thank you for that – it’s the forgetfulness, you know.
            The same thing happened to Father, right before he died.
 
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
 
            “Mind if I put on music?” Michael asked, when he noticed Frankie’s eyes open.
            “Eh, wait – did I fall asleep?” Frankie asked.
             Michael nodded his head –
            “Out like a light.”
            “Really?” Frankie asked, disbelieving.  “I don’t even remember how I got home.”
          “Yeah, I know,” Michael said, turning on the BOSE Wave system, in the living room.  He then grabbed his phone, scrolled through his iTunes playlists, and chose a song to fit the moment.
 
             “Take this job and SHOVE IT … I ain’t workin’ here no more!”
 
              Frankie smiled in the bedroom.
              Reluctantly, Michael reappeared at the doorway –
            “Annnd, I’m assuming we’re going out tonight?”
            “Now, now…” Frankie looked at him in amusement –
            “Kindly, may I remind you, never assume anything…”
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
                “STRIKE A POSE!”
          Brilliant magenta spotlights sliced across the crowded dance floor, while a growing moonrise of blinding white reduced both Alan and Guinevere to silhouettes.  They froze like ghosts in a photograph, keeping time with the beat, two bodies leaning opposite directions, still joined by a single hand. 
                  CLAP!  With the next bass heartbeat, Alan’s black shadow grabbed Gwen’s by its waist, violently spinning it around –
             CLAP!  His shape then forced its palms deep into Guinevere’s midsection, its hands creeping slowly upward, caressing her breasts, then shoulders –
                  CLAP!  The black silhouettes now resembled two sharks in profile, each facing the other as the magenta went to red –
                  CLAP!
 
                “Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache … it’s everywhere that you go…”
 
                “Who’s that dancing with Alan?” Frankie asked, sitting on a stool in the Sidetracks front bar.  It was “90’s Dance Party Night,” and the club’s many video screens played Madonna’s classic Vogue video in unison, synchronized perfectly with the in-house music system.
            “I think that’s Guinevere,” Michael told Frankie.  “She’s been Alan’s friend since the late nineteen-eighties.  I guess they once worked in a restaurant together.  They skimmed from their sales, robbed the place blind, and used elaborate pranks to cover their tracks.”
               Frankie sipped his club soda & lime.  “That sounds like a really good idea for a book.”
 
               “So, c’mon – VOID!  Let your fingers make extra money, hey, hey, hey” –
               “C’mon – VOID!  Let your fingers feel the cash flow…”
 
              Both Frankie & Michael looked up together, turned to the Reader and GRINNED.
               But then they went back to their conversation:
              “So, what are you going to do about Jordan?” Michael asked Frankie – 
              “I mean, are you two ‘friends,’ or friend-friends?”
              “Do you mean, are we lovers?” Frankie asked.
              “Yes,” Michael said bluntly.
           “Well,” Frankie admitted, “I really do like the guy…and we definitely had a connection when we played.  I could sense that there was a darkness inside of him, but we only played once, and it was too soon to go that far into his head, during the scene.”
         “It’s actually good that you didn’t, Frankie.  Can you imagine what would have happened if you’d brought him to that headspace on the first meeting, while not knowing that he was suicidal?”
            “Yeah,” Frankie said somberly.  “I’ve thought about that a lot.”
            “Are you going to see him again?” Michael asked.
           “Hell – of course, I’m going to see him,” Frankie said, almost defensively –
           “Well, after what happened, I’m certainly not going to abandon the poor guy.”
           “Err, just be careful,” Michael warned.  “I know you like to rescue people.”
           “Him?  I know,” Frankie said softly.  “That…I definitely know.”
            The two sat in silence for a moment, as the music continued.
 
           “ … Greta Garbo, and Monroe … Dietrich and DiMaggio …”
           “… Marlon Brando, Jimmy Dean … on the cover of a magazine …”
 
            “Can you find time for a meeting tonight?” Michael asked.
            “Alan’s going instead of me,” Frankie said.  “He wants to see Brian again.”
            “Do you think what Alan’s doing with Brian is healthy?” Michael asked –
            “I’m not sure, myself. You know he’s pretty damaged, too.”
             Laughing, Frankie coughed into his hand – “I do.”
           “Like, I don’t want you to get hurt again, Frankie.”
           “And I won’t,” Frankie assured him. “That much I can promise you.”
         Catching him with a start, Frankie’s iPhone vibrated.  He took it out of his jacket’s inner pocket, and put his reading glasses on.  He read the text:
           I’m afraid to come in.
 
         Replacing the phone, Frankie laid a twenty on the counter before standing up and quickly zipping his jacket.  He tugged on his gloves before straightening his officer’s cap. 
           Michael’s eyes WIDENED –
          “You’re an idiot, Frankie!”
          “And you’re” – Frankie kissed Michael on the forehead – “Not to wait up for me tonight.”
         Michael seethed as Frankie left the club.  He could see Carlos’s Cadillac through the bar’s street window, waiting like a limousine, idling in the rain behind the blinking red lights of a delivery truck.  Rolling his eyes, Michael motioned the bartender for another bottle of water.  He then rested his chin on his gloved fist, and watched the people on the dance floor, laughing, singing along to the lyrics, and vacillating happily with the late-nineties bubblegum, going on and on and on and on…
         His had caught a brief flash of TMC, when the bartender was fiddling with a TV setting.  For just a moment, he saw an ad for 2006’s      “Infamous,” the second film about Truman Capote.
              Smiling, he overheard someone say:
  
            “I thought the first one was better.”

Chapter Nine
Running in Black Boots, With Scissors

---

​ 
      1975
 
                    “He had it comin’ –
                     He had it comin’ –
                    “He only had himself to blame!”
 
                    - Chicago: The Musical
 
 
            The boy sat quietly in his parents’ harvest-gold living room, Indian-style, in Snoopy pajamas with feet, completely lost within his thoughts as he quietly tied up his Star Trek action figures with thread from his Mother’s sewing kit.  Even at the age of five, he instinctively knew where to place the knots, so if his Mr. Spock doll suddenly came to life, he wouldn’t be able to move because the bondage was so effective.
            The overcast evening sky was just visible through the heavy sheers & draperies, so the room was lit by a trio of sculpted glass lights, bought through the JCPenny catalog – as well as from the Zenith console television, which was playing a story about the upcoming theater season.  The house was groovy by early-to-mid-1970s-standards, with sculptured green shag, crushed velvet furniture, a sunken living room, Lightolier chandeliers w/teardrop crystals, lots of vinyl & wicker caning, and strategic plastic monsteras.
            A delivery driver’s red lights shot passed the bay window when the boy got up and turned up the volume so he could hear 60 Minutes’ story on the Broadway season better. –
            He then sat back down, and finished his doll’s first hogtie.
 
           “Pop!”
           “Six!”
           “Squish!”
           “Uh-uh!”
           “Cicero!”
           “Lipschitz…!”
 
            His parents were fighting again, but it was okay because this time he had it coming.
            Earlier in the morning, while going through his drawers, his Mother had found his first attempt at a homemade leather chastity device – Migod, what is this? A dick bag?
            Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd his Father had just come home late again :)
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
    1977
 
 
           “He was born on a summer day, 1951 –
            And with the slap of a hand he landed as an only son.
            His Mother & Father said what a lovely boy –
             We’ll teach him what we learned, ah yes, just what we learned …”
 
            - Andrew Gold
 
 
            The air smelled softly of Pledge, as the boy – a little bigger now, especially in the stomach – was quietly talking to himself, while he happily polished the bookshelves where he proudly displayed his growing collection of Star Wars toys.  He carefully touched each individual character, wiped it, then replaced it in its exact same position; he had “themed” the action figures, so the Imperials were to the left, the Rebels on the right.  Lost in thought, the boy imagined the many adventures the characters must have experienced outside the movie’s start-to-finish plot – though something *tingled* in the back of his head, when he caught a glimpse of how big the franchise would become.   His mind then wandered to how much fun it would be as a Hollywood director, where such movies were made every day.  He could write his own stories, design the sets, choose the music, select the lighting, do his own casting, and cherry-pick the source material –
            And he wondered if he might be a film director.
            Or maybe a writer.
            Or + both?
            …(what?)…
            Rush Limbaugh touched this.
            Wooooooooooooooooooooooooosh…!
            A warm wind whispered within the western window, moving the drapes slightly, as an approaching summer storm slumbered just below the horizon, with the very first spark of creativity…
            His parents were fighting again, in the kitchen.  Their voices were so loud this time, he could hear them all the way into his bedroom, on the far side of the house.  The boy wanted to close his door, but his Mother insisted it stay open.  Besides, tonight he wanted to listen: he occasionally heard the phrase, “worried about the boy.”
            Words, he had observed, were very important …
 
             *  *  *  *  *
           
     1981
 
                  ACTION!
                 On one, two, three, four –
 
                “Deer-Deer, Da-Deer Deer-Deer,
                 Dear-Dear-Dear-Da-Da-Deer, Deer-Deer” –
                “Deer-Deer, Da-Deer Deer-Deer, Dear-Dear-Dear-Da-Da-Deer, Deer-Deer!”
 
            The Famous Barr “boat shoes” – made popular by the current “Preppy” trend – moved back and forth in time with J. Geils’ “Angel in the Centerfold,” played on a battery-powered cassette deck, from someone’s hallway locker.  The shoes were obnoxious even by 1980s standards, and their gray, orange, & teal color scheme was perfectly paired with the garish – and starched – Ocean Pacific ensemble above.
            The boy had grown older now, and both his hair & his girth had ballooned.
            He waddled with effeminate confidence – Bitch knew she looked good – and he held his Trapper Keeper while strutt’n down the Joliet Catholic School High hallway, like a young David Sedaris, on his way to typing class.
            “Faggot,” came the voice behind him, as an unseen hand knocked his binder from his hands.  The boy turned around, and found himself faced with the usual bullies, kids with mullets & Styx jerseys under their uniforms, all moving in a pack down the crowded corridor. 
            It took only seconds before the boy was surrounded.
            “Faggot!”
            “Nice briefcase, you fuckin’ queer!”
            “Where’s the big boy goin’?” a bully named Dias asked.  “The fuckin’ faggot store?”
            Must you always say the same thing? the boy thought, gathering his homework and shooting daggers at the tormenter.  He winced when Dias spat on him, dripping on his Swatch. 
            And must you always DO the same thing? said the voice inside the boy’s head – 
            Dias, you are SO unimaginative, you hog-calling, tractor-driving, Future-Farmer-of-America, “hacking”-at-a-pile-of-horse-shit-hack, hack’r, hacking-away-at-the-same-goddamn-thing,  hackin’ – hack, hack, hack – Haccccchking – Hack – HACH! – hackity-hackity-hackity, hak-hak-hak-hak-hak-hak-hak, hhhhhhack – HACK – hack-ck-ck-ck – haaaaaaack, Hachette! 
            Get ready for life wearing TRAX, buddy, you can mark my words on that right now!
            The boy resumed waddling merrily forward, alone in his thoughts within the crowded hallway, wishing he could somehow say: “thy will be done.”
            But again, as his Mother had taught him many times, the Bible was bullshit – and she sometimes found the cheap, little ones in motel guestrooms, where Father often stayed overnights.
            Of course, in her defense, she had only judged the book by its cover.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
      1987
 
 
            “BLUGGGGGGEEEEEEGGGGGHHHHH…!”
           
            Vomit splattered inside the toilet’s porcelain bowl, as the boy – rapidly becoming a man – puked his guts out, with a finger down his throat.  After voiding the contents of his now-flat stomach, he stood up, flushed, then checked the trio of faces in the bathroom’s 3-way mirror to make sure his shoulder-length, meticulously-styled, Jason Patric hair was intact – which of course, it was.  He then viewed his profile sideways, and tightened his 32” belt an extra notch.  Over the summer following graduation, the boy had shed eighty pounds in just under three months; he had lived solely on a diet of coffee and Quaker rice cakes, and walked ten miles every night, faithfully.
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
 
 
    1 9 8 9
 
 
              “Ba-ba-ba-ba-baby – don’t forget my number!”
              - Milli Vanilli
 
 
            The long city bus hissed to a stop next to a Federal Express truck, as the Pace bus’s hydraulic doors shuddered open.  A black, high-heeled, chrome-tipped, pointy-toed, fake snakeskin, INXS-style boot stepped out first, followed by an unsightly brown polyester Denny’s uniform, the sun reflected in its sheen.  With a Sony Walkman clipped to his belt and fluorescent-orange foam headphones hugging his ears, the boy stepped off the bus fully dressed for work, and adjusted his Max Headroom sunglasses as he walked towards the restaurant, happily listening to Freddy Mercury’s The Great Pretender –
           He entered the diner.
          “Err, where’s your car?” Guinevere asked from behind the hostess counter. 
          “Home,” he grumbled.  “But it’s okay, because I can just take the bus.”
          “Aw, that sucks,” Gwen told him.  “You need a ride home after your shift?”
          “Sorta,” he said. 
          “Right, sure, you get off at five, right?”
           “I can wait,” Gwen told him, but quickly backtracked. 
           “Saaay, around four-thirty.  Is that okay?”
           “Excellent.”
           “Nevada is here,” Guinevere told him.  “I think his name is Patrick.”
            “Is that the guy with the Cadillac?” the boy asked.
            “Right.”
            “Velvet seats, air conditioning, good stereo…must be nice.”
            “Agreed.”
            “Now, I’m assuming that’s him?” the boy asked, coming up to the register. 
            “Absolutely,” Gwen said, walking around to his side.
            Both Gwen and the boy looked towards nonsmoking, where a tall, lean, bleach-blond, and obviously gay man in his mid-twenties was waiting tables.  Even from this distance, the boy could see diamonds on Patrick’s fingers.
            Many years later, a novel would be written describing the upcoming adventures of the boy, Patrick, and Gwen following that day, as they became the best of friends – and had the time of their lives – while stealing from a busy restaurant against a background of hair, neon, and Roxette’s “Joyride” – and using pranks to cover their tracks, allegedly.
            That book would be called, The Saturday Night Everlasting.
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
      1 9 9 1
 
              “Strike a pose!”
             - She Who Needs No Name
 
           
             “God, that fucking song is everywhere,” the boy complained nearly two weeks later, as Vogue had somehow infiltrated Lum’s yacht rock playlist. Lum’s was a locally owned 24/7 restaurant on Knoxville, near downtown; it was about a half step above Denny’s, partially because of its decent liver & onions, but mainly due to its close proximity to Bradley University.  Its late-night clientele comprised of both student night owls and blackout alcoholics – and all lived in harmony within the soft can lighting, dark vinyl booths, and a cloud of secondhand smoke so thick, it could be seen from space.
            “I remember when I was in high school – no, wait, I was in junior high,” the boy corrected himself.  “And then Thriller came out.  And all the sudden you couldn’t even walk through the halls because every fucking person was moonwalking.  Can you guys remember that?  Because, that’s what Vogue feels like now.”
             “Or, Angel in the Centerfold,” Patrick added, using a menu to wave away smoke.  “Remember that?  That one was pretty bad, too.”
              “Deer, deer, da-deer-deer-deer,” Guinevere added to the conversation half-heartedly, mimicking the J. Geils song’s hillbilly refrain.  “I think I still have that 45 with the pink label.”
             “Thriller was cool when it first came out,” the boy said, “but after a year of hearing Beat It every time you turned on the radio, it got really old.”
             “Took a while though,” Patrick reminded him, waving smoke.
             “I wasn’t a big fan of Thriller itself, though.  But, we also didn’t have cable where I grew up, which meant no MTV.  So, I never saw the video.”
            “Really?  Not even Friday Night Videos?”
            “Nope.  I couldn’t stay up that late.”
            “You fell asleep?”
            “No, I had to be in bed by ten.”
            “So, you never watched Midnight Special, then?”
            “Never.  Not even once.”
             “That’s a shame. You missed some really good” –
            “WHY AM I HERE?” Guinevere shouted like the Peanuts’ Lucy, startling surrounding diners enough to make forks clatter across tables.  Having achieved the desired effect, she then settled back into the booth, folding her arms.  She glared at the boy.  Despite the fake wooden table that separated them, he could tell that her legs were crossed.
         “Should we tell her?” Patrick coughed, waving smoke.
         “I’m kinda’ afraid to,” the boy admitted.
          “I strongly suggest that you DO,” Gwen growled, “Cuz’ Dan’s already stood me up tonight and I’m in a foul mood.”  Her angry eyes explored the innocent surrounding tables.  “I wish I’d brought a machine gun.”
         “Wait, what?” The boy looked surprised.  “Dan stood you up?  I thought he cancelled because he had to work.”
         “As far as I’m concerned, that’s the same thing in my book.”  The boy now realized Gwen was dressed to the nines, tonight – big hair, sexy black dress, black hose & heels (and I know what you’re thinking, but they looked nothing like Sharon’s), and lots and lots of boobs.  She reminded him a bit of Melanie Griffith’s Working Girl.
         “No, it’s not the same,” the boy told her.  “He had to work.  Wait – does Dan still have your car?”
         “No.”
         “Guinevere,” Patrick redirected the topic, “Alan and I have some news.”
         “What?” she snapped.
         “We’re ready for you now.”
         “What does that mean?”
         “He means, we’re ready for you now,” the boy repeated, taking her hand.  “You can join the skim.”
         “It’s safe now,” Patrick added, coughing.
         Gwen’s eyes lit up.  “Really!?”
        “Really!”
        “Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache…it’s everywhere that you go,” the boy sang, in tune with Vogue.  “You try…everything you can to escape…those bills and debts that you owe…”
         “How much will I make?” she asked excitedly.  She watched the two men lock mischievous eyes.  “You show her,” Patrick told the boy.  “I already put mine in the ATM.”
          Reaching for his wallet, the boy opened it for Gwen.  Its money compartment was stuffed with over $300 in twenties.  He held it open in a fan.
          “Holy shit!” Gwen exclaimed.
          “For a Tuesday!” Patrick laughed, clapping his hand once.
          “I know, right?” she said.
          The boy, wallet still fanned open, couldn’t take his eyes off the cash –
         “Patrick…this is so sinful.”
          Guinevere snatched the wallet from his hands.
         “Hey!” the boy said –
         “I want” – she removed $80 and placed it in her cleavage – “my cut.” 
          She threw it back.
         “Bluggh-haggh!” Patrick coughed loudly, his eyes tearing up in the smoke.  He stood up from the table.  “Guys, I’m sorry, but I can’t take this anymore.  I have to get out of here.”  He threw down a five for coffee.
         “No problem,” the boy said, now waving Patrick’s menu, himself.  “It’s getting to me, too.”
         “Same here,” Gwen said.
          “I open tomorrow,” Patrick called to the boy as he headed out.  “You?”
          “Eleven!  I’ll see you then!”
          “Nite, Gwen!”
           Cough, cough…!
          The boy waved for the check. 
 
         *  *  *  *  *
 
 
   1992
 
 
        “Just call me angel, of the morning, angel!”
         -Juice Newton
 
 
            Way back in 92’, the boy met a man named Michael. He met him while cruising a bar of course, on one of the boy’s first trips to the real city.  Michael & the boy clicked immediately; he had the boy’s Imagination, and their senses of humor were so much the same, Michael would finish the boy’s sentences before he did.  Michael actually made a game of it.  He knew exactly what the boy was from the very start.
            The boy never really dated Michael, but saw him many times. The boy loved just sitting and listening to Michael talk; his words were perfect, almost scripted.  The boy’s favorite “Michael story” involved the time he owned a bar and hosted one of the area’s first Rocky Horror Picture Show parties.  Michael described in detail having to throw out a drunk while dressed as Dr. Frank-N-Furter, chasing the man into the parking lot, yelling like a taxi driver.  After the drunk was gone, Michael realized he was left standing outside the club wearing nothing but a teddy, fishnets, and woman’s stilettos.  Passerby from the straight bars stared, pointed, and laughed, but Michael didn’t give a shit-
            He gave them the finger instead.
            The boy eventually spent the night with Michael, but there wasn’t any sex.   And the boy guessed that’s why he fell for him as hard as he did…they connected through words, and that’s where the boy was most comfortable.
            But though the boy was young, he wasn’t an idiot; there was something inconsistent with Michael, a gap between his over-the-top zest for life, and the Spartan way he kept his apartment.  There was something “broken” about him, a sadness behind his voice, but when the boy pressed the issue, their friendship hit a wall and pretty much ended after that.  Yeah, there were a few phone calls here & there, but the Michael on the phone had become a completely different character.  Michael died within the year, and though the boy didn’t realize it at the time, Michael’s death from HIV death had affected him greatly.
            You know, now that the boy thinks about it, maybe THAT was the first time he used the elevator.
            The boy really can’t be certain, though –
            At the time, he was too drunk to remember …
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
 
    1994
 
 
           “A BOMB, BOMB, BOMB – A BOMB, BOMB, IRAQ!
            A BOMB, BOMB, BOMB – A BOMB, BOMB, IRAQ!”
 
            The clever Paul Shanklin song parody blasted from a boom box in the Outback restaurant kitchen, as the boy stood at the prep table, cutting fat off ribeye’s.  The satire of “Barbara Ann” was followed by a rip-off of “The Leader of the Pack” entitled “The Leader of Iraq.”
            It was…hysterical.
 
           “That’s ven’ I fell for – da’ leader of Ir’aq!”
            VROOM! – VROOM!
 
            “What the fuck are we listening to?” the boy asked Jed, his trainer, the only other white person in the kitchen.  Jed was one of the boy’s work friends, and they often talked about politics, as The Persian Wars by Herodotus was a book on his bookshelf.  Jed also loved Orwell’s essays.
            “This is incredible!” the boy added.
            “I’m taking advantage of the fact that we don’t have to listen to the Spanish station,” Jed told him, grinning.  “Consuela called off, so we can enjoy to a little culture.”
            “My God, is this AM?” the boy asked.  “Who is this?”
            “It’s WLS.  Have you ever heard talk radio?” Jed asked.
            “Seriously?”
            “Seriously!  You should give it a try.”
 
           “Da-da-dut! - Da-da-dut! - Da-da-dut! - Da-da-dut!”
 
            “Why?”
 
           “We’re fierce, we’re feminists, and we’re in your face!”
 
            “Because it won’t rot your brain like FM,” Jed said, smiling.  “Also, talk radio is what intelligent people listen to, and you Sir, seem like a person of intelligent design.”
            “Is this that Art Bell guy?” the boy asked, coughing slightly –
            “I hear he talks about things like intelligent design, evolution, and UFO’s.”
 
            “Ladies & Gentlemen, broadcasting live from behind the golden EIB microphone, with half of my brain tied behind my back just to make it fair …”
 
            Jed chuckled – “No, Art’s overnight.  This is the guy you need to listen to.  He is such a gifted storyteller, he can do a three-hour show with no guests, and still keep you interested” –
            “And there is a difference between a want and a need.”
 
           “His name is Rush Limbaugh.”
 
             *  *  +  *  *
 
    1996
           
 
            “Welcome to Outback.  Have you been with us before?”
            The Soup Dragons’ “I’m Free” chirped merrily from the MUZAK speakers on the ceiling of the restaurant’s Aussie-themed dining room.  The place was packed, as typical for the weekend rush.  The lobby – on a “wait” – was standing room only.  The eatery’s air was filled with the aroma of savory smoke, delicious grilled meat, and 100 different perfumes & colognes – all fighting for the others’ attention.
            The boy stood at the end of a table, giving what the Outback called “a menu presentation.”  He looked particularly sharp tonight.  His shirt was crisp, his apron was spotless, and his shiny combat boots were tucked neatly under clean, pressed blue jeans; his freshly-shaved head looked shiny in the soft-pink lighting that rained down from above, from the flush, recessed can-lights that illuminated the commercial refectory.
            “Because, if you haven’t, may I recommend the Outback Special?”
            Taking the table’s drink and appetizer order, the boy darted through the restaurant, and into the kitchen’s harsh fluorescent lighting.  He turned in his Bloomin’ Onion – “WALKING IN – ONE BLOOM!” – then shot to the Bobcat computer, where he entered his bar order.  After that, he ran some food, checked on his other tables, then backtracked to the bar again to pick up his table’s Wallaby Darns.
            As the evening’s Headwait server, he wouldn’t leave the building until close to midnight, many hours later –
            But that wasn’t a problem because the bars were open late tonight, and even if he didn’t get there until 12pm, there would still be plenty of time to drink before last call.
 
 
            The boy remembered the night he first saw the Sir.  It was late, near closing time.  The boy and the Sir were at opposite ends of the bar.  The boy didn’t know who saw the other first, but he remembered the Sir was tall & lean, and leaning on the counter.  The Sir wasn’t watching the boy, but … “observing” the boy.  Fuck, the Sir was HOT.  And the boy was totally wasted.  Just seeing the Sir made the boy’s heart go bang, and he remembered slamming his drink as the Sir walked over, and how he sucked in his gut while attempting to look as cool as possible for the Sir.  The sound system was playing “Runaway” by Real McCoy, as the Sir paused before introducing himself in the most perfect way possible –
            “Hey.”
 
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
   1999
 
            About three years later, the boy met a man named Don.
            The boy met him while cruising a bar, of course, but do I even need to say that anymore?
            The boy met Don in Phoenix, after leaving Chicago in 1999, and though they didn’t click right away, they started talking because Don played Depeche Mode’s “Master and Servant” on the jukebox, catching the boy’s interest.  One thing led to another, and before the boy knew it, they were discussing the leather scene.
            Don was an experienced “bottom;” he got off on being a slave.  Though the boy’s own experience was limited to bondage-games, they had enough in common sexually to stay together for two years.  But they weren’t a healthy couple, and Don’s alcoholism made THE BOY look sober.  When it came time to break up, Don was devastated to learn that the boy never really loved him.  Don went on a three-year drinking binge, damaging his already-frail health.
            Though the boy claimed it was for experience, the cold-honest truth is that the boy dated Don because he had HIV.  The boy knew this from the moment he met him, and it provided the perfect reason to keep sex “unemotional,” and limited to role-playing.  At the time, the boy didn’t think twice about using him; the boy wanted to know if he had the guts, to actually commit to a positive.
            The boy guessed it was a success, though the gravity of what he did didn’t hit him until many years later.  He used Don.  Destroyed him, even. 
            And for what purpose-
            (My God.)
            How did the boy become such a MONSTER?
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
 
    2021
 
 
             The flashing red lights of a FedEx truck pulled away from the curb, as the boy stood alone in his home, crying so hard he was doubled over.  He was holding a long-overdue package from his publisher; the fresh, warm ARC’s of his second self-published novel had just been delivered. 
            “If you could see me now…”
            But that wasn’t the real reason he was sobbing …
 
            "It is with profound sadness, I must share with you directly, that our beloved Rush, my wonderful husband, passed away this morning, due to complications from lung cancer," she said. "Rush will forever be the greatest of all time. Rush was an extraordinary man: a gentle-giant, brilliant, quick-witted, genuinely kind, extremely generous, passionate, courageous, and the hardest working person I know."
 
            On his way into work that afternoon, he stopped by the liquor store.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
 
    2   0   2   2
 
            RAIN pelted the hospital room windows as Old Guard Russ watched over the boy like a Father, sitting in a chair pulled up to Jordan’s bed, dressed from head to toe in rubber.  With one glove on the young man’s forearm, Russ’s other palm was resting on his own knee so he could quietly massage his aching joint.  Back in the day, he used to enjoy sitting with one ankle thrown on his other leg’s knee, but that just wasn’t possible anymore as his approaching sixties had made his body arthritic.  The aging boy turned towards the growing boy, and pulled his blanket up closer to his shoulders because the young man was shivering in his sleep.
            Russ closed his eyes somberly.
            But he opened them when he heard a soft tap at the doorway.
            “Is it okay to come in?” Frankie asked softly, careful not to wake the patient.
            Russ nodded, then heaved himself up out of the chair.  Frankie tipped his Muir, then offered his gloved hand to Russ.  “I don’t think we’ve met before,” he whispered, “but I’m Frankie, Jordan’s friend.”  Russ took Frankie’s hand with both of his own.
            “I’m Russ,” Russ said.  “No, we haven’t met, but Jordan’s told me about you.”
            “Did he?  Excellent,” Frankie said. “How’s he doing?”
            “Eh.” Russ made a see-saw gesture with his hand. “He’s resting.”
            “Nice.”
            “Til tomorrow, I’m guessing,” Russ said. “I mean, with the sedatives.”
            “I see…”
            “That for Jordan?” Russ asked, noticing that Frankie had a small bag of puzzle magazines.
            “Yes.” Frankie nodded.  “It is, but, now I feel silly for bringing it.”
            “Why, Sir?”
            “Because these are just magazines,” Frankie said, embarrassed, looking at the bag’s contents.  “Now that I think about it, people Jordan’s age don’t read magazines.  They read things on their phones or iPads.  They play games like Words with Friends or Angry Birds.”
            Russ chuckled softly. 
            “Only people our age play Words with Friends, Sir” –
            “And nobody plays Angry Birds anymore.”  
            Frankie looked up from the bag.  “I should have gotten him an Apple gift card.  That way he could have downloaded whatever he wanted.”
            “Actually, you’re right on track, Sir,” Russ whispered.  “We’re in the psyche ward.  They don’t allow patients to have any electronics at all, especially things that connect to the Internet.”
            Frankie looked relieved.
            “I’ve got that, Sir,” Russ said, taking the bag.  He put Frankie’s gift on the table next to Jordan’s bed.  “Thank you, Sir.  I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
            Frankie stirred uneasily – 
            “Do you want me to take your place for a while?” he asked – 
            “I’ll stand guard while you get some coffee or something?  Some food from the cafeteria?  Or, maybe just stretch your legs for a bit?”
            Russ hunched over slightly as he rubbed his sore knee – 
            “Actually, that would be nice, Sir.  If you don’t mind, of course.”
            “But I offered, so I obviously don’t mind.”
            “Of course.”
            “Mind if I sit?” Frankie asked, gesturing to the empty chair.
            “By all means, Sir.”
            “Thanks.”
            Frankie and Russ swapped places, as the Old Guard boy stood back & stretched.  He gave Frankie a quiet nod, before stepping away and heading for the hallway.  But once at the door, he paused for a moment.  With his hand lingering on the threshold, Russ took a quick glance at Frankie’s high heeled boots, now crossed as he usually sat, with one toe gingerly pointing.  Russ stared at Sir Frankie without outward emotion, before swallowing hard and briefly looking down.  A few seconds later, his figure disappeared from view.
            Frankie looked up as soon as Russ was gone, and gazed vacantly at the empty doorway …
            But then, Carlos appeared within it.
            “Can I come in?” Carlos asked loudly, stepping forward anyway as though the answer were yes.  “How’s he doing?  Jesus, is he unconscious?”
            Frankie gave Carlos a look –
            “He’s sleeping, Carlos.  Not unconscious.”
            “Can you wake him up so I can talk to him?” Carlos asked, plopping on the side of Jordan’s bed.  Frankie gave him another look –
            “Nooooooo,” he told him quietly, but firmly –
            “Oh, I will tell him that you stopped by, though.”
            “That’s fine,” Carlos said, “but can I wait for him to wake up?”
              Irritated, Frankie crossed his arms –
            “Carlos, what are you doing here?”
            “Eh, I work with Jordan,” he said.  “He’s training at my restaurant.  Or, at least he was.  No one’s going to trust him now after he did this.”
            “Wait – are you the one he was with when he hurt himself?” Frankie asked, putting two and two together. “What happened?”
            Carlos shrugged his shoulders –
            “He just went crazy, I guess.”
            “What do you mean ‘went crazy?’”
            Carlos made a “cuckoo” gesture, twirling his finger by his temple.  “I was showing him how to trim the ribeye’s, I left to get more from the walk-in, and when I got back, there he was: Blood…everywhere.”
            “Do you know why it happened?” Frankie asked –
            “I mean, do you know what triggered him?”
            “Nope.”
            “Did anything happen at the restaurant?”
            “Nope.”
            “Did anything happen before he got to the restaurant?”
            “Not that I’m aware of,” Carlos told him.  “Like I said, I left, I came back, and there he was – Pbbt!  Pbbt!  Pbbt!”  Carlos made a gushing-blood gesture with his hand over his wrist.  “After the ambulance came, I had to wash all the dishes again.”
            Alan stood up suddenly –
            His eyes narrowed into slits.
            “And why didn’t you say anything, when we went out for drinks a few nights ago?” he asked sharply.  “I mean, don’t you think that might be the sort of thing I’d like to know?”
            Russ appeared in the doorway, holding two coffees from the Canteen machine down the hall.  “Sir, I hope you don’t mind, but you looked like you could use a cup of coffee yourself, so I took it upon myself to” – he stopped midsentence.
            “Is everything okay?”
            “I had no idea you liked Jordan,” Carlos said indifferently.  “So, what did it matter?”
            Alan looked pissed now.
            And his words came out in slow, deliberate statements: “I didn’t say I liked Jordan.  I asked if you knew what happened.  And then I asked why you didn’t tell me that you knew him.”
            “I just worked with him,” Carlos snipped. “I don’t actually know the guy.”
            “Carlos, why don’t you give me a moment with Sir Frankie,” Russ piped in.
            Jordan stirred.
            He changed position in his bed.
            Both Alan and Russ came up to him quickly, one on either side of him.  Russ set the Styrofoam cups on the handwashing sink, while Frankie brought his gloved hand around Jordan’s head and cradled him tenderly. 
             Russ observed this. 
            “Easy buddy,” Alan said softly at Jordan’s side –
            “So, how you doin’?”
            “Under the weather, Sir,” the young man whispered, with a hint of humor.
              Reluctantly, Carlos rolled his eyes, then stepped back to check his phone.
            “Russ is here too,” Alan told him.  “I think he’s been here all day.”
            “Easy, buddy,” Russ said cheerfully, touching Jordan’s arm.
            “Came to visit, Daddy Russ?”
              Tired, Russ winced and smiled at the same time – I know you’re in the hospital, but I still hate when you call me that. “Good to have you back.” 
            “Can I go home now?” the young man asked.
            “Hey, not quite yet,” Alan said gently –
              Russ added:  “The doctors want to make sure that you’re okay, first.”
             “I see,” Jordan whispered, on the boundary of wake & sleep.
             “So, I’ll tell you what,” Alan told the boy.  “Either Russ or myself will be here every day to check on you, if that’s okay.”  Alan looked Russ squarely in the eye:  We can do that – right, Russ? Going forward, one of us will visit boy Jordan personally, every day that he stays in the hospital? And also, during in-patient aftercare, if the doctors deem it necessary?
            Yes Sir, Russ’s eyes said back.
            Tipping the brim of his officer’s hat, Alan then came in close and whispered directly into Jordan’s ear.  Neither Russ nor Carlos could hear what he was saying, but Carlos did notice that as Sir Frankie was talking, his gloved hand moved deliberately across Jordan’s stomach, then met Russ’s own, as it was doing the same.
            Their fingers, like Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, touched only at the tips.

Chapter Ten
Big Bad Brian

---

​             
           THWACK!
            The rawhide cat-of-nine-tails sliced through the air of Brian’s basement dungeon, hitting the back of the naked slave-boy, who was padlocked to the Saint Andrews Cross, his body outstretched in an X.  The slave shouted in pain, his hands became fists before his fingers went outward and rigid.  The cross made squeaking noises as the boy readjusted himself, as much as his bonds would allow.
            Brian smiled proudly.
            “This area here,” Brian explained to Frankie, “is where you want to focus on.”  He pointed a gloved hand at the upper two-thirds of the slave’s back, as he instructed Frankie on the proper way to flog a boy.  “Because if you’re not careful, you could seriously hurt someone.”
 
             “The other night a close friend told me never let my heart fall into careless hands …”
              “I said thanks, that’s very nice, appreciate your good advice,
              but things don’t always go the way that I planned …”
 
            Dead or Alive’s “My Heart Goes Bang” echoed throughout the basement, as the two Sirs stood side-by-side, with Brian in the lead as they were on his home turf.  Continuing his tutorial, the tall, bearded Dom demonstrated several of his own flogging techniques, as Frankie watched intently, taking mental notes.  Ten minutes passed before Brian offered Frankie the whip.
            “I thought you knew how to do this already, Frankie.”
            “I do, but not as well as I want to,” Frankie admitted.  “Everything I know I’ve learned from Alan, or watching videos online.  I know this is an area that I still need to improve.”
            “And you heard I was the expert?” Brian poked, fishing for a compliment.
            “I’ve heard a lot of things about you,” Frankie said playfully, taking the whip. “But as I’m known for my discretion, I’m not at liberty to say.”
            Brian glared at him.
            “So, you swing back like this?” Frankie asked, bringing the cat-of-nine-tails over his shoulder.  He looked like a killer holding a knife in a slasher film.
            “Nooooooo,” Brian corrected, annoyed, snatching the whip.  “You don’t hold it that way, you always, always hold it like this.”
            “So, like what?”
            “Like this.”
            “Ah – you mean hold it this way?”
             Vexed, Brian looked pissed. “Not even close.”
            “Err, how about this way then?” Frankie offered.
            “To an idiot, maybe.  No, dammit – hold it this way.”
            “More to the right?” Frankie suggested. “So, this way, then?”
            “Ease up!”
            Coming up from behind, Brian pressed his chest against Frankie’s back.  He grabbed both Frankie’s hands at once, and positioned them exactly where they needed to be, like a creepy golf instructor invading his client’s personal space.  Using his boot to scoot Frankie’s own into the correct stance, Brian moved his gloved hand along Frankie’s chest and arm, stopping at the wrist and reinserting the whip into his palm.  Brian squeezed Frankie’s fingers closed, around it.
            “Follow my lead,” Brian said, guiding Frankie’s body like a ballroom dancer.  He turned Frankie to the side, then raised his arm slightly, cat-of-nine-tails in hand.
            “Now, swing it firmly, but not aggressively,” he instructed –
            “One, two, three – swing!”
 
           “Doctor, doctor, give me a cure!
             Doctor, doctor, give me a cure!”
 
            Like an old-timey baseball pitcher, Frankie brought his knee up to his waist, turned, crouched, and swung the leather whip with the force of an incoming missile.  Brian’s eyes widened – “NO!” – before tackling Frankie from behind, not in enough time to stop the whip, but in just enough time to deflect its trajectory –
            THWACK!
            Both men tumbled forward, falling on top of each other.  Frankie ended up splayed on his stomach, with Brian landing squarely on Frankie’s back, like a game of Twister that had gone horribly wrong.  By the time the dust settled, Frankie looked up from the concrete, with Brian’s head directly above him, over his shoulder.  Brian’s Muir was now cockeyed on his head, like Ernest Borgnine in McHale’s Navy.  He stared at the slave like a driver who’d just narrowly avoided a serious accident.
            Frankie’s whip had left a deep welt in the wall, inches to the right of the slave’s kidney.
            “Did I get him?” Frankie asked, clueless.
            “Frankie, I thought you knew how to do this,” Brian growled with deep concern.
            “Alan usually does the flogging,” Frankie told him.  “I do the bondage.”
            Brian stared at Frankie with a Jesus-fucking-Christ look on his face, before covering his eyes with his hand for a moment, then heaving himself up to make sure that the slave was okay.  Frankie followed suit.  A few moments passed, as Brian gathered himself. 
            He cleared his throat, then turned to Frankie –
            “Dude, let’s take a break.”
 
            *  *  *  *  *
           
            “It looks like Christmas exploded in here,” Frankie observed, entering Brian’s living room and plopping on the couch.  He glanced around like an interior design critic. “You know, just because you see a flat surface, it doesn’t mean that you have to put something there.”
            Brian shot him daggers.
            “Did I ask for your opinion?” he warned, standing in the foyer with his fists resting at his sides.  “You’re in my house, Frankie.  Shut…the fuck…up.”  Opening the front door, he let Lucy – his little yellow mutt – outside so she could poop.
            “I would call it more of a thrift store,” Frankie continued, unphased.  “I know you think that mid-century modern end tables with mismatched lamps are ironic, but ultimately, when you use too many, you just look…poor.”
            Brian’s eyes widened.
            “And what’s with all the ceramic Christmas trees?” Frankie added, oblivious to Brian’s growing anger.  “Was there some kind of sale?”
            “Out!” Brian told him, pointing at the front door.
            Frankie looked up, taken back.  “I beg your pardon?”
            “OUT!” Brian yelled, throwing Frankie’s biker’s jacket in his face.  “You are so…fucking…full of yourself!  Get out of my house…now.”
            “All right, all right,” Frankie muttered as he stood up.  He zipped up his jacket and tugged on his gloves and officer’s hat.  He walked through the door as Brian held it open.  Standing on the porch, Frankie put on his sunglasses and turned to ask a quick question.  “Hey, would you mind if I use your living room in my”. –
            SLAM!
            Frankie stared at the door in puzzlement.  He could hear the lock click closed from inside.  He took two steps backward, shrugged, pivoted, then came down the stairs and headed out to the sidewalk.  While he was walking, he pulled out his iPhone.
            He read his texts.
 
            Are we having Xmas here, or are we going to your Mother’s?
 
            It was from Michael.
            Sighing softly, Frankie answered the long-dreaded question.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
 
               “If there’s love, Dear, those are the ties that bind …”
 
            The Scottish accent of Robin Williams’s Mrs. Doubtfire played at a reasonable volume from the communal rec-room TV.  The room’s green institutional couches had been arranged around the television, flanked by round tables and soft chairs – where patients in sweatpants and robes chatted while putting puzzles together.  A small Christmas tree glowed softly in the corner, as numerous residents watched the movie from various places, each with the same vacant stare that came from meds and the controlled, serene surroundings.
            Old Guard Russ sat on a sofa with his legs wide open, with one hand resting on the armrest, the other gently stroking Jordan’s neck.  The boy was wearing a hoodie and sleep-pants, and was curled up sideways, laying on the cushions with his head resting on Russ’s lap.  His head, cheeks, and neck were full of noticeable stubble as the hospital only allowed razors under supervision.  The two watched the movie quietly.
            “Hey,” Frankie said to them both, as he came in through the doorway. He was dressed in his leathers, but he carried his Muir hat instead of wearing it.  His free hand held an open Christmas gift, which he handed to Russ as he sat down next to the two.  “It’s for Jordan,” Frankie told him.
            “You know I can hear you, right?” Jordan asked, without looking up.
            Frankie patted the young man’s ankle.  “Sorry, buddy.  I didn’t know you were awake.”
            “Hey Sir,” Russ said in greeting.  He showed Jordan the package.
            “Why is it open?” the skinhead asked.
            Frankie cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “They wouldn’t let me bring it in until they saw what was inside.  The nurse said I should have used a gift bag.”
            “What is it?” Jordan asked, perking up. 
            Russ handed him the box.
            “Food,” Frankie told him.  “Red velvet cake, to be specific.  I figured the food in this place must suck, so I got this from Cermak.  From the bakery.  They sell them by the slice.”
            “Do you have a fork?” Jordan asked, suddenly interested.
            “Err…no, I’m afraid.”  Frankie went to stand up.  “I’ll find one though.  Give me a minute.”
            “Here,” Russ stopped him, reaching toward a nearby table, where a half-eaten bowl of cold mac & cheese was sitting.  He grabbed the bowl’s fork, wiped it clean with a napkin, then handed it to Jordan.
            “Thanks,” the young man said.
            Both Frankie and Russ watched in silence as the boy ate. “What were we watching?” Frankie asked, looking at the credits on TV.
            “Mrs. Doubtfire,” Russ told him.
            “Ugh,” Frankie winced. –
             “I think that’s standard fare for every psyche hospital in the city.”
              Russ gave him a puzzled look. 
             Frankie realized what he had just said.
            “Err, I mean, I hear that places like this always play cozy Lifetime movies in the rec room,” Frankie explained.  “At least that’s what I hear.”
            “I see.”
            Frankie changed the subject:
            “Any news on when you’re getting out of here?” he asked Jordan.
            Still chewing, the young man shrugged his shoulders.
            “Monday,” Russ told Frankie.  “They’re keeping him through the weekend, but only because Christmas falls on Saturday and all the doctors will be gone.  It’s just bad timing, really.”
            “That sucks,” Frankie told them.  “At least you won’t have to be with family.”
            Russ looked at Frankie directly and shook his head.  Don’t talk about his family, Sir.  It’s a touchy subject for him.  Frankie nodded – Sorry.  Got it.
            “Christ, this is good,” Jordan said, finishing the last of the cake.  He sucked the cream cheese icing off the fork.  “Can you bring this again?”
            “Ah, I’m actually not going to be here tomorrow,” Frankie apologized.  “But Russ will.  I’m sure he’ll bring you something.”
            “I will,” Russ assured him.  He looked Frankie directly in the eye.  Can we touch base outside, in the hall for a moment, Sir?
            Of course, Frankie’s eyes said.
            Both Frankie and Russ stood up together.
            “I’ll be right back,” Russ assured the boy.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “What’s his prognosis?” Frankie asked Russ, once outside the room.
            “It’s good, Sir,” Russ told him.  “But he does need to have an appointment with a psychiatrist set up before he leaves.  And it looks like he’ll be enrolled in some type of intensive weekly therapy.”
            “Outpatient?”
            “Right, Sir.”
            “I think that’s good,” Frankie said.  “So, you’re taking him home on Monday then?”
            “Oh – yes Sir.”
            “Now, I’m assuming Jordan won’t be going back to work for a while?”
            “No Sir.  But he has good insurance at the restaurant, and he’s going on short term disability.”
            “That’s good,” Frankie told him.  “And you’ll be there at the apartment with him?”
            “Yes Sir.”
            “Oh – how about when you’re working?”
            “Ugh, Sir?” Russ asked.
            “Right now, Jordan’s on leave, but you still have to go to work, yourself,” Frankie clarified.  “Is that correct?”
            “Sir, well…yes Sir, it is.”
            “Then Jordan will be alone when you’re gone?”
            “Ah, yes Sir…but…I’m sure he’ll be fine.  The apartment is a safe environment.”
            “Russ, he tried to commit suicide,” Frankie said bluntly.  “I mean, I’m not angry you have to work of course – we all have to work – but do you really think he should be alone for the first few days he’s back from the hospital?”
            “I’ll admit, no…but I can easily have a neighbor check on him.”
            “So, Russ, let me help,” Frankie insisted.  “I’m actually not working myself at the moment, so I have the time.  And I don’t mind, really.  I think you guys live pretty close to me, anyway.”
            “Sir, I can’t ask…”
            “I disagree.”  
            “Right Sir.  But seriously, it really isn’t necessary” –
            “I need to know if you’d like my help, Russ.”
            “Unnecessary Sir, I don’t need your” –
            “Still isn’t what I asked,” Frankie pointed out.  “I said would you like my help?  It’s a yes or no question.  So, answer it that way – yes or no.  Would…you like…my help?”
            Russ hesitated for a second.  “Yes Sir.  I’d like your help.”
            “Good,” Frankie told him.  “It’s settled then.”  He pulled on his Muir, then took out his iPhone.  “I don’t believe I have your contact information, Russ.” –
            “Let’s swap numbers.”
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “You are such…an ASSHOLE!” Frankie’s sister screamed, the following afternoon.  It was Christmas day, and the planned family dinner with Mother had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.  Michael watched quietly as Frankie sat calmly at the kitchen table, legs crossed, boot bobbing up and down, his gloved hands folded on his knee as he closed his eyes and winced.
            His sister was angry, his Mother was crying, Michael had covered his mouth with his fingers, and the cats on the counter were pawing at the now-cold appetizers while Frankie imagined his happy place, so far, far, far away…
            A few minutes passed as Frankie’s sister stomped, bitched, threw plates in the sink, before storming outside for a cigarette, slamming the door behind her.  Frankie cleared his throat, coolly stood up, straightened his pressed floral shirt and smoothed his leather vest.  “I think I should leave,” he told his Mother.
            “You know that’s the coward’s way out,” she said, laying on the guilt.
            Pulling on his Vanson, Frankie was zipping it closed when his sister returned.  She glared at him, aghast.  “So, you’re leaving then?  You’re just going to leave?  On Christmas?”
            “Well, I’m obviously not welcome here,” tucking his red plaid holiday scarf between the jacket’s lapels.  He put on his sunglasses.  “Thank you both for a lovely afternoon,” he said dryly.
            “What the fuck am I going to do with all this FOOD?” his sister hissed.
            Frankie paused at the door –
            “Why don’t you put it somewhere?”
 
            *  *  *  *  *
           
           “Long time ago in Bethlehem, so the Holy Bible said…”
            “Mary’s boy child, Jesus Christ, was born on Christmas Day!”
 
            Thick white spirals of snow obscured the nighttime air, as the multi-colored holiday lights glowed red, green, blue, orange, yellow, and purple on the Sequentia facade of Touché.  The sidewalk was covered in a 2” blanket of snow, and Frankie kept both his jacket’s collar up and his Muir hat’s brim down as he walked towards the club’s entrance with intent, stopping at the last moment when he noticed a homeless man begging in the street, two doorways down.
            Reaching into his inner pocket, Frankie took out the Christmas card his sister had given him before their fight – which contained a hundred-dollar bill.  He tossed the card, but kept the Franklin.  Coming up to the beggar, he put his gloved hand on the vagrant’s shoulder –
            “Merry Christmas,” Frankie told him, pressing the hundred into the man’s dirty palms.  He then whispered into the homeless man’s ear: “Buy food, not drugs.”
            Frankie was inside the bar before the beggar had time to react.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
             “Mary’s Boy Child” filled the front bar as Frankie entered the club and greeted friends on his way to the bar counter.  Finding a spot, he unwrapped his scarf, and folded it neatly before sitting it on the bar.  With his eyes fixed forward, he unzipped his jacket, then carefully draped it across the back of the stool.  Bob came up as Frankie sat down.  The bartender was wearing a red Santa’s hat, paired with a black T-shirt with a “fisting” graphic that left nothing to the imagination.          
              Bob smiled widely –
            “Ho, ho, ho.”
            “Am I your Christmas miracle, Bob?” Frankie asked playfully, setting his iPhone and reading glasses on the counter.
            “How was your holiday?” Bob asked.
            Frankie grinned from ear to ear.  “It was just…awful.”
            “That seems to be a common theme tonight,” Bob told him –
            “You want a water, or something stronger?”
            “What do you have that’s nonalcoholic, but still has flavor?” Frankie asked – 
            “You guys don’t have Bloody Mary mix, do you?”
            Bob shook his head.  “We’ve got pop in bottles.”
            “You mean, like Coke?” Frankie asked.
            Bob shook his head again.  “John got a bunch of that gourmet shit.  Root beer, cream soda, black cherry, sarsaparilla, crap that tastes like those orange dreamsickles…”
            “I’ll take a black cherry,” Frankie told him.
            The bartender nodded, then went for Frankie’s drink.  While he was gone, Frankie checked his Recon messages, texts, emails, and then his Facebook app.  There was a notification from his Mother’s account, shared by his sister.  He clicked on it.  A photo appeared of his Mother and sister, obviously taken within the hour after he left.  They were eating dinner. 
            The caption read:
 
           “Dinner for two!  Thanks mom for the delicious dinner!”
 
            Frankie rolled his eyes and sighed.
            Bob noticed this as he set the bottled soda on the counter in front of Frankie –
            “Jesus, what’s wrong?”
            Closing Facebook, Frankie shook his head.  “Just my passive-aggressive family.”
            “If it’s a bad post, then just respond in the comments,” Bob said – 
            “Or post something back, if it made you feel bad.”
            “Fuckin’ hell,” Frankie heard himself say.  “The last time I tried to post my feelings on Facebook was the day Rush died.  Within five minutes of the post, Mother literally called my phone and got mad because I was more upset over his death than my Father’s.  I swear to God, that woman reads every damn thing I write.  There’s a reason Stephen King titled a horror novel Chris” –
            “STOP,” Bob chuckled –
            “How’d dinner go?”
            “It went quickly,” Frankie laughed –
            “The only thing missing was a roast burning in the oven.”
            “Fa-la-la-la-la…la-la-la-la!” Bob joked.  He then put his hand on Frankie’s shoulder.  “If it’s any consolation, you went from a family that doesn’t love to be with a family that does love you.”  He gave Frankie a firm shake.
            “Thanks Bob,” Frankie told him. –
            “Though I have to admit, I feel like I’m on the Island of Misfit Toys.”
            “Misfit sex toys,” Bob corrected, stepping away to help another.
            Frankie smiled and checked his Recon app again.
            He then pulled up B. Dylan Hollis on TikTok.
 
             “…Hark, now hear the angels sing…a king was born today…”
 
            “I was just thinking,” Alan said to Frankie, taking the seat beside him. He was wearing sunglasses in the bar again.  “Wouldn’t it be hotter if, rather than nailed to a Crucifix, Jesus were tied to a Saint Andrews Cross instead?”
            “Dude, I’m right here.”
            “And I guess he could still wear the same clothes,” Alan realized.
            “Vice-versa. Or no clothes at all,” Frankie played along, rolling his eyes.
            “I forget – does frankincense or myrrh make better lube?” Alan asked.
            “Duh,” Frankie said. “Neither – they’re scents, dumbass.”
            “I hear you had a rough day,” Alan said, attempting compassion.  He pushed his aviators to the tip of his nose – like Chuck Schumer’s reading glasses.  “I told you that was going to happen.”
            “Well, I’ll listen to you next time,” Frankie conceded. “You were right.”
            “Oh Christ, I love hearing you say that,” Alan told him –
            “Really, I do.”
            “Listen, what are you doing here anyway?” Frankie asked –
            “Didn’t you say that going to a bar on Christmas was cliché?”
            “It’s either that or some shitty children’s holiday pageant like we did when we were kids,” Alan admitted, spinning on his stool, so his back was facing the counter.  He crossed his legs and folded his gloved hands on his leather pants.  He cocked his head slightly, observing the bar –
            “And I’m definitely not in the mood to be Thaddeus Bristol.”
            Alan was wearing Frankie’s Vanson jacket tonight. 
            He was clearly hunting.
            “Hello there,” Alan said out loud, looking at the front door.  Brian had just entered, and was mingling with the crowd as he worked his way towards the club room.  Alan couldn’t tell if Brian hadn’t seen Frankie, or if he was just avoiding him. As soon as he was out of view, Alan brought his lips to Frankie’s ear.
            “You pissed Brian off,” he said bluntly – 
            “Oh, you need to fix this immediately.”
            “Ugh.” Frankie gave him a dirty look.  “Don’t tell me what to do.”
            “To be blunt, I will tell whenever you fuck up,” Alan informed him –
            “He’s pissed off at me, and that’s totally because of you.  So, fix it!”
            “Quiet,” Frankie said firmly.  “I said the answer is no.”
            “Uh, excuse me?”  Alan was taken back.  “No?” he repeated –
            “Am I hearing things correctly?  You’re telling me no?”
            “Keep it up and I won’t involve you in any decisions going forward,” Frankie warned.
            Exhaling slowly, Alan took a moment to regroup.  Once he did, he was in Frankie’s face again, only this time with a different approach.  “I know you like him.  And if you don’t fix this, you’re only going to harm yourself” –
            “I may like Brian, but you’re the one who loves him,” Frankie stopped him cold.  “And don’t tell me that you don’t.  I can feel how you think, Alan.  I’ve always been able to do that.”
            Removing his glasses, Alan’s eyes narrowed into slits.
            He aimed for the jugular –
            “GUYS,” Michael interrupted, appearing out of nowhere and getting between the two men.  Always the peacekeeper, he quickly added: “I really think that we should just dial this down a notch, before we all say something we might regret” –
            “GO AWAY,” both Frankie & Alan commanded together.
            Michael vanished like a ghost.
            Returning to Alan, Frankie spoke bluntly.  “I know you love him.  Don’t tell me you don’t.  Alan, seriously…what do you want from Brian?  You two will never work.  You’re both too much alike.  I know you’re thinking some sort of power-exchange dynamic, but let’s be honest.  How realistic is that?”
            Lowering his voice, Frankie came up close to Alan, two sharks in profile, nose-to-nose, Muir-to-Muir.  The red & green Christmas lights behind them became scarlet & viridescent blurs.  Both men touched the others’ cheek at the same time.
 
             “Oh, my Lord, you sent your son to save us, oh my Lord, your very self you gave us …”
             “Oh, my Lord, that sin may not enslave us, and love may reign once more!”
 
             The sound in the bar grew lonnnnnnnnng & dissssssstorted –
            “As more time passes, I pretend to be you sometimes,” Alan whispered –
             Vexed, Frankie seemed taken back. “Why would you do that?”
            “Easy,” Alan admitted.  “I’m starting to lose my grip on reality.”
            “Right – but how does pretending help?”
             Next, Alan swallowed hard –
             Sobbing, he tried to muffle his voice:
 
             “Because I want…a brother.”
 
              “Oh, my Lord, when in the crib they found him, oh my Lord, a golden halo crowned him …”
              “Oh, my Lord, they gathered all around him, to see him and adore …”
 
            “And there it is,” Frankie murmured, bringing his lips up close to Alan’s, threatening to kiss him tenderly …
            Alan vanished, his aviators clattering on the bar.
            As Frankie maintained his outstretched pose, the perspective pulled back to reveal Carlos sitting one stool down, his elbow on the bar and his hand resting on his chin.  His dark pompadour looked sinisterly comical in the fuzzy lighting, and his sharp, perfect teeth – locked in a Joker grin – smiled at Frankie like the Babadook.
            Tie me up, he said without speaking.
 
           *  *  *  *  *
           
            RED AND BLUE POLICE LIGHTS flashed in front of Frankie’s apartment, as Carlos – fighting back tears – explained to the officers how Frankie had lured him to his apartment from the bar, slipped something in his drink, dragged him downstairs, stripped him, restrained him, and then tried to sodomize him with a sex toy.  It was only by some act of God that he had managed to escape, grab his things, run outside and call 911.
            Frankie – in cuffs – watched in silence from the squad car on the street as Carlos gave his statement to police.  A good twenty minutes passed, while the young man’s animated figure bickered with the officer, demanding that Frankie be arrested on the spot – which the policeman wouldn’t.  Still, Frankie noticed, some type of deal had been struck.
            Stepping away from the accuser, the officer approached the squad car.  He opened the back door and motioned Frankie to get up and step out.  Once outside the cruiser, the policeman removed Frankie’s handcuffs.
            “Here’s how this is going to work,” the cop explained.  “Your gentleman friend is filing a complaint, but I’ve talked him down from full sexual assault, which is what he first wanted to do.”
            Frankie scoffed.  “Sexual assault?  Seriously?  That kid wanted this to happen.”
            The officer raised an eyebrow.  “Things like that can be taken in a very dangerous context, Mr. Downs.  I suggest you choose your words more carefully.”
            Frankie closed his eyes for a moment in frustration.  “What I meant was, Carlos set me up.  He approached me in the bar, and asked to come back to my place for sex.”
            “I saw your basement, Mr. Downs.  The things you have down there are designed for predatorial sex.”
            “I’m a member of the Leather Community,” Frankie told him. –
            “Don’t tell me that you don’t know what that is.”
            “You met this guy at Touché, you say?” the officer clarified.
            “We bumped into each other at the bar,” Frankie said.  “We hadn’t arranged a formal meeting.  Also, Carlos has been stalking me.”
            “Stalking how?”
            “Texts, phone calls, messages on social apps.  I’ve even seen him following me on the street.”
            “By foot?”
            “No, in his car.”
            “How long has this been going on?” the policeman asked.
            “I don’t know,” Frankie told him.  “Three, maybe four weeks.  Maybe five…”
         The officer sighed.  His voice adopted a slight tone of empathy.  “Look, Mr. Downs, I’ve seen his type before.  I don’t care what actually transpired between you two, but it’s important that you understand this man is pressing charges against you.”
            “Charges for what?”
            “His accusation.  He’s claiming domestic battery.”
            “I’m being charged with this?”
            “Carlos says you hit him,” the cop said bluntly.  “Did you hit him, Mr. Downs?”
            “Absolutely not.”
            “Going over his statement, he says you did.”
            “Oh, by some act of God I didn’t.”
            “I don’t suppose you can prove that?” the officer asked.
            Frankie scoffed.  “And HOW would I prove that?”
            “Do you have any cameras mounted in that dungeon area?”
            “Are you kidding me?” Frankie was growing exasperated now.  “I don’t…have…cameras.  I’m known for my discretion.  Violating someone’s privacy in BDSM is an unforgivable sin.”
            The policeman raised an eyebrow.
            “What I mean is,” Frankie backtracked, “is that what I do is completely consensual.  Yes, I know, to a person like you, it all probably seems a little weird.  But for people like me, and the circles that we run in, what we do is completely normal.  Beautiful, even.”
            “Regardless,” the officer went on, “you’ll need to appear in court.  I suggest you find a lawyer.”
            “Fuck,” Frankie mumbled.
            “Also,” the cop continued, “being that allegations of domestic battery have been made, you’re not allowed to enter the property for the next thirty-six hours.”
            Frankie’s eyes widened.  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
            “I am not fucking kidding you, Mr. Downs.”
            “But it’s my house.”
            “That doesn’t matter.”
            “Can I at least pack an overnight bag?  Throw a few things in a suitcase?”
            The officer shook his head.  “Thirty-six hours, Mr. Downs.  And if we find out that you’ve violated that, you will be arrested.  Of that, I can assure you.”
            The two uniformed men stood in silence, as Carlos grinned from Smokey’s driver’s seat, before pulling away.  Frankie relented.  “I understand,” he told the cop begrudgingly.
            “Good,” the policeman said.  “I’ll be right back with copies of the paperwork.”
            The squad cars’ red and blue lights continued to flash, as Frankie stood alone on the sidewalk, a dark silhouette against the falling snow.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            Big Bad Brian awoke with a start.
            Lucy was on the floor, on the side of the couch below him.  She was whining.
            “You need to poop?” Brian asked sleepily, yawning, sitting up, rubbing an eye with his fist.  The dog yelped YES, and Brian stood up carefully, adjusting his terry cloth robe and cautiously walking through the dark room – lit only by glowing ceramic Christmas trees.
            He unlocked the front door, opened it, and let the pooch outside.
            Glancing at his phone, he noticed the time – 3:43am – before tugging on the nearest jacket, slipping on his house slippers, and grabbing an open pack of cigarettes from a table near the door.
            He stepped outside.

              *  *  *  *  *
 
            As Lucy took a dump in the front yard, Brian lit a smoke in the darkness of the porch.  He inhaled deeply, then released a long, hot breath of white into the cold night air.  His face went orange as he took another drag, before looking at his phone again and checking his Recon and Facebook messages.  As the dog finished shitting – and Brian put his phone away, he noticed something move to his left, in the corner, in the dark, on the chair where he usually smoked cigars.
            The bearded man braced himself, as he slowly turned left and reached for the light switch on the inside of the door.  He made a fist with one hand, and flipped the porch light on with the other.  And when he did, he found Frankie in the Adirondack chair, curled up into an angry little ball, with his collar pulled up, his Muir pulled over his eyes.
            Brian inhaled.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            As Frankie leaned against him like a staggering drunk, Brian led the unexpected visitor into the living room.  Guiding him towards the couch, Brian discreetly inhaled Frankie’s breath, testing it for alcohol, which he didn’t find – Thank God.  Frankie muttered incoherently, as Brian held him by the shoulders, turned him around gently, then carefully lowered him onto the sofa with his Muir still on.  Once in place, Brian covered him with a blanket.
            Frankie fell asleep instantly.
            Returning to the foyer, Brian let Lucy inside.  The little dog spun round and round, before bee-lining to the couch and launching herself on top of the visitor.  Brian watched in silence as the dog plopped down on the Leatherman’s lap, curled up into a tiny ball herself, and went to sleep.  Standing alone as always, Brian took in the visual: Frankie asleep in leather, Muir hat pulled over his eyes, covered in blankets, dog in his lap, one leg shoved behind the cushion, the other visible and bent at the knee, with a high-heeled boot poking out at the end of the slate blue sofa.
            Shutting the lights, Big Bad Brian went upstairs to sleep, himself.

Chapter Eleven
A Year of Magical Thinking

---

             Knock!  Knock!
 
            “Mr. Downs?” the doctor asked several days later, letting himself into the examination room.  Frankie, as always, was seated in the chair next to the computer with his legs crossed, toes pointed, gloved hands folded on his knee. 
            “Hey, Doctor Spaulding.”
            “How are you today, Mr. Downs?”
            “I’m well, thank you.  And yourself?”
            “Any new issues or concerns since your last visit?” the doctor asked, settling in front of the desk computer and pulling up Frankie’s files on the in-house network.  He scanned the items, noting recent chemical stress test and colonoscopy appointments.  He read the results.
            “I feel fine, Doc,” Frankie told him.  “No issues since my last visit.”
            “Frankie, I’m concerned about your MELBA score,” the doctor told him.  “Your numbers have gone up since your last round of bloodwork.”
            “What does that mean?” Frankie asked.
            “Well…it may be nothing,” the doctor said.  “MELBA scores do fluctuate periodically, but your number has gone up three points since your last visit.  Have you noticed any physical symptoms?  Any pain or swelling?”
            “No,” Frankie said.
            “No swelling in the legs or abdomen?” the doctor asked.
            “Not that I’m aware of,” Frankie said.  “All my clothes seem to fit right now.”
            “And your salt intake?”
            “I don’t salt my food, doctor.  The only thing I actively add salt to is movie theater popcorn, and I haven’t been to a movie in over a year.”
         “I see,” Doctor Spaulding said, scrolling through Frankie’s test results.  Frankie watched him quietly, as his face never seemed to reveal emotion.  Frankie had always envied that, actually.
          The doctor sighed, cleared his throat, and minimized the screen.  He turned to Frankie.  “We’re going to adjust your meds, Mr. Downs.  Nothing major, but we are going to make a few…tweaks.  And I’m going to place an order for another ultrasound.”
            “Is there a problem?” Frankie asked.
            “Again,” the doctor said, always choosing his words carefully, “it’s best to error on the side of caution.”
            “So, there is a problem?” Frankie pressed. 
            “That’s not what I’m saying,” the doctor told him.
            “Oh, but it is what you’re implying.”
            “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
            “C’mon, Doc.  I’m not an idiot.  You’re changing my meds, you’re running more tests, and you’re concerned about my bloodwork.”
            The doctor thought about this.  “Yes, there is a concern…”
            “Dammit!” Frankie complained, holding back his frustration.  “If there is a problem – or concern – then please, just say it!  I hate when people dance around the bush like that.  Please just say what’s on your mind, and don’t sugar-coat it!”
            Settling back in his chair, Doctor Spaulding thought about this. 
            Clearing his throat again, he looked directly at Frankie –
            “Mr. Downs, we have a problem.”
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            Knock!  Knock!
            PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!!!
            Frankie literally spat out his coffee when Old Guard Russ opened his apartment door on New Year’s Eve.  Russ didn’t flinch as his face went brown with latte, though he did close his eyes for a moment as the fluid ran down his temples. 
            He then glared at Frankie:
            “Jesus Christ, if you ever do that again Sir –
             I’m going to tell you EXACTLY what that just felt like!”
            “Fuck, Russ…I’m so sorry,” Frankie laughed, coming forward.  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a gray bandana, which he used to blot the wet off the old boy’s cheeks.  “I was not expecting to see you like this,” he chuckled, dabbing the milky beads from Russ’s beard.  “Please tell me that you’re not going to Touché in these clothes.”
            “I have a work party, Sir,” Russ explained, letting him in.  Russ was outfitted like a Sears salesman from the seventies, with a drab Stafford suit, starched white oxford, striped blue & beige tie, and a pair of polished Florsheim loafers in a heartbreaking shade of butterscotch.  He looked like he should be selling appliances.
            “A work party on New Year’s Eve?” Frankie asked, astonished.  “That sucks.  Do they really expect you to attend a work function on a major holiday?”
            “It wasn’t required Sir, but it was strongly suggested,” Russ said.  “And if I play my cards right, I can slip away just after midnight and salvage the rest of the evening.  The bar doesn’t close until five.”
            “Text me when you’re there, and we can all meet up together,’ Frankie said.
            “I’d like that, Sir.”
            “I think I’m ready, Russ.  Oh – hey, Sir!”  Jordan came into the living room wearing a gold lame sleeveless top, studded belt, skin-tight leather pants, combat boots, skull cap, and long, leather forearm-length wrist bands that were obviously chosen to hide his healing scars.  He gave Frankie a nod: Does Sir approve of what I’m wearing?
            Nodding, Frankie told him, “You look nice.  Though I wish you’d have asked my permission before buying Richard Simmons’ Sweatin’ to Disco costume.”
            “Should I take it off?” Jordan asked.
            “Not til later,” Frankie winked. “It’s New Years Eve, and we’re all sporting a little flair.”  He brought his gloved fingers to his tie which, rather than his usual red, was a hideous pattern of clocks at midnight, sparkly noise makers, silly hats, and glittery confetti.  It looked like he’d gotten it from the Dollar Store.
            “Dapper, Sir!”
            “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” Frankie grinned, tugging at the waist of his tapered Vanson jacket.  Aside from the tie, he was dressed-to-the-nines in full Master’s leather tonight.  Even his Muir had a policeman’s badge in the center.  “You ready to go?”
            “Yes Sir,” the young man said, wrapping a scarf around his neck and pulling on his beat to hell motorcycle jacket.  Frankie helped him zip up.
            “You two have fun,” Russ told them enviously, pulling on the apartment door and holding it open.  Frankie tipped his officer’s hat to the Old Guard boy before offering his hand to Jordan, who was putting on leather gloves.  Frankie led him into the hallway.
            “See you later, Russ,” he said as the old man closed the door behind him.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            Heavy white snow filled the nighttime air as the two leathermen walked down the Halsted sidewalk.  Laughter could be heard as they passed various restaurants and bars, and the street was aglow with colorful Christmas lights, and warm radiant oranges, reds, and yellows from buzzing neon signs behind storefront windows.  The boulevard wasn’t overly-busy, but it was occupied by numerous groups of people and couples.  Everyone was on their way to a party it seemed, and Frankie & Jordan were definitely no exception.
           They paused at the intersection, waiting for the light to change.
           Anticipating a busy evening, Frankie opened UBER.
          “Better call a car to take us to Touché,” he said. –
          “Easy too,” he added. “It looks like the city is crawling with drivers tonight.”
          “Really? That’s great Sir,” Jordan said, a little half-heartedly. 
            Noticing this, Frankie looked up.  “Is that okay? Do you not want to go to Touché?”
          “Ah, no Sir – we can go.” Jordan spoke too quickly.
          “Can you think of somewhere else?” Frankie asked, lowering his phone –
          “Like, do you even want to go to Cell Block?”
          “Err, that’s fine, Sir.  Whatever you want to do.”
          “Dude, what do you want to do?” Frankie asked, sensing that something was up.  “Did you want to go somewhere different?  We don’t have to go to a leather bar.  We could do Roscoes or Sidetracks or something.  Just not Lucky Horseshoe.  I’m not quite that old.”
            “Whatever Sir wants to do.”
            “That’s not what I asked,” Frankie said, irritated –
            “I feel like a straight couple trying to decide where to have dinner.”
            Shoving his fists into his jacket pockets, the young man turned away for a moment and watched a group of drag queens stumble drunkenly in heels, on the other side of the street. 
            He turned back to Frankie –
            “I don’t want to go to a bar tonight, Sir.”
            Putting his phone away, Frankie came up to him, chest-to-chest.  “That’s fine,” he said.  “Would you like to go downtown?  Maybe walk around State Street for a while?  It’s cold, but not arctic-cold.  Wanna’ see the bean?”
            “The beeeeean,” Jordan said, his voice trailing off as he lit a cigarette and looked away.  “I can honestly say that I don’t want to see the bean, Sir.”
            “Would you like to stay in, then?” Frankie asked –
            “We can go to my place.  I’m sure you’re tired of being stuck in yours.”
            “I don’t want to go home, Sir.  Russ doesn’t clean as well as I like. His bedroom smells like Cheetos.”
            Frankie smiled –
            “People forget how strong of a memory smell can be.”
            Jordan inhaled, then looked at Frankie’s boots.  “No Sir,” he said.  “I don’t want to stay in.  But I really don’t want to be in the city right now, if that makes any sense.  I just…well…I just want to be somewhere else.”
            “Somewhere…outside?” Frankie clarified.
            Jordan thought about this.  “Yeah.  I mean, yes Sir.  Can we go someplace that’s not in the city, but still outside?”
            Frankie considered this.  “Actually, I do know somewhere we can go.”
            “Where’s that?” the skinhead asked, perking up.
            “Here in the burbs,” Frankie said, intentionally keeping it vague.
            “I see.  Are we going right now, Sir?”
            “Sure,” Frankie said.  “But let’s go back to my place first.”
            “Tonight? Why’s that, Sir?”
            “Oh, because I need to get my car,” Frankie told him.
            “Really?” Jordan asked, taken by surprise –
            “You have a car…?”
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            The old wooden door swung open with a creak and the ceiling shop lights flickered on with a snap.  Frankie & Jordan came into the free-standing, red brick garage that Frankie rented separately, in addition to his ground-floor apartment and basement.  The place smelled like dust, lawn chemicals, potting soil, and gasoline.  It looked ancient on the inside, especially as the roof joists were sagging in the middle.
            Frankie closed the door behind them.
            “Jesus, what’s this Sir?” the young man asked, running his gloved hand along the waterproof fleece tarp that covered what was obviously a forty-year-old vehicle.  Even with its covering, Jordan noticed that the car had the kind of sharp, right-angled lines that were popular in GM models from the early-to-mid nineteen eighties.  He couldn’t tell the automobile’s make, but he could see it was a coupe.  He noticed the white-walled tires poking out from below the fitted cover’s quilted draping.
            “When I was young,” Frankie explained, “though we weren’t rich, Father always make sure that Mother had a nice car.  I guess when my parents were first married, my Mother liked to drive Rivera’s, but in 1975, Father bought her very first Cadillac.  It was a 75’ Coupe Deville, stock, silver with a black landau top, black leather interior.”
            “This isn’t a seventy-five, Sir,” Jordan told him.  “It’s too short.  Cadillacs were full-sized until 1977, when they shortened the chassis to keep up with the energy crisis.”
            Frankie smiled, coming around to the driver’s side.  “You know your car history.”
            “I like old cars,” Jordan said.  “Especially luxury cars, Sir.”
            “After the 75’ Deville, we had two other coupes,” Frankie want on.  “We had a 77’ Coupe Deville, white, and a 79’ Coupe Deville, black exterior, red leather interior.  That was actually my favorite, because I really liked the color scheme.”
            “Then after that, Father bought us a Fleetwood sedan.  That was an 81’, and though the car was nice, we really didn’t like it.  Back then, GM was on this diesel-engine kick, and the Fleetwood was a diesel.  It got great mileage, but it’s pick-up was horrible.  It had no torque.”
            “Yeah, I heard those diesels were pretty bad, Sir.”
            “But after the Fleetwood, Father bought us the nicest Cadillac yet.  It was an 83’ Seville, the kind with the Rolls Royce truck.  It was white with a bone-leather interior.  And it had this killer stereo: the Delco Symphony Sound System.  I remember the first time I heard Neil Diamond’s ‘America’ on it.  I actually have the tape in the cassette deck right now.”
            “Wow,” Jordan said.
            “But my favorite model was the one we never had,” Frankie told him.  “And we couldn’t have it because it only came in a coupe, and wasn’t practical for a family of four.  But I still remember seeing these cars rolling down the street when I was a kid, and once I had the cash for a ‘weekend car,’ instead of buying an old Trans Am or Firebird like everyone else, I scoured the classifieds until I found this.”
            Grabbing his side of the tarp, Frankie motioned for Jordan to do the same.
            “Ready?” Frankie said –
            “One, two, three…GO!”
            The two men yanked the concealment off together to reveal what was hidden beneath.
            “…Whoa!” Jordan gasped, stepping back.
            In the center of the garage, in the center of the lights from above, the massive vehicle sat crouched like a predator, a big, bad, beast of black paint & chrome, with razor-red pin striping, white walled wheels, and sharp, shiny, silver-spoked hubcaps – with blood-red Cadillac insignias in the centers. Two sets of sealed-beam headlights flanked the tombstone grill like eyes, and the large, imposing, mirrored-finish bumper puffed out like bulging forearms, crossed in irritation as though pissed off at other vehicles, and ready for anyone who dared get in their way.
            “Meet…Olivia,” Frankie instructed the boy.
            “Wow,” Jordan said, enamored.  “Just…wow, Sir.”
            “She’s a nineteen-eighty Eldorado Biarritz,” Frankie told him.  “Top-of-the-top of the Cadillac line, and the second year for this particular body style.  Note the roof.  It has a landau top over the back seats, but it’s stainless steel over the passenger cabin.”
            Slapping the wall-mounted garage door button, Frankie jingled his keys as he unlocked the car and opened its driver’s door –
           
            “Get in.”
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            
            “… Far!  We’ve been traveling far! …”
           “We found a home! … Not without a star!”
 
            The Cadillac’s glistening hood ornament, a football field’s distance from her steering wheel, peered out from above the dashboard, silhouetted against a horizon of black paint & chrome.  Neil Diamond sang “America” as the old Eldorado shot down Lake Shore Drive, while the lights of the downtown buildings – obscured by the steady snow – reflected off its long, dark hood in blurry smears of light.  From the heavens above, the car looked shiny and new.  Its sharp edges seemed almost regal when compared to the softer shapes of the newer vehicles around it.
 
              “… Free! … Only want to be free! … We huddled close … hang on to a dream! …”
 
            Frankie was the epitome of driver in profile, his arm stretched rigidly, gloved hand on the steering wheel.  Jordan sat next to him, also in profile, leaning as close as the seatbelt would allow.  The young man’s hand was wrapped around the driver’s free arm, with his second hand resting firmly on Frankie’s thigh.  The passing streetlamps illuminated the Cadillac’s cabin in fluid waves of white, catching the gleam of the red leather upholstery, providing brief glimpses of the vehicle’s first-gen digital instrument cluster. 
            The LEDs were amber.
            “Where are you taking me, Sir?” Jordan asked softly, staring out the windshield dead-ahead.
            “Considering your love of history, I think you’ll appreciate tonight’s destination,” Frankie told him.  “Assuming, of course, that it’s still even there.”
 
            “… On the boats, and on the planes … We’re coming to America! …”
 
            “Are we leaving the city?” the young man asked.
            “Yes, sweet boy.”  Frankie put the blinkers on – dink! dink! dink!  “It’s about an hour’s drive from here.  We should make it there in plenty of time for New Year’s.”
            “Is it a party, Sir?”
            “Maybe, but I doubt it.  It was a party at one time, though.”
            “It’s not a party now, Sir?”
            “Not for many years, I’m afraid.”
 
             “… Never looking back again … We’re coming to America! …”
 
            The coupe merged into the far-right lane, then on to the ramp that connected to I-55, going south.  The downtown skyscrapers were all around at this point.  Despite the weather, the roads were filled with the trailer lights of Freightliners, Kensworths, and tandem-rigged semis from their Bedford Park distribution center.  Even on New Year’s Eve, all Frankie could see were the skittering red lights of delivery trucks.
            And the snow. 
            So much snow …
            As the Eldorado joined traffic on the Stevenson, Frankie gently banked to the far-left lane.  Despite the weather, the road was surprisingly clear.  The city plows had been out for hours, dumping so much rock salt onto the pavement, it made it impossible for anything to freeze.  The Cadillac shot down the expressway like a rocket, its sharp, triangular taillights leaving twin lines of red.  Up ahead, the green informational road signs foreshadowed upcoming suburbs, including “Joliet” as their final destination.
            Frankie aimed for that one.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            During the 1920s, Dellwood Park had been operated by the Joliet Electric Railway.  In her heyday, she was called “one of the finest amusement and recreational spots in the Chicagoland area,” with a roller-coaster, man-made lagoon, and streetcars that directly connected Lockport to Chicago.  Most impressive had been the dam itself, a beautiful structure with sweeping stairways, airy promenades, and an elegant boathouse where dinghies could be rented on sunny afternoons.  She was the local Coney Island, where wrought-ironed lamp posts had once illuminated visitors above the summer’s shimmering water.
           But Dellwood Park’s heyday had been many years ago, and as Frankie helped Jordan skid down the snowy gravel on what was left of the steps, the memories of the dam’s prime had been reduced to a simple plaque, just below a warning sign:
 
         DANGEROUS TERRAIN
         TRAVEL AT YOUR OWN RISK
 
             The old park was now, a ruin.
          As the icy snow swirled around them, Frankie led Jordan onto a crumbling observation balcony that overlooked the long lost lagoon, and the broken concrete eastern slope where water once cascaded into a pool below.  The two leatherman looked like errie black shadows against the twinkling white landscape.  Frankie came up to the sculpted mortar balustrade.  He seemed to be deep in thought.
            “I remember the first time I found this place,” he said.  “I was walking along the bike trail on the other side of State Street.  I was listening to my Walkman, and completely lost in music, when I came around the path under the bridge and found myself face-to-face with this.”  He gestured towards the dam below, which resembled a forgotten Acropolis.  The deteriorating structure was almost completely obscured by a modern bypass, where cars on route 171 were zipping by like de Havilland Comets, oblivious to what was hidden beneath.
            “Isn’t it beautiful?”
            The boy came up behind him, and wrapped his arms around Frankie’s chest; Jordan rested his chin on the aging Leatherman’s shoulder.  “Christ…it’s incredible, Sir.”
            “Indeed.”
            The two took in their ghostly surroundings as the whirling white snow made eddies in the air around them.  The sight was beautiful.
              Dead silence.
            “Err, tell me Sir, do you believe in an almighty God?”
            “Liking where this is going,” Frankie said, “but where’d that question come from?”
            “Looking up at the stars, Sir.  Nowhere in particular.  It was just a question.”
            “Well, as a matter of fact, I do believe in God,” Frankie said. “How could I not?”
            “Okay – next question: do you believe in the Bible, Sir?”
            “Of course I do,” Frankie told him, “but I sense a deeper question behind that?”
            “Dude, I’ve gotta’ ask,” Jordan said bluntly.  “Do you believe in the stories in the Bible, Sir?  Like, do you believe all the Old Testament stuff?  An eye for an eye?  The morality lessons?  Do you believe that God is a vengeful god?”
            “Boy – no,” Frankie said firmly.  “God is not vengeful.”
            “Really, Sir? What about Sodom & Gomorrah?”
            “Ah, what do you mean?”
            “Zinger for you Sir: Do you believe that God hates gay people?”
            “I don’t even know how to answer that,” Frankie admitted. –
            “Love is God, and God is love.  And God loves everyone – obviously.”
           “Then why does the Bible talk so much about traditional families, Sir?  I mean, there must have been gay people back when the first Bible was written.  Yet, it doesn’t have any significant stories about them.”
            “Traditional families are important,” Frankie reminded him.  “Like it or not, the physical human body is designed for one thing: reproduction.  And it takes a boy and a girl to make a baby – kind of non-negotiable, I’m afraid.  It’s all part of the universe’s intelligent design.” 
            “Do you believe Jesus will actually come back some day, Sir?”
            “Oh, that’s a fun question.  And why would you ask it that way?”
            “No reason, really.  I guess I just have doubt, Sir.”
            “Now you think I don’t?” Frankie laughed.  “Don’t forget, God has a dark sense of humor!”
            “You have doubt, Sir?  Now coming from you, that’s a little dark.”
            “Dark? Oh, I didn’t mean for that to sound like Frank the Bunny” –
            Jordan looked like his head was about to explode – Scanners!
            “Dude, you’re fine.” Frankie took him in his arms. “Let’s just say – hypothetically – that when Jesus does come back a second time, he decides to be a leatherman.”
            Jordan’s eyes twinkled.  “Okay – between Jesus being gay, all this intelligent-design talk, your – chuckling – political rants, and then you talking to yourself all the time, you’re batshit-crazy Sir, if you think anyone would accept Jesus Christ, if he appeared in Touché’s clubroom” –
            “No offense.”
            “None taken,” Frankie smiled.  “But the world today has grown so godless, Christ would never come back as a man in sandals & robes.  He’d be dismissed as a crackpot.  He wouldn’t be taken seriously.  No, I believe that if there were a Second Coming, Jesus would have to be someone completely unexpected – and probably a little shocking.  It would be the only way he’d honestly get people’s attention, which, when you think about it, is really, really sad.”
            Silence.
            The two men stared reflectively at the falling snow around them.
            After some time had passed, Frankie brought his own hand to the wrist Jordan had slashed.  He pulled the young man’s jacket back, and exposed the ornamental armband underneath – which he removed as well.  The boy’s scar looked red and ugly in the dim illumination from a nearby streetlamp.  Frankie brought the wound to his lips and kissed it tenderly.
            Jordan’s eyes widened.
            And they looked at Sir Frankie with sudden realization –
 
            “When did you try to kill yourself, Sir?” they whispered.
            “When I was a boy, about seven or eight,” the Sir’s eyes whispered back.  “My parents had been fighting, and my Father got so mad at Mother, he left the house in his car – and drove away.  Father was a recovering alcoholic, and was out of control when he and Mother dated and married in the sixties.  Back then, Mother used to actually go hunting for Father when he didn’t come home.  She has one arrest on her record, when she kicked down a tavern door because she thought he was inside, drinking after hours …”
 
            Frankie inhaled.
 
            “After Father left that day, Mother got mad at me for some reason.  I didn’t know why.  All I told Father was that I was lonely, and had nobody to talk to.  I remember that Mother yelled at me, and said it was my fault – and that Father had probably gone off drinking again.  A lot of the memory is fuzzy of course – it happened so long ago, and I was just a child.  But I do remember being left alone in the kitchen, so overwhelmed by the emotion of what just happened, I wanted to just…die.  To stop my life there, at that very moment, alone in the kitchen.
            … and then I saw the knife on the counter.
           
            Releasing his grip on Frankie’s biker’s jacket, the young man carefully stepped around to face him.  The Leathermen stood chest-to-chest, nose-to-nose, Muir to skullcap – a shark & prey in profile.  They froze intertwined in the whirling white snow, a black leather grotesque as everlastingly damaged as the Hasanlu Lovers.  Tears threatened to surface in Frankie’s galvanized eyes, but he refused – flat out refused – to show any emotion at all.
            So, the boy did it for him:
 
            “ARRRRRAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!” Jordan screamed, throwing his head against his spine and howling at the night.  From above, he looked exactly like John Coffey, expelling a hideous chest cavity of flies in the Stephen King movie The Green Mile.  The young man then collapsed into Frankie’s arms, but the Sir was ready – and caught him by the armpits, keeping him upright so he wouldn’t fall.  Jordan’s gloves went into fists, and he slammed them against Frankie’s upper chest and shoulders, hitting harder and harder, in angry balls of rage.  This went on for a solid fifteen minutes, and stopped only when Frankie’s iWatch started chirping.  
 
            Beep!
            Beep!
            Beep!
 
            It was midnight, now.
            And the new year had finally begun.
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
            “So, here’s how this is going to work,” Frankie said, sitting down, pulling the driver’s side door closed.  He put his key into the ignition – Chime!  Chime!  Chime! – and turned the engine over.  The amber instrument cluster flickered to life, and the Cadillac’s 368 ci V8 motor growled like thunder from deep within the hood.
            * The Twilight Sentinel clicked on – dink!
             “Going forward, for the foreseeable future, I need you at my side twenty-four seven,” he explained.  “You’re going to need to move in with me for a while.  This shouldn’t be a problem, as you’re already off work, but we will need to figure out how to explain all this to Russ.  He’s like a mother hen to you, you know.”
            “Yes Sir,” the young man said.
            * The Level Ride light popped on – click!
            “While you’re under my roof, you will cook for me, you will clean for me, you will learn both my public and private protocols,” Frankie went on.  “I will keep you in chastity, I will choose what you will wear whenever I give you permission to leave the apartment, and we will go through my expectations, item by item, from domestic to sexual service, up to and including how often you may interact with friends, family, and members of the leather community.”
            “I understand, Sir.”
            * The Air Suspension kicked in – Sssssssss!
            “You are to prepare yourself for what is to come,” Frankie warned.  “I strongly suspect that things will get very emotional for me, as I confront these resurfacing memories – and find the answers I require, in order to finally experience joy in my life.  Quite frankly, I feel like a clockwork orange, and if I don’t find a way to allow myself a genuine human connection with another, I sincerely fear that I will kill myself.”
            Frankie paused at that last comment –
            “Does this frighten you, boy?”
            * The driver adjusted his electric seat – Whirrrrrrr!
            “A little,” Jordan admitted.  “But I know where Sir is coming from.”
            Frankie went on:
            “No matter what happens, you will treat me with dignity and respect.  I need to allow myself to reveal my deepest insecurities, vulneraries, and fear – and I must do this in a safe environment, preferably in my home, rather than a mental institution.”
            “…When this happens – and it will happen – you are not to misinterpret this as weakness.  You will see this as the opposite of weakness, as it takes great strength for a Sir to show his boy what truly makes him the man that he is, even if that revelation is ugly.  You will see me break down.  You will see me cry.  You will see me talk to myself.  You may see me become violent.  You will see me unable to function for potentially days at a time, and you will watch over me when this happens.  During this period, you will be my eyes and ears in the community, and you will protect my public reputation at all costs.”
            “Do you understand this, boy?” Frankie asked, his leather shimmering softly in the glow of the dashboard.  “It is very important that you understand this.”
            * The engine idled softly – Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
            “Yes Sir,” Jordan said firmly, inhaling deeply and puffing out his chest –
            “I understand, Sir.”
           “Good,” Frankie told him, settling back into the pillowed upholstery and sighing in relief.  He looked down at his folded hands.  A few moments passed before he spoke again.
            “Just out of curiosity, do you know why I call her Olivia?” he asked.
            “Oh - the car?” Jordan asked.  “No Sir, I don’t.”
            “You’re not going to believe it, but this was the very first song I heard on her radio, after I bought the vehicle,” he said.  He reached for the glove compartment and opened it.  In addition to a flashlight, owner’s manual, and various registration and insurance documents, a single plastic container was visible, on top of everything else.  Frankie took it out.
            “Back in 1980, when Olivia was new, one of the biggest movies in the theaters was ‘Xanadu,’ with Olivia Newton John,” he explained.  He stretched for the radio knob and turned it on – click!  The vintage Delco stereo came on, and the whirrrrrr of the telescopic antenna hummed throughout the cabin. Opening the container, Frankie removed a cassette and inserted it into the tape deck – ka-thunk!  
            The haunting sound of ONJ’s “Magic” filled the darkened interior like a phantom:
           
              “Come take my hand, you should know me…”
               “I’ve always been in your mind.”
              “You know I will be kind” –
              “I’ll be guiding –
               You.”
 
            Intertwining gloved fingers, the leathermen sat in silence and allowed the music to take them to another time, another place.  Outside the vehicle, as the snow spun in vortices, the Eldorado’s amber, red, and white exterior lights glowed warmly in the cold suburban morning.
            Because I always underline things three times …
            A few minutes passed before Sir Frankie put the transmission in DRIVE, and turned the Caddy back towards Chicago, and the warm dreamsicle sunrise that might eventually come.
            Pausing for a moment, he looked at Jordan directly –
            “Ready?”
            “Sir, yes Sir!”
            “Good.  Then let’s do this.”
            Frankie then took a deep breath …
 
            And his boot pushed down hard on the GAS.

 END OF PART ONE
​

                                   Part Two:
                       The Book of Alan

Chapter Twelve
Over at the Frankenstein Place

---

​           
             *Knock … knock … knock … !
 
            “Err…Frankie?” Jordan asked a day later, surprised, as the door unlocked & opened. 
              Inhaling, he caught himself quickly: “I mean, Sir Frankie?”
            “Brought some surprise into your life, Didn’t I?” Michael said, smiling warmly and holding a cat; he was standing in the sunlit doorway of Frankie’s apartment.   
            “We haven’t met yet, but my name is Michael.” –
            “Ergo, I’m assuming you’re Jordan?”
              Laughing, Jordan quickly covered his mouth.
            “Can I come in?” he added after awkwardly clearing his throat.
            “Oh, God, you Devil,” Michael said, admitting: “You’re an Answered Prayer!”
              My God, Jordan thought – I wonder if he’s insane? He stood in silence.
              Eventually, Sir Michael noticed this.   
            “It’s okay,” he told the boy.  “It will take a couple of days, but you’ll get used to it sooner than you think.  Do you need some help with your bags?”
            Jordan was standing in the hallway of Frankie’s building.  He had lugged two large suitcases up the stairs, into the corridor.  He took off his round sunglasses and placed them on top of his scalp.  He cleared his throat softly before gathering himself and forcing a smile – 
            “No – I’ve got em.’ But thanks.”
            Michael held the door open as the skinhead dragged his luggage inside.  Once in the foyer, Michael closed the door behind them.  He led Jordan into the living room and set Schrödinger down on the couch.
            “So, as you’ve been here before, you know the basic lay-out,” Michael said.  “This is the living room, the kitchen’s that way, there’s a formal dining room, we have two bathrooms – one, in the hallway, the second, in the Master bedroom, two additional bedrooms, an enclosed front porch that faces the street, and lots of fun nooks & crannies.”
            “And, of course you know where the dungeon is,” he grinned.
            Jordan stepped into the living room and took in the décor he hadn’t noticed the last time he was here.  The spacious apartment was decorated in pop culture, with many framed movie posters. There were numerous themed bookshelves with novels that included Stephen King, Preston & Child, Crichton, Rush’s books of course, a signed copy of Andrew Davidson’s “The Gargoyle,” and Capote – as well as a massive collection of vintage sci-fi toys. There was also a pristine opening-night playbill prominently displayed on the shelf, from a long-forgotten community theater production of Pippin. The place had tasteful modern furniture, the perfect amount of classic accent pieces, stained glass in the windows, Tiffany-style lighting, tripod spots, thriving houseplants everywhere, and lots and lots of color.  The dwelling was spotless.  And he could tell it wasn’t just “surface clean.”  The sprawling apartment REEKED “control freak,” and everything clearly not only had its place, but also carried a very special visual meaning, arranged to tell a story.  
            The young man was in awe.
            “You can put your things in the guest room,” Michael went on, turning down The Strumbellas on the bookshelf’s Bose Wave music system.  “But I believe Frankie wants you to sleep with us at night.”
            “Us?” Jordan said, caught off guard again.  “What do you mean us?”
            “Please.  Frankie & I sleep together, of course,” Michael told him, smiling –
            “So, don’t worry.  You’ll get used to that too.”
 
           “ I got guns in my head and they won’t go!
            Spirits in my head and they won’t go!”
 
            His head spinning slightly, Jordan dragged his luggage down the hall as Michael led the way.  Michael looked exactly like Frankie, as though he were a twin brother, except his demeanor was different – more casual and less rigid.
            Physically, Michael & Frankie were spitting-images of each other.  But as Frankie was “formal,” Michael was very casual and relaxed.  He wore a rolled-up Eddie Bauer plaid shirt, baggy blue jeans, wide leather belt, open bar vest, gloves, and black slip-on motorcycle boots with small heels.  He was also wearing a Muir in the house, but it was a more basic model that what Frankie preferred.  He opened a door at the end of the hallway.
            “In here, please,” Michael told Jordan.  “I emptied the dresser, so you can unpack your clothes.  I also left some empty hangers in the closet.”
            “Thanks,” the young man said, pulling in his suitcases.  He stopped for a moment to take in the room.  Like the rest of the apartment, it was tastefully decorated and spotlessly clean.  He saw a professionally-mounted window card from a show called “Tick…Tick…Boom.”  His eyes then followed the framed James Bond soundtrack LP’s on the wall, and stopped at the picture above the bed.  It was an original Cruising movie poster, the 1980 flick about murder in the New York gay leather scene. 
            Jordan swallowed audibly.
            “Well, that isn’t unsettling at all,” he said nervously.
 
             “But the gun still rattles, the guns still rattles, oh –
              I got guns in my head and they won’t go –
             Spirits in my head and they won’t go!”
 
            Michael smiled in the doorway.  “Want a beer?”
            “I thought you didn’t drink,” Jordan said, surprised.  “I mean…I thought Sir Frankie didn’t drink.”  He paused for a moment, realizing something.  “Do you drink?”
            “Nope,” Michael said.  “Neither one of us do.  We just keep beer in the fridge for guests.  Would you like one?  You look like you could use it.”
            Jordan sighed, smiling slightly.  “Yes, please.”
            “Yes Sir,” Michael corrected. “All of us are Sirs, and prefer to be addressed correctly.”
            This time, Jordan gulped loudly –
            “Yes Sir.”
            “Make yourself at home, and I’ll meet you in the living room when you’re done,” Michael said.  “But I’ll bring you a beer first.  Stella okay?”
            “Err…yes, that’s fine,” Jordan stammered –
            “I mean, yes Sir, that’s fine.”
            “By the way, I’m making chicken salad for lunch,” Michael said as he walked away.  “I hope that’s okay.  If not, I’ll order from Grub Hub.”
            The young man stood as rigidly as a statue as he watched Michael’s back get smaller, and smaller, before disappearing into the kitchen.  Once he was gone, Jordan closed the door and took a long, slow look at the room.  His eyes quickly focused on a shelf with well-worn paperbacks.  In addition to a small collection of Andrew Lloyd Webber CDs with Sunset Boulevard faced out, there was also a group of books that chronicled cases of Dissociative Identity Disorder, formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder.  Those titles included Sybil, When Rabbit Howls, Goodbye to Beekman Place, and the heartbreaking work of staggering genius, Switching Time.
            Jordan’s eyes widened as if he’d just found someone’s kiddie-porn stash.
            Who am I to judge?
            Jordan was about to go away, but something on the floor caught his attention.  When he picked it up, he saw it was an old movie ticket stub from a showing of The Birdcage, dated 3/96.  It was clearly a cherished memento, with someone’s handwritten phone number. 
            I wonder who forgot this?
 
             *  *  *  *  *
           
            “So, if both of you are Sirs, how does your relationship work?” Jordan asked later that afternoon.  Michael was working from home at the computer today, and Jordan was sitting on the sofa, folding laundry.  The young man muted Being John Malkovich on TV so he could hear Sir Michael’s answer.
            “How do you mean?” Michael asked, looking up.
            “Well, if both of you are ‘Sirs,’ then how does the relationship work?” Jordan clarified.  “I mean, a Sir is a ‘dominant,’ right?  Doesn’t a dominant need a submissive, Sir?”
            “Oh, not necessarily,” Michael told him, coughing slightly.
            “But how can that be?” Jordan pressed.  “If both Sirs are dominants, then who’s in charge?”
            “How do you mean?” Michael asked again.
            “Somebody has to be in charge, right?  There’s always going to come a point where a decision needs to be made by a single person,” the young man explained.  “So, who is it, Sir?  It has to be the more dominant one.”
             Michael smiled, considering his position.
            “Are you asking if I’m a submissive, Jordan?”
            “Right now? Well…kind of, I guess.”
            “King Midas, boy!  What if I told you I wasn’t?”
            “Err, to be honest, I would find that very confusing,” Jordan admitted.
             The Sir froze in place and stared at Jordan, without emotion.
             Duh, the boy realized why –
            “A would find that very confusing, Sir,” Jordan repeated, quickly.
            “Yes Sir,” Sir Michael said with a coy smile.” 
            “Sir Frankie couldn’t exist without me,” Michael went on, minimizing his production schedule.  “I’m the one who gets things done.  I’m always at his side, but also in the background.  I do the mundane chores that Frankie doesn’t like to do.  I cook, I clean, I keep the house running.  I do the laundry, fold the clothes, iron the shirts.  I do the grocery shopping, and make sure that he has something to eat.  I’m also the one who does the budget, and gets Frankie up for work, so he won’t be late.  Quite frankly, I’m the guy who gets things done.”
            “So, I don’t consider myself submissive,” Michael said – 
            “I’m just as important as him, as neither of us could exist without the other.”
            Flipping channels, Jordan took this in.  On the screen now, John Cusack/Malkovich was performing a puppet show.  Jordan’s eyes then moved from the television to The Breakfast Club poster beside it.  He was about to finish folding Alan’s Svengoolie T-shirt when Michael piped in with another quick thought:
            “And of course, there’s also our dynamic of power exchange,” he added –
            “That plays a big part in our relationship.”
            Jordan stopped folding – “Huh?”
            “Power exchange,” Michael repeated.  “It’s when one Sir gives his power to another Sir.”
            “You mean, when one Sir submits to another Sir?” the young man clarified – 
            “Are you saying that they switch roles, Sir?”
            “That is correct.”
            “Ah, so one Sir bottoms for the other, Sir?”
            “Really?  That’s your question?”
            “I-I-I…”
            Michael shifted uncomfortably.  “This is not a line of questioning that I usually answer,” he said frankly.  “But if you’re talking strictly sexually, as in anal intercourse, then no, I do not bottom for Sir Frankie.”
            “Hasn’t Russ discussed this with you?” –
            “I thought he was your mentor.”
            “He is my mentor, Sir.  And my friend.  And we have talked about a lot since he moved in with me.  But very honestly Sir, the subject of power exchange has never come up.”
            “I see,” Michael said, looking back towards his iMac.  He pulled up a file called “The Gods Must Be Crazy,” then closed his eyes.  Jordan could tell he was deep in thought.
            I used to be the king …
            “Did I overstep, Sir?” the young man asked – 
            “If I did, I didn’t mean to.”
            “You didn’t overstep with me,” Michael told him, “but a question like that might offend someone else.  I’m actually not sure how Alan would react if you asked him the same thing.”
            “I’m sorry, Sir.”
            “There’s no need to be sorry for being inquisitive,” Michael said.  “Very honestly, most people your age don’t even make an effort to learn the Old Guard ways.  And those methods are very important, because they’re the foundation for all you get to experience today.”
            “Rush says that a lot, Sir.”
            “Uh – sorry?”
            “Sorry,” Jordan corrected himself, emphasizing the word: “I meant to say Russ.”
            “He does?  Then he is a very wise friend to have,” Michael told him directly:  “Pay attention to what he tells you, and watch for his cues.  If you do this, you will always stand out above the others … and you will always be seen.”
            “I understand, Sir.  And I will, Sir.”
            “Good.”
            “Oh – is Sir Frankie coming home soon, Sir?”
            “Dodging the question apparently,” Michael said, looking at his iWatch.  He rolled his eyes.  “I saw him leave this morning, but he didn’t tell me where he was going.”
            “Can you text him, Sir?”
            “Am I not good enough company for you?”
            “No, Sir.  I mean, yes Sir – of course you’re good enough.  What I meant to say was” –
            Michael waved him quiet.  “Put the clothes away in our bedroom.  Then get yourself ready to go out.  I want you to wear a white T-shirt, tight blue jeans, combat boots, belt, and a jockstrap – preferably black. Also, I’d like you to wear your Garrison tonight.”
            Jordan seemed caught off guard, but quickly rebounded.  “Yes Sir.”
            “And polish your boots if you need to.  I like pretty, shiny things.”
            “Yes Sir.”
            “I’d like to leave within thirty minutes, so have yourself dressed by then.”
            Michael stood up and stretched –
            “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
            “I can’t believe there’s no meat in this, Sir,” Jordan said, chewing his Truffle Mushroom Lentil Loaf.  “It’s actually good.  And I’d never have thought that.”
            “Have you not eaten vegetarian?” Michael asked, slicing his Buddha Karma Burger in half.  “It’s really quite healthy for you.”
            “I’ve eaten vegetarian food before, but it’s always tasted gross,” Jordan said, talking with his mouth full.  “Especially tofu, Sir.  It usually has the texture of overcooked eggs.”
            Michael winced.  “Well, that’s a nice way to put it.”
            “Oh, I didn’t mean, Sir” –
            “Yes, you did,” Michael said, cutting him off.  He smiled broadly beneath his officer’s hat.  “And you’re right.  Tofu can really be unappetizing if prepared incorrectly.  That’s why I like this place.  It’s been around since the mid nineteen-eighties because they know how to do vegetarian right.”
            The Chicago Diner was a Boys Town institution, open since 1983, and serving up a non-meat menu for four solid decades.  Unlike most trendy restaurants, the diner had stood the test of time; it had been open longer than Roscoes across the street, and at forty straight years of doing business, the restaurant was almost as old as Touché.
            Michael and Jordan were seated in a window booth, the perfect place to people-watch on a Halsted evening.  The middle-aged Sir was wearing a grey leather officer’s shirt tonight, with a black leather tie, wide black belt, black leather pants & gloves, and tall engineer boots.  Eating his burger, Michael watched the costumed passerby.  There were several dudes in teddies, fishnets, and heels, and a fag-hag wearing a sparkly sequined blazer & hat.
            “I’m still trying to wrap my head around this power exchange thing, Sir,” Jordan admitted, poking a potato with his fork.  “So, you and Sir Frankie are both on equal footing – but it seems like that stops in the bedroom.  Or, am I wrong for saying that, Sir?”
            “Define ‘equal footing in the bedroom,’” Michael told him.
            “Well,” Jordan said, “You said that Sir Frankie doesn’t fuck you” – Michael cringed at the bluntness – “but he still has control over you, right?  I mean, behind closed doors of course.”
            “Sir,” the young man quickly added.
            Michael set his sandwich down and inhaled deeply.  He crossed his gloved hands in front of his mouth as two more people – one in a beige jacket, the other in a pink dress – strolled past the diner window.  He looked at Jordan with both irritation and amusement.  He could see why Frankie liked this guy.  He was starting to see why he liked this guy.
            “First off, the Dom & sub dynamic is not about sex,” Michael explained. 
            “It’s about trust, respect, and voluntarily submission.  The Dom doesn’t take the sub, the sub actually gives himself to the Dom.”
            “Perfect.  So, the sub’s actually the one in control, Sir?”
            “I believe that’s oversimplifying, but yes, that’s the underlying concept.”
            “So, you’re actually in control of Sir Frankie?”
            “That is incorrect.”
            “Oh?  How so, Sir?” 
          “Look, kid.” Michael said, choosing his words carefully.  “The Dom/sub relationship is a delicate balance.  In the case of Sir and boy, the two men complete each other, like yin and yang.  A boy requires a Sir to give him guidance, expectations, discipline, and humility.  A Sir needs a boy to give him respect, adherence to protocol, the exceeding of expectations, and humility as well.  Both men require love from the other, but that love must be earned on both sides.”
              Jordan chuckled –
            “Err, do all Sirs speak in riddles like that, Sir?”
              Silence. 
            “Usually only the good ones.”
           Suddenly, the two men looked up when a gaggle of gothy twinks hurried by with armfuls of bread, bagged rice, rolls of toilet paper, and printed newspapers.  Jordan seemed confused by the items, but Michael smiled quietly, reminiscing.  He closed his eyes for a moment, as a familiar youthful song wandered through his head:
 
              “ … It was great when it all began … I was a regular Frankie fan!
              But it was over when he had a plan … To start working on a muscle man …”
 
            “So, again, I don’t understand,” Jordan pressed on, yanking Michael out of his headspace.  “Is Sir Frankie the Dom or are you the Dom, Sir?”
            “Jordan, can we…not talk about this now?” Michael asked – 
            “My head is starting to spin.”
            “Sorry Sir,” the young man said quickly.  He turned his head towards his plate and stabbed at his meatloaf.  Sighing softly, Michael pushed his burger aside.
            “Would you like to go to Cell Block for a while?” he asked the boy.
            “Sure,” Jordan said.  “We can do that, Sir…wait.”  His head shot up as a limping zombie passed outside.  He had long yellow hair, white face paint, and a thrift store waiter’s tux.  He reminded him of a Venture Brothers episode.  Jordan was clearly baffled, especially when he saw the squirt gun.  “What’s going on tonight, Sir?  Is there a haunted house nearby?”
            “Rocky Horror’s playing,” Michael told him, waving at the server for to-go boxes. 
            “Oh, I think Sidetracks is hosting a party.” –
            “Can I – wait,” Jordan asked. “What’s Rocky Horror?”
              Keeping his cool, Michael’s face still lost all expression.
            “You’ve never seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show?” he asked Jordan –
            “Horror movie from the seventies?  With Tim Curry and Susan Sarandon?”
             Oblivious, Jordan shrugged. “Nope.”
            “Really? You’re kidding me, right?”
            “Right of passage I’m guessing, Sir?”
            “Oh yeah.  And we’re going to fix that right now.”
            “Really?”
            “It looks like we’re just in time,” Michael said, pulling out his iPhone.  He opened Safari and found the Sidetracks website.  He glanced at his watch and smiled.  “Finish up what you can.  We’re not taking anything home.”
            “What are we doing, Sir?” Jordan asked cautiously.
            Michael smiled devilishly.
            “Since you can’t seem to stop talking about fucking, I’m taking your virginity tonight.”
            A chunk of fake meatloaf fell from Jordan’s open mouth and hit the table with a splat.
            Before the boy could say another word, Michael asked for the check.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “VIRGIN!”
            “VIRGIN!”
            “VIRGIN!”
 
             “It’s astounding, time is fleeting, madness takes its toll …”
 
            BRILLIANT WHITE LASERS sliced across the dance floor, as pink, magenta, and purple spotlights rained from above onto the happy crowd below.  Twenty different televisions were synchronized around the club’s perimeter, and their screens pulsed with the same sleazy image of dancers in bad tuxedos, round sunglasses, cheap party hats, and black shoes & white socks.  Mirrored balls spun above, while club patrons dressed as movie characters danced, drank, threw toast and rice at each other, and stumbled like epileptics as they tried – and failed miserably – to mirror the movements they saw on the video screens.
            And Michael & Jordan were in the middle of all of it.
 
          “Let’s do the time warp again!  Let’s do the time warp again!”
 
            “This is RIDICULOUS!” Jordan shouted, bending at his knees and shaking his ass – 
            “Is this how people passed the time in the seventies?”
            “And the eighties and nineties!” Michael yelled back, jumping to the left and stepping to the right.  “I used to do this every Saturday at midnight!”
            “Did you NOT have friends, Sir!!!?” Jordan shouted, smiling, putting his hands on his hips and bringing his knees in tight.  “I mean NORMAL friends, Sir!!!?”
            “Says the man whose dick is locked in a steel cage!!!?” Michael yelled back, grinning mischievously, driving himself in-say-ay-ay-ayne with a pelvic thrust.  “I think your definition of normal isn’t very normal at all!!!”
 
            “Let’s do the time warp again!  Let’s do the time warp again!”
 
            “Tell me what your life was like, Sir, back in the eighties when you were growing up!!!” Jordan shouted to Michael so dreamy, as fantasy freed him, so he couldn’t see him, no, not at all.
            “It was a lot different than today!” Michael yelled back from another dimension with voyeuristic intention.  “We didn’t have the internet, we didn’t have smartphones with apps, there was no social media at all, so the only way to meet other homosexuals was to go to the bars at night, put quarters into an XXX arcade booth, or hit the cruising spots from the Damron guide!!!”
            “So, the gay world revolved around sex???” Jordan shouted, with a bit of a mind flip and into a time slip. “That seems really sad, Sir!  How were you expected to build a lasting relationship if you were forced to live in the shadows, in the darkness of dirty bookstores & bars, and made to feel guilt, shame, and embarrassment over wanting a life that was different than the status quo???”
            “It was worse than that!!!” Michael yelled back, knowing nothing could ever be the same.  “Imagine how hard it was to live during that time and to ALSO enjoy BDSM!  Again, there was no Internet back then, and with the exception of clumsy, tedious, and time-wasting personal ads, the only way to find fellow leatherman was to cold-cruise a neighborhood bar, and to look for subtle clues in peoples’ behavior, mannerisms, and the way they were dressed!  And THEN, even if you did find a guy into kink, you often had to spend hours chatting them up in the club, and gradually steering the conversation towards leather, bondage, and S&M roleplay …”
            “It was HORRIBLE!!!” Michael laughed –
              spaced out on the sensation –
              like he was under sedation.
 
              “Let’s do the time warp again!  Let’s do the time warp again!”
              “Let’s do the time warp again!  Let’s do the time warp again!”
 
            “It must have been very LONELY!!!” Jordan shouted, as though he were walking down the street, just having a think, when a snake of a guy gave him an evil wink.  “How did you cope with the gut-wrenching isolation, and coming home alone night-after-night, sobbing behind the steering wheel, desperate for the touch of another human being who didn’t just want to suck your dick in an alley?  You must have been faced with the kind of despair that the human mind just isn’t designed to process!  How did you deal with being in this impossible situation???”
            “I DRANK!!!” Michael yelled back, shaking him up and taking him by surprise. 
            “I hear everybody drank during those days!!!” Jordan shouted, imagining he had a pickup truck and the Devil’s eyes.
            “Alcoholism was rampant in the gay community during the 80s and 90s!!!” Michael yelled back, staring at the boy and feeling a change. 
            “As was drug use, heavy cigarette smoking, and forced promiscuity!!!” Jordan shouted, knowing time meant nothing and never would again.
 
             “Let’s do the time warp again!  Let’s do the time warp again!”
             “Let’s do the time warp again!  Let’s do the time warp again!”
 
            “And then, of course, there was…AIDS!!!” Michael yelled, jumping to the left.  “I turned twenty-one in 1990, during the height of the epidemic!  The moment I walked into my first gay bar, sex was the most dangerous thing you could do!  Everyone was afraid of the virus!  Every week, you would see people in the bars disappear one by one, and everybody pretended it wasn’t happening!  Unless we were blackout drunk, we were too scared to even touch each other!!!”
            “It was a terrifying fear throughout the gay community!!!” –
            Jordan shouted, stepping to the right.
            “It was a terrifying fear throughout the gay community!!!” –
            Michael repeated, putting his hands on his hips and bringing his knees in tight.
            “It was a terrifying fear throughout the gay community!!!” –
            Both men repeated together, doing pelvic thrusts that really drove them insane –
            And the entire bar stopped COLD & SILENCE=DEATH as the two leathermen became the only movement on the dance floor.  Putting a single hand on the other’s cheek, the Sir and the boy became a shark and prey in profile, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, Muir to Garrison –
 
         “It was a terrifying fear throughout the gay community,” they said rhythmically.
         “It was a terrifying fear throughout the gay community,” they said rhythmically.
         “It was a terrifying fear throughout the gay community,” they said rhythmically.
           
            Like an LP starting back up after a momentary power outage, the music whirred back on, the dancing resumed, and Michael stepped back somberly as Jordan watched in sadness.  The two men stared at each other intently, before Michael took the young man by the hand.
 
            “Let’s do the time warp again!  Let’s do the time warp again!”
 
            “Let’s get out of here,” he told the boy.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
              Grrrrrrrrrind – squeak!
 
            The front door to Frankie’s apartment swung open as a gloved hand reached for the light switch – click!  Michael & Jordan entered the foyer, then onto the living room, where Frankie’s Tiffany end table lamps had already come on with a timer.  The young man waited quietly as Michael went into the dungeon for a few minutes, before returning upstairs with a duffel full of restraints.  He motioned the skinhead into the Master bedroom, which itself was aglow with flickering, battery-powered candles.
            Once Jordan was inside, Michael closed the door behind them.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Take off your clothes and fold them neatly into a pile,” Sir Michael told boy Jordan, as he pulled the down brim of his officer’s hat to cover his eyes.  As the young man stripped, the humble Leather Dom laid out the locking restraints on top of a nearby dresser.  He then took out his iPhone, and chose the session’s playlist.  Touching PLAY, the dim bedroom air filled with Red Sun Rising’s cover of Alanis Morissette’s “Uninvited:”
 
           “Like anyone would be” –
           “I am flattered by your fascination with me.”
 
            As Jordan stood naked in the middle of the room, Michael came up behind, and ran his gloved hand along the young man’s side, armpit, and bicep – stretching the arm outwards, and gently motioning the boy to keep it there.  He then did the same with Jordan’s other arm.
 
          “And like any hot-blooded man” –
          “I have simply wanted an object to crave.”
 
              Using his boots to push Jordan’s ankles outward, Michael – still behind the boy – carefully gripped the young man’s waist, and wrapped his gloves around Jordan’s abdomen, closing his eyes and holding him tenderly.  The Sir then brought his lips in close to the young boy’s neck, inhaling his youthful scent and kissing him truly, madly, deeply.
 
           “But you, you’re not allowed, you’re uninvited” –
           “An unfortunate slight…”
 
            His eyes narrowing into slits, Alan spun Jordan around hard, then pushed him onto the bed.
            The boy’s locked cock cried for attention as Alan jumped on top of him like a kidnapper, pinning him to the mattress, and forcing his arms out wide.  With rope between his teeth, the experienced Sir quickly buckled restraints onto Jordan’s wrists, then secured them firmly to the upper corners of the bed.  He next did the same to the skinhead’s ankles, leaving Jordan centered in an X, in the middle of the bedframe.
            The glowing pillar candles pulsed from every corner, filling the bedroom with shaky amber shadows. The jingle of chrome D-rings echoed in the darkness, as Alan buckled Jordan’s thighs into thick, locking, padded restraints, and pulled them tightly outward, securing them to the sides of the bed.  He then did the same with the young man’s elbows.
 
           “It must be strangely exciting” –
            “To watch the stoic squirrrrrrrrrm …”
 
            Additional restraints were added to Jordan’s calves and upper arms.
            Alan then removed the skinhead’s chastity cage, causing his dick to burst outward.
 
         “It must be somewhat heartening” –
         “To watch shepherd, need sheeeeeeeeepherd …”
 
            The Sir followed by roping off Jordan’s ankles, keeping them taut, preventing any movement at all.  An additional rope was wrapped around his balls, then tied off tight to the foot of the bedframe, causing pain if he moved his pelvic area.
 
          “But you, you’re not allowed, you’re uninvited, an unfortunate sliiiiiiiiiiight…”
 
            Alan fastened a thick, leather collar around Jordan’s neck –
            The young man’s rock-hard shaft was now dripping precum.
            And then it began.
           
              *  *  *  *  *
 
            Kneeling between his outspread legs, Alan gripped the young man’s cock and began to stroke it unhurriedly.  From beneath the brim of his Muir, his hidden eyes watched the boy intently.  He observed the young man’s movements, how he tensed his arms and legs, how he curled his hands into fists.  Alan paid close attention to Jordan’s breathing, how his chest rose and fell in time with his heartbeat…and how that same quickening blood flow could be felt within his dick.
 
           “Like any uncharted territory” –
           “I must seem greatly intriguing …”
 
            Focusing on Jordan’s breathing, Alan synchronized his own to coincide.
 
            “You speak of my love like” –
            “You have experienced love like mine before …”
 
            It took only moments, but in that short time, the experienced Dom now mirrored the young slave’s inhaling/exhaling exactly, their chests rising and falling in tandem, their bodies connected by Jordan’s shaft – and Alan’s fingertips. 
 
            “But this is not allowed” –
            “You’re uninvited” –
            "An unfortuuuuuuuunate slight …”
 
            Time became irrelevant as Jordan watched Sir Alan from below; the Dom in leather was kneeling like a predator, crouched panther-like, ready to strike.  The boy basked within his helplessness, his splayed body strapped down by rope & padded restraints.  He felt himself surrender all control with the humiliating way he’d allowed this dark Leatherman to hold his orgasm hostage, to make him beg to cum…
            Moments became minutes and minutes became hours.
            Jordan lost all sense of his own reality as his entire world was now focused on his cock.
            In a gasp of vulnerability, the young man realized he had allowed Sir Alan control over the greatest, most private, most intimate act that a man can give to himself: climax.  On recognizing this, Jordan fought against his restraints, only this clearly made Alan more excited – which caused him to tease the young man relentlessly. “This is where the scene begins,” the leatherman whispered, staring directly into Jordan’s eyes. 
            He then reached for the lube …
            Hours became days and days became months.
            Gulping for air, Jordan fought back tears as Sir Alan ceaselessly edged his desperate tool.  Sweat rolled down his cheeks & neck, beaded on his stomach, chest, and arms, and dampened his thighs & calves.  The young man’s toes stretched and curled, as his biceps and triceps and flexors and extensors began to tremble uncontrollably.  His chest was now rising and falling so fast, he was close to hyperventilating – which excited Alan even MORE.  The practiced Dom brought the boy to the very edge of spasm, and kept him there for eternity.
            And then –
                        And then –
                                    And then –
                                             “I don’t think you’re unworthy”
                                                                          “I need a moment to  –   –   –
                                                                                          *Deliberaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate … !”
 
            - And then Alan finally allowed the boy to climax, causing his spine to arch, legs to shake, toes to extend widely, and his arms & shoulders to break FREE from their bondage.
            Heaving violently, sniveling in relief, Jordan shot UP from the bed, grabbed Alan by the shoulders, and pulled him down hard on top of his cum-drenched chest – sending Alan’s Muir sailing. Digging his fingernails into the leatherman’s back, the young man kissed him passionately, luridly, lovingly, as the Dom moved his own hands to Jordan’s cheeks and brought their faces close.  The two men stared deeply into the other’s eyes, as their heartbeats subsided, and the sweat became cold on Jordan’s flesh.  Ten minutes passed before Jordan was breathing normally again, and once this happened, Alan changed the music to “Splendid Isolation” as he began to untie him.
            Sometime later, as Chicago finally went to sleep, Sir Alan & boy Jordan lay intertwined with each other, and drifted into unconsciousness and onto what dreams may come.
 
             The following day, Jordan woke up next to Frankie.

Chapter Thirteen
You Have to Believe We Are Magic

---

​          Sitting with his legs crossed in the circle of the Saturday AA meeting, Alan quietly typed on his iPhone, as tonight’s speaker droned on & on.  On finishing the text, he gave it a quick proofread before touching SEND, and setting the phone on his lap.  Folding his arms across his chest, Alan stared dead-ahead, waiting for detonation. 
            Across the room, Brian’s iPhone chirped in his pocket.
            He read the message:
 
DEAR GOD –
 
Ever have one of those mornings where heavy inescapable leather restraint is the very first thing on your mind, as you open your eyes inside your darkened bedroom - and find yourself face-to-face, nose-to-nose, dead-eyed stare to dead-eyed stare with the darkest thing in your mind?

It's staring directly back at you of course, and has been all night after you finally fell asleep.  Its eyes are wide, its teeth are locked in a Joker-grin, and its face is a cross between a skeletal grotesque and the goddamn, motherfucking DEVIL.

Like the throbbing cock bursting from your Fetters sleep sack, you desperately want to touch it - this "thing," this monster hidden inside your skull, this darkness that only reveals itself when you're trapped in the worst way possible - but you can't, of course.  Your gloved hands are padlocked in fist-mitts, your arms in the sack's inner sleeves, your heaving chest & pounding heart mummified in supple leather, zipped up, laced closed, buckled tightly, and tied down firmly to the padded bondage table that you now realize you're secured to, with...no...way...out...?

Your blurry vision comes into focus briefly, but before your burning eyes get sharp, you just barely catch a glimpse of your hood's blindfold being snapped on - by the crazy man who tried to warn you about his dangerously-broken mind, but for some reason, you stupidly let your guard down with him...thinking he was exactly like you?

And when that man pinches your nose shut with gloved fingers, you realize that he's already zipped your mouth closed (he distracted you), so you have no way to breathe at all as a second gloved hand gently caresses your hard palpitating cock...

...and that's the very last thing on your mind as the ketamine kicks in, when the needle is removed from your neck, and your consciousness drifts away, with a single word” –
 
“What?”

Chuckling.

Ironically, that was the very first thought on MY mind this morning, for some reason.
 
- A
 
            Returning his phone to his pocket, Brian shot Alan a dirty look.
            The meeting continued.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Is something wrong with Sir Brian, Sir?” Jordan asked Frankie, as the two sat at bar together, sometime after midnight at Touché.  Brian had just entered the club, and though he’d obviously noticed them, he ignored them completely and headed for the clubroom.  “Groove is in the Heart” played on the sound system, and the front bar was – as always for a weekend – packed.  Frankie watched Brian’s back disappear into the S-shaped hallway, before returning his attention to the skinhead – who was observing him carefully.
            “I think Alan’s fighting with him,” Frankie told the boy.  “I definitely know he’s mad.”
            “Any idea why, Sir?”
            “Mmm-hmm,” Frankie nodded –
            “Alan’s being a bastard.”
            Jordan smiled.  “It’s amazing Sir, that even in the leather community, people are really mean to each other.  I mean, the gay world is small enough on its own, and the leather subculture is even smaller.  And still, everyone gossips, complains, is hyper-sensitive about their feelings, and has an opinion on everybody else – even if they’ve never met the person.”
            This time, Frankie smiled –
            “Queens will be queens, even if their drag is leather.”
            “Uh – that’s horrible, Sir.”
            “I know.”
            “Earth is so small, Sir.”
            “Think about how small we actually are,” Frankie said, building on Jordan’s point.  “All of us – gay people, straight people, black, white, and shiny, happy people – we’re all living our lives like we’re the only ones in the universe.  We spend so much time being offended by stupid shit that no one’s ever taken the time to look up.  The sky is full of stars, and those stars are surrounded by planets.  And what do you think is on those planets?  LIFE.  The galaxy is teeming with life, but we’re so preoccupied with political bickering, we haven’t noticed it yet.  We’re behaving like children.  And that’s extremely dangerous because technology has advanced to the point where we’re about to explore the heavens and we are not ready.*”
            “People think you’re crazy when you say things like that, Sir.”
            “Of course, they do.  They have simple minds.”
            “The way you’re phrasing” – Jordan laughed – “You’re going to piss off the world.”
            “World?” Frankie emphasized, coughing as he smiled.  “Piss off the world because I believe in intelligent design?  Because I believe that all religions are striving to reach the same transcendence?  Has anyone even noticed that there’s a perfect hexagon on top of Saturn?”
            “Again Sir, when you say things like transcendence.  You sound schizophrenic.  You’re going to get a bad reputation.”
         “I already have a bad reputation,” Frankie grinned, taking a swig of water.  “Apparently, I’m standoffish, unapproachable, full of myself, creepy…and I talk to myself.”
            “You are kinda’ creepy, Sir.”
        “And yet I’m the one holding the key to your cock,” Frankie taunted, touching Jordan’s thigh before moving his gloved hand to the boy’s manhood. 
            There was a wet spot on his jeans.
            “How’s that feel with your PA?”
            “Err, very secure, Sir.”
            “And would you like to go in back?”
            “Violet hanky night?  And do what, Sir?” Jordan asked, surprised – 
            “Err, I thought you didn’t approve of what happens in the clubroom.”
            “No,  I didn’t say that,” Frankie clarified.  “I said that the anonymous public sex scares me, but mainly because it reminds me of the 90s, when HIV was still untreatable.  I do like how the Doms get to show off their subs in a public setting though. Especially when those subs are on their knees.”
            Despite being trapped in a metal CB6000, Jordan’s bulge moved noticeably under his jeans.  Beaming, the young man kept his eyes locked on his Sir.  Still seated, Frankie brought his boots around Jordan’s bar stool and pulled him in close – Rrrrrrrt! 
            He then put his gloved hands on the skinhead’s knees…
           “Eh, Christ just get a room,” Bob said loudly from behind the bar.
           “Lets?” Frankie asked.
           “Like – do you mean Steamworks, Sir?”
            Frankie made a see-saw gesture with his head – Maybe.
           “I think you know that cage is part of a fantasy of mine, right Sir?”
            Remembering this, Frankie grinned ear-to-ear.
          Enjoying himself, Frankie watched a smile slink over Jordan’s lips, as he looked away in embarrassment.  The young man inhaled deeply.  “That was another yes-or-no question, by the way,” Frankie told him.
            Before Jordan could answer, Old Guard Russ appeared between them.
            “Sir,” he said to Frankie, “Jordan,” he said to the boy.  Russ was wearing rubber gear tonight: sleeveless rubber top, skin-tight pants, big rubber boots with yellow soles, rubber gloves, and a latex executioner half-mask.  He looked at the two, sensing something was up.
            “Hey Russ,” Jordan said.
            Rather than speaking, Frankie tipped his Muir.
            “Am I interrupting?” Russ asked.
            Frankie said yes and Jordan said no at the same time.
            “All righty then.” –
            Russ disappeared.
            “All…righty…then,” Frankie repeated, staring directly at the boy.
            “Hey,” Brian said, hitting Frankie hard from behind – 
            “We need to talk.”
            Frankie looked up from his stool.  “I’m busy.”
            “Did I look like I asked?” Brian said firmly.  “I’ll be outside.”
            Frankie watched him disappear into the crowd, pushing his way towards the entrance.  Once he was outside, Frankie turned to Jordan.  “I need to take care of this.”
            “Do you want me to come?”
            Standing up, Frankie shook his head while tugging at his jacket’s waist.  “Just stay here. I think I know what this is about.”  He pulled down his brim before joining Sir Brian outside.
            Jordan sat quietly as he watched Frankie leave.
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Look, if this is about the text from the meeting,” Frankie said, coming up to Brian on the sidewalk, “I just want you to know is that what I meant by doing that was” –
            Brian cut him off, lighting a cigar.  “It’s not about the text, Frankie.”
            Frankie looked confused.  “Then, what is it?”
            “It’s about your ex.”
            “My ex?  You mean Michael?”
            “Your other ex, Frankie.  The one with the hidden white arrow, pointing stalker.”
            Frankie was confused.  “I don’t have another ex,” he said.  “Michael is my only” –
He stopped mid sentence, realizing something.  Brian observed this.
            “Yeah.” He looked pissed.
            “What’s Carlos saying?”
            “He’s telling people that he saw me buy a bottle at Broadway Liquors,” Brian informed him.  “I don’t need that kind of shit-story going around, in case someone believes it.”
            Frankie gave him a look – “Well, you didn’t, did you?”
            Brian gave him a look back – “Jesus, are you fucking kidding me?”
            Smoke rose around the two Leathermen as Frankie thought about this.  The cloud glowed luminescent white from the light of Touches’ exterior sign.
            “Brian, I’m sorry” –
            “Christ – just fix it!” Brian cut him off, puffing. “Your shit is interfering with my shit … and that’s bullshit.”  He walked away before Frankie could say another word.
            A few minutes passed.
            “Sir?” Old Guard Russ asked, coming up to Frankie’s side on the sidewalk. –
            “Is everything okay?”
            “No,” Frankie told him, taking out his iPhone.
            He typed:
 
              I need to see you, and there is a difference between “want” & “need.”
 
            “Is there anything I can do to help, Sir?” the old boy asked.
            “No Russ, I’m fine,” Frankie said, softening slightly and pulling up the collar of his Vanson.  He gave him a nod before going to stand by the streetlight.  Once there, he stopped for a moment to cough.  Jordan came out of the club a few minutes later.
           
            “Sir?”
            “There’s something I need to take care of tonight,” Frankie told him – 
            “I want you to go back to the apartment and wait for me.”
            The young man looked confused.  “Is everything alright?”
            Frankie waved him quiet.  “Just do as I ask, please.”
            Jordan inhaled.  “Yes Sir.”  He turned to walk away.
            “Hey” Frankie stopped him.  He fished through his wallet for a twenty, which he handed over.  “Pick me up a sandwich on your way home.”
            “Yes Sir.”
            “May I ask what your plans are for Carlos?” Frankie inquired.
            “Come again, Sir?”
            “Ah – I think he lives on Lincoln,” Frankie said.  “With that guy Kevin.  The one with the Lincoln.  I think he has a Robert Yarber painting hanging over his fireplace.”
            “And I he works at Outback,” Frankie said.
            “Where?  You should ask Jordan which one,” Frankie said.  “I think they worked together.”
            “And wasn’t Jordan there when Carlos tried to kill himself?” Frankie asked.
            “Yeeeah, guys be quiet. Jordan’s right here,” Frankie said.
            “So?” Frankie said.  “He knows what’s going on.  Michael told him, didn’t you?”
            “Yes, but Alan’s right,” Frankie said.  “It’s insensitive to discuss Jordan’s suicide attempt in front of him.  Especially as it was his second try.”
            “So, you want me to be quiet then?” Frankie asked, irritated.
            “Or, did you ever see those Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared You Tube videos?”
            “I know: How about Six Feet Under, where Clair makes masks from torn photos?”
            “Listen, boy – I am not paying $50 an hour just so you can have a buddy!”
            “Also, young man, when you say that ‘I’m different,’ does that mean that you’re gay?”
            “Eating lunch in the library all year doesn’t excuse these grades!”
            “Ahhh, yeah I guess it is August.  So, are you goin’ to community college or what?”
            “Stop acting like a robot, or I’ll take your toys away!”
            “Tots: Will you fuckin’ people shut up? Letterman sings ‘Hit Me’ in this one!”
            “Eccch! I hate how the pads of her feet sound, when she shuffles across the linoleum.”
            “Right!  So, when you told the counselor that you were gay, she said it was wrong, right?”
            “I knew Chris for only one month - Please Don’t Go Away .    .      . ”
            “Stop that,” Frankie said.  “You’re getting off  topic.  Right now, we’re talking about him  having a suicide date – and method – picked out.”
            “So, when do we tell him that music is used to deliver data?”
            “Hell, you didn’t need to go to the emergency room. It was just a bump.”
            “Okay, who keeps leaving the cock & ball sheath out?  I just found it by the sink again.”
            “Wait! I’m sorry, but that’s important – what did…you…just…say?”
              Eyes as wide as saucers, Jordan froze on the sidewalk.
              Reeling in surprise, he watched Frankie’s multiple personalities use his own physical voice to communicate with each other. –  
 
            It was both fascinating and terrifying at the same time.
 
                *  *  *  *  *
 
 
              “What’s the saddest you’ve ever been?
             Mine is so deep, I can only face it in the moment of clarity immediately following a drinking bender.  I wake up in the wee hours, heart racing, thirsty for water.  In the darkness of the bedroom, I push away whoever happens to be next to me, and I step outside for a cigarette, thinking about my life and what I have become.  I’m alone in my thoughts…always alone…and as the smoke fills my lungs, the truth fills my head, cold, unfiltered, and very, very sad.
           Sadness as deep as mine cannot be discussed with others.  It would scare them, disgust them, and push them away forever.  I’d have no friends at all if I shared my story openly.  But I need to tell someone.  My existence depends on it.  And I need to tell it in a way that won’t cause them to gather the children.  Or lock the door. Or let the phone go to voicemail.
            Or worst of all, call the police.”
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
 
             Ding-a-ling!
 
            The glass door to the small, late-night sandwich shop swung open as Jordan came into The Belmont Deli about a half hour later.  There were a handful of people in line ahead of him, but Novak – the man behind the counter – waved him forward as soon as he recognized him.
            “Jordan!” Novak said.  “How are you tonight?”
            “Just need a turkey club with extra mayo, when you get done with everybody,” the young man told him.  He paused a moment to look around the carry-out restaurant –
            “Where’s Vinnie?” he asked cautiously.
            “He’s here,” Novak said.  “He actually wants to talk to you.”
            “Really?” Jordan said.  “That’s surprising.  He actually said that?”
            “Yes.”
            “I man, he actually said that?” Jordan repeated.  “He said those words: I want to see him?”
            “He did,” Novak told him.  “And he said that the next time you come into the restaurant, he wants me to get him if he’s in back.”
            “Is that where he is now?” Jordan asked.  “In the back?”
            “Yup,” Novak told him, motioning for the skinhead to come behind the counter and into the kitchen.  Jordan did, went through the food prep area, then found himself in the open exterior door in back, which led to the alley.  He could hear a critter being beaten to death –
            THWAK! – Squeal!
            THWAK! – Squeal!
            THWAK! – Squeal!
            Stepping into the alley, Jordan found Vinnie – the shop’s burly, Polish owner – standing over a bludgeoned dumpster rat, while holding a wooden baseball bat.  Several other rodents could be seen scurrying down the alley in the distance – Eee!  Eee!  Eee!
            “Fresh meat for tomorrow’s special?” the young man joked, carefully coming up to him.
            “Fuckin’ rats go through the garbage, then leave their rat-shit all over the sidewalk,” Vinnie grumbled.  “So, I keep a bat handy to ‘encourage’ them to leave.”
            “I’m sure the health department appreciates that,” Jordan noted.
            “How are you, my friend?” Vinnie asked.
            “Just stopped by for a sandwich on the way home,” Jordan told him –
            “I see you’re open until four again.”
            “Yes – all that Covid bullshit is finally over.  We have customers at night again.  We always get the bar rush, after 2am.”
            “Did you want something?” Jordan asked –
            “Novak told me to come back here.”
            Vinnie grinned and threw the bloody bat over his shoulder.  He took a few steps towards the young man.  He was wearing black boots.  “When are we going to play again?”
            Jordan instinctively stepped backward.  “Err…not right now, Vinnie.  I have a Sir now.  And we haven’t discussed any rules for play outside our arrangement.”
            “He doesn’t have to know,” Vinnie said, coming closer.  His face was covered in gray stubble in the buzz of the sodium vapor light above him.  His white T-shirt looked dirty.  His apron was stained with sandwich debris.  “We can keep things between…us.”
            Jordan took another step back.
            “I had a very good time with you last time,” Vinnie added, in a low voice.
            “Sir, I…didn’t,” Jordan told him, hold up his gloved hands – please back off. 
            He took another two steps backward, then turned towards the open kitchen door –
            But Vinnie blocked him.
            “I seem to remember you had a good time, yourself,” Vinnie rumbled, bringing his face in close to Jordan’s own.  He touched the young man’s cheek with fingers that smelled like bologna & Miracle Whip before moving the bat up between his legs with the other hand.  He pushed the club hard into Jordan’s crotch.
            “You had too many poppers, Sir,” Jordan said carefully, turning to avoid eye contact.  He could feel his heart pounding beneath his leather jacket.  “You were too rough.  And you didn’t ask ahead of time if you could” –
            “I don’t need to ask!” Vinnie snapped, using his entire body weight to push Jordan’s tiny frame against the rusty metal door.  “I take…what I want.”
            “Sir, please,” Jordan begged, terrified.
            The jingle of handcuffs could be heard for a moment as Vinnie removed them from his back pocket.  He grabbed the wrist that Jordan had cut –
            “Your sandwich is ready!” Novak chirped, popping his head out the back door –
            “Did you want chips or a drink, Jordan?”
            Vinnie released his grip, stepping back.
            And Jordan bolted through the kitchen, past Novak, past the prep tables, and tossed Frankie’s twenty on the counter before snatching the food and running out the door – ding-a-ling!
            He didn’t stop until he was back at Sir Frankie’s apartment, over ten minutes later.
           
            *  *  *  *  *
 
                  “What’s the saddest you’ve ever been?
            And if you’re really able to answer that question, tell me this: how did you face it?  Did you lean on other people or tough it out yourself?  Did you cry?  Hold it together?  Take a drink?  A pill?  A cocktail with a cocktail?
            Did you ever use, then throw away a trick?
            All of us cope with sadness in very different ways.  How we cope depends on our character, and most importantly, our own individual stories.  Sadness drives us covertly, often forcing us to react with violent emotion we’ve kept inside for years.  At some point though, we ALL must react the same, and that starts by finding a way to share our story with another.
            But that’s not always easy.
            Some things are so sad, we dance around the truth; we fear upsetting our confidants, and as most sadness comes from loss, losing an audience compounds the situation.  We find ourselves in a Catch-22, where we’ll be left alone no matter what we do.  So we compromise the story.  Create others to excuse the blame.  We dilute the issue with so many spinning plates, even the observer gets injured when it all crashes down.  But that crash is inevitable.  The truth, unavoidable.  And the relief we feel when the truth is in the open can be a double-edged sword, leaving only the strongest standing in the aftermath.
            We might not like what’s left behind-
            But we ALL must learn to live with it.”
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “I thought you hated Steamworks,” the attendant said with a smile as Frankie slapped his Visa on the counter and paid for locker rental.
            “It’s normally not my thing,” Frankie admitted, “but I’m actually looking for someone tonight.  You haven’t seen Carlos, have you?”
            “Carlos?” the attendant repeated –
            “Ah – you mean, the skinny Latino kid?  Mid-thirties?  Likes to wear make-up?”
            “That’s him,” Frankie said, taking his towel, locker key, and signing his receipt – 
            “So, is he here tonight?”
            “I don’t know,” the attendant told him.  “But I work graveyard tonight.  I took over for Roman – he may still be here, counting down his till in back.  Do you want me to ask him?”
            “No,” Frankie said.  “I’ll just have a look for myself.”
            “Suit yourself.”
            “Thanks Jim,” Frankie told the attendant, before slapping the counter twice with his hand and heading for the locker room to change.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
              “A cold late night…so long ago” –
              “When I was not…so strong, you know…”
 
            With his iPhone set on vibrate and tucked into his white, terrycloth bath robe, Frankie walked slowly through the bathhouse corridors as Heart’s “Magic Man” played softly from above.  The entire place was covered in subway tiles, floors, ceilings, winding hallways with glass doors and windows.  Each chamber Frankie passed was occupied by gay men in nothing but towels – or completely nude, especially in the public bath areas, where hot, bubbling whirlpools of water pumped steamy clouds into the dimly-lit air.
            His eyes now narrowed into slits, Frankie pulled up his robe’s outer collar as though he were in his leathers.  He was wearing nothing but a bathrobe and the Crucifix around his neck.  His bare feet strutted on the wet tile floor, with the same deliberation as when laced in black boots.  The Leatherman’s stoic, slightly-skeletal frame moved through the long hallways that were lined with private rooms, then on into the glory hole room where guys were getting sucked off in the nude, their various-shaped bellies pressed tightly against the easy-to-bleach wall surfaces.
            Pausing at the lounge area, Frankie’s eyes scanned the men splayed out in towels on sofas, before moving onto the maze beyond, where guys stood in various poses, with hands teasing nipples and holding their junk in the open.  Lowering his head as though he were still in his Muir, Frankie entered the humid labyrinth, watching everyone – without ever making eye contact with another.  He cruised with the skill of having decades of practice.
            A hundred pairs of eyes watched Frankie from every corner, through the haze, through the music, and through the shadows and doorways and rooms.
            A hundred pairs of hands reached out from every possible direction, as Frankie entered the theater chamber, where a twink was getting fisted on the television that covered the far wall like a movie screen.
            A hundred different voices whispered, from the private rooms around.
            Some doors were open, some doors were closed.
            Some doors were locked from within the inside, as the pounding of pelvises against fleshy ass cheeks were heard intermixed with the moans of their receivers, and sloppy squirts of lube.
            Frankie went deeper into the club.
            Coming up the stairwell, Frankie paused at the top and looked to his right.  He was staring directly into the bathhouse’s bondage room, with the familiar furniture that he’d seen in the leather bars, in the Touché clubroom, in the Cell Block’s sex area.  Entering the dungeon, the leathermen observed dudes in slings, on bondage tables, and in various kink predicaments.  But it wasn’t like the scene that Frankie knew, the scene he lived, the scene he loved.  The Steamworks play space lacked the pageantry of the dungeon, and for that the room felt soulless to him, like a braindead body kept alive by machines.
 
            “C’mon home girl, he said with a smile” –
             “You don’t have to love me, so let’s get high awhile …”
 
            Heart continued around his ears, as Frankie descended the stairs back into the lower levels, and on towards the whirlpool chamber, which was thick with moisture and steam.  Frankie walked barefoot across the water on the floor.  Hot water bubbled in the large, tiled bathtubs, as the torsos of men with wet arm and chest hair settled back against their shoulders with outstretched arms, as anonymous guys serviced them sexually, with glistening backs bobbing between open legs.  Stopping at the doorway, Frankie scanned the bodies within the effervescing pools.  The eyes stopped when they saw Carlos, his tight, toned frame going down on a man who was reclined like Caligula…
            Frankie glanced for CC cameras, before bringing his hand into his robe’s outer pocket; his fingers gripped the switchblade within, then pressed its trigger, causing the spring-loaded blade to shoot out.

           “Try, try, try to understannnnnnnnd…”
 
            But before he could take it out, a gloved hand appeared on his shoulder from behind, stopping him in his tracks.
 
           “He’s a magic ma-aa-aa-aa-aa-aannnnnnnnnnn…!”
 
            It pulled him backwards, into the hallway.
           
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Sir?” Jordan said with a start, looking up from his blanket and pillow, on the floor at the foot of Frankie’s bed.  The young man sat up, shivering slightly.  He brought his bare arms across his shirtless chest and placed his naked buttocks on top of his ankles to rest.  He was wearing nothing but a collar.
            “I’m tired,” Frankie told him quietly, hanging his coat on the doorknob.  He tugged off his gloves before sitting on the bed to untie his boots.  He looked like he was in another place, entirely.
            Jordan watched him intently.
            “Is everything okay, Sir?” the young man asked, worriedly.
            “Give me a moment, and we can go to sleep,” Frankie said without eye contact.  He undid his tie, and started unbuttoning his vest.  “Help me undress.”
            “Yes Sir.”
            Getting up, Jordan came over to Frankie.  He helped him remove his shirt and pants, and folded them neatly and laid them on the dresser.  The skinhead then took Frankie’s jacket off the doorknob and carried into the hall coat closet.  As he was putting it on a hanger, he felt something in the inner pocket.  Reaching into it, Jordan took out a switchblade, and stared at it for a moment.
            It was red & sticky.
            Replacing it quickly, the young man shut the closet light and closed the door.  He backtracked into the Master bedroom, where Frankie had stripped down to his underwear and was pulling back the covers.
            “Sir?” Jordan asked carefully.  “Did anything happen tonight?”
            “Of course not,” Frankie said, getting into bed.  He motioned for the boy to follow.
            Shutting the light, Jordan climbed under the comforter and pulled himself in close to Frankie’s body, laying his cheek on top of his chest.  Frankie wrapped one of his own hands under the young man’s neck, and intertwined the other with the palm Jordan had placed gently on his stomach. 
            He held the young man’s hand firmly, in the dark.
            Closing their eyes together, the Sir and his boy went to sleep.

Chapter Fourteen
To Remember When Night Had Sharp Edges

---

             Joliet, IL
            1995
 
            The four wall-mounted tube televisions flickered in unison, synchronized with the same VHS video that was playing this evening on Tuesday Movie Night.  The church-choir harmony of Michael Jackson’s “You Will Be There” chorus rang through the air of Maneuver’s Tavern, as a young Jason James Richer stood on the seaside rocks, frozen like John Travolta on the dance floor, pointing in a white suit for some reason.
 
            “Hold me … like the river Jordan … and I will then say to thee … you are my friend!”
            “Carry me … like you are my brother… love me like a mother … will you be there?”
 
            The iconic “Free Willy” jump-scene unfolded in all of its schlocky glory, as the bar filled with Abercrombie-clad gay men drank, smoked, laughed, cried, gossiped, bitched, posed, cruised, and enjoyed the camaraderie of the local institution, open nonstop since 1980.  The camera track-shot followed the men along the bar counter, before stopping at Frankie, alone in the crowd – dressed in tight blue jeans, high-heeled black Sketchers boots, a white T-shirt, a black leather vest from Chess King, and tall Luke Perry hair with so much product, it was bulletproof.
 
               “ Weary, tell me will you hold me? ”
               “ When wrong will you scold me? ”
               “ When lost, will you find me? ”
 
            Whiskey in his hand and a cigarette between his fingers, Frankie turned so that his back rested on his elbows against the bar counter; he slowly scanned the long, atmospheric room, looking for possibilities.  As the local queens shot him dirty looks (he had a reputation for being standoffish), Frankie quietly sipped his Canadian Club as the chorale sang on and on.
            His eyes then narrowed into slits when he noticed a dude at the far end of the bar. 
            The guy seemed roughly Frankie’s own age, and was, despite the weather, wearing a baggy Abercrombie shirt with the sleeves rolled up, as well as a Dockers baseball jacket with a hoodie underneath.  Frankie’s focus zoomed in to the man’s visible hands.  
            They were holding a beer –
            And wearing leather officer’s gloves.
 
            “Carry … carry me boldly … lift me up slowly … carry me there!”
            “Save me … heal me and bathe me … softly you say to me … I will be there … !”
 
            Slamming his drink, Frankie grabbed his smokes and spun on his heel.  He walked with deliberation passed the snotty neighborhood queers – You’ll never be one of us, Mr.-only-talks-to-himself – and up to the new guy, who now noticed him approach.  Setting his Marlboro Menthol Light 100s on the counter, Frankie pulled up a stool and waved Freddy over for another glass of whiskey.  As the bartender made his drink, Frankie puffed his cigarette and casually turned his head to feel out the stranger. 
 
           “Lift me … lift me up slowly … carry me boldly … show me you care!”
           “Hold me … lay your head lowly … softly then boldly … carry me there …!”
 
            But before he could speak, the man addressed Frankie directly.
            “Mr. Downs,” he said firmly, in a sharp woman’s voice –
 
            *  *  *  *  *
           
            “Mr. Downs, I need you to move your legs now,” the nurse told him sternly, as Frankie lay in nothing but a thin hospital gown and his Crucifix on the hard examination table, getting his chemical stress test.  The room had been darkened so the middle-aged caregiver could better see the computer monitors.  A second nurse injected stimulant into his bony arm’s IV, and as his pulse quickened, he began to feel hot.     
The caregiver noticed this.
            “The warmth is caused by the Lexiscan,” she explained.  “It increases your heartbeat, and may create some temporary discomfort.  It’s a normal side-effect, and will pass within the next ten minutes.  But for now, Mr. Downs, I need you to move your legs as if you were climbing stairs.”
            “…beep…beep…beep…beep…”
            Disassociating himself from the moment, Sir Frankie did as he was told.
 
           “Need me … love me and feed me … kiss me and free me … I will feel blessed …”
 
            The test went on for another thirty minutes as the Michael Jackson song played in his head.
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
            KNOCK-KNOCK!
 
            Shutting off the vacuum cleaner, Jordan looked up unexpectedly.
            Wiping his hands on his apron, he hurried to the foyer’s front door and peered through the peep-hole.  Smiling, he turned the deadbolt latch and opened the door with a squeak.  “Russ!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around the man in the threshold – 
            “I’ve missed you!  How have you been?”
            “May I come in?” Old Guard Russ asked politely, standing in a black leather trench coat, clutching two fistfuls of Jewel bags.  They were budging with groceries, unopened mail, Funyuns, and what looked like a newly-purchased blue & orange Bears scarf.  He also had a bag of Chinese carry-out, shoved in his armpit, below his white beard and dark aviator glasses.
            “Yes, of course,” Jordan told him excitedly.  He took the to-go food from Russ’s grip, then gestured for the man to enter the apartment.  Once inside, he closed the front door and took the plastic grocery bags as well, before heading into the kitchen.  Taking off his leather gloves, Russ looked around the living room with his shades still on.  He nodded in approval.
            “It looks like you’ve earned your domestic service badge,” he joked.  He removed his glasses as Jordan approached from behind.
            “Sir Frankie likes a clean house, for sure,” the young man told him, reappearing.  “And by clean, I mean like…hospital clean.  Even the bleach bottles get wiped off before being put back in the cabinet.”
            “That’s intense,” Russ chuckled.
            “You have no idea,” Jordan said.  “Sir Frankie has protocols for everything.  How the floor is vacuumed.  How the towels are folded.  How the plants are dusted – he actually dusts his houseplants, Russ.  And how the shirts are hung in his closet, each facing the same way, color-coded from warm to cool colors, every hanger identical in style.”
            “I honestly think he’ll go total Joan Crawford on me, if I ever forget to take the dry cleaning off the wire coat hangers that they give you,” Jordan added, sort-of jokingly.
            “And his leather?” Russ asked.
            “He’s always trying to get the smell of cats out of his boots,” Jordan chuckled, coughing slightly.  “He says leather holds the scent of animals, and it drives him crazy.”
            “And what about his boots?” Russ asked.  “What’s the protocol like for those?”
            “DON’T get me started!” the skinhead said in exasperation, closing his eyes and bringing his palm to his forehead.  “Even a Catholic mass has a less-complicated ritual than what I have to go through to polish Sir Frankie’s must-be-perfect boots!  First, the black polish, then the parade-gloss finish.  Then the brush, then the buffing with a cotton cloth.  Oh – and then comes the leather dye, applied carefully to the soles to avoid – how does he say – any streaks, drips, or variations in the overall colorization!  His expectations are fucking insane…”
            The old boy smiled – 
            “Need any advice?”
            “Very honestly, I need a drink,” Jordan admitted.  “And a strong one, too.  But Sir Frankie doesn’t keep anything stronger than beer in the house, and I have to ask permission to have one.”
            “Want to go to Replay?” Russ asked, glancing at his watch.  “They’re open now.  We can grab a sandwich, have a stiff cocktail, and blow off some steam on the Ms. Pac Man machine.”
              Jordan considered this.
            “Eh, but you brought food, Russ.”
            “So?  Throw it in the fridge.  Have it later or for lunch tomorrow.”
            “Ugh. What if Sir Frankie finds out?”
            “So, tell him you’re going,” Russ told him.  “I mean, ask for permission of course. But tell him I’m here.  Shoot him a text and explain that I stopped by for a visit.  Tell him that ‘I’ want to go for a drink, and I want you to come with me.  Sir Frankie knows you have a life.  He knows you have friends.”
            Russ paused on noticing Jordan’s standoffish reaction to this.
            “You have been seeing your other friends, right?” Russ asked.  “Please tell me that you’re not being told to stay in this house.”
            “No, no, no – it’s not that,” Jordan said.  “It’s just that Sir Frankie needs me right now, that’s all.  He’s going through some serious shit.”
            “And that sounds like delicious lunch conversation,” Russ told him –
            “Send…him…a text.”
            Sighing softly, Jordan nodded “okay.”  Grabbing his phone, he shot Frankie a message.  Russ followed him into the kitchen, and watched as he unpacked the groceries while waiting for Sir Frankie’s replay. 
            When it came, Jordan looked puzzled.
            “What is it?” Russ asked.
            Jordan held up the phone.  The message was both brief & misspelled:
 
             “opin foor “
 
            Staring at each other with sudden concern, the two men quickly left the kitchen and hurried into the foyer, where Jordan rushed to the entrance.  He swung the front door open to reveal Frankie, who was leaning on the wooden threshold with his Muir hat turned downward, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his skinny legs in an irregular stance, with boot toes pointed inward.  His iPhone clutched in trembling fingers, Frankie took a single unsteady step forward before falling into their arms –
            Russ barely had time to grab Frankie’s head before it hit the ground hard, enough to concuss.
            “Grab his feet!” Russ told Jordan swiftly, as he, himself, took Frankie by the shoulders.  The two boys then swooped the semiconscious leatherman to the living room sofa, and laid him carefully across the cushions, shoving a throw pillow under his head.  Russ placed Frankie’s Muir on the coffee table.
            “Is he hurt?” Jordan asked, coming up to Frankie’s side.
            “I don’t think so,” Russ told the boy.  He pulled off his gloves and pressed his fingers against Frankie’s neck.  “His pulse seems normal.  I don’t think he’s having a cardiac event.”
            “I’ll get some water,” Jordan said, standing up, running into the kitchen.
            “Sir?” Russ asked loudly, tapping Frankie’s cheek.  “Sir, can you hear me?  Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
            Frankie mumbled incoherently.
            “Here!” Jordan said, returning, twisting off the cap.  He handed Russ a bottle of water, which Russ then brought to Frankie’s lips.  “This is water, Sir!  Please have a drink!”
            Frankie didn’t budge.
            “What’s wrong with him?” the skinhead asked worriedly.
            “I don’t know,” Russ admitted, now checking Frankie’s pulse at his wrist – 
            “Here – help me get the gear off of him.”
            Working together, Russ and Jordan disassembled Frankie’s attire, tugging off his gloves, removing his coat, and unlacing and pulling off his boots.  The Sir was wearing a floral dress shirt underneath, so Russ unfastened most of its buttons and loosened his belt and jeans, so Frankie could breathe more easily.  Stepping away for a moment, Jordan returned with a leather-pride-flag-themed crocheted afghan, which he carefully draped over his Dom.  Once Frankie was positioned, covered, and seemingly out of danger, both boys took a step back and sighed together in quiet relief.
            “What do you think happened?” Russ asked Jordan.
            “Sir had an appointment at Loyola today,” he told him.  “I don’t know exactly what it was for, but I know he wasn’t looking forward to it – more so than the other tests he has.”
            “How is he doing health-wise?” Russ asked.
            “I honestly don’t know,” Jordan admitted.  “He keeps very tight lipped on that.  He says he’s doing well, but he’s still losing weight, Russ.  I’m really worried about him.  And I don’t know what to do.”
            “Are you able to talk to his doctors at all?”
            “No.  He hasn’t added me to the list.”
            “What list?”
            “The one that gives them permission to share Sir Frankie’s medical information.”
            “Have you asked him to put you on that list?”
            “Not directly, no.”
            “You need to do that, Jordan.  And you need to do that now.”
            Russ stepped back and cleared his throat quietly.  He looked around the room for a moment, before returning his eyes to Jordan.  “Look – I’m not sure what else I can do for you right now, but if you need me for anything – anything at all – I want you to call immediately.  Don’t even text me.  Just…call.  Do you understand this?”
            “Yes, Russ.”  
            “Good.”
            The old man replaced his gloves, then put his sunglasses back on.  He gave Jordan a quick hug before walking towards the foyer and reaching for the door.  He stopped before turning it –
            “Text me a list, and tell me what groceries you need.”
 
               *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Have you seen that little cunt, Carlos?” Brian asked AmMar, later that week, in the Touché clubroom in the wee hours of the morning.  Sir AmMar, slammed with late night customers, shook his head angrily, grumbling about not having a barback.  Seeing he was too busy to talk, Sir Brian stepped away from the service area and scanned the craziness that was happening throughout the back room.  House music pounded as Brian, in Master’s leathers tonight, disappeared into the throngs of shirtless men, hunting alone on this particular weekend, searching for the one who was always out of reach.

              *  *  *  *  *
 
                KNOCK-KNOCK!
 
            “Hey – are you even here, right now?” Bob asked Jordan after hitting the counter hard twice to get his attention.  The skinhead was sitting alone at the front bar, observing the club at Frankie’s request, watching as his Sir described for changes in peoples’ behavioral patterns, for whatever the fuck that meant.  Bob stared at Jordan’s neat glass of whiskey, which hadn’t been touched for at least a half hour –
            “You want something else?”
            “Thanks Bob, but I’m okay,” Jordan told him, taking an intentional sip – Mmm!
            Rolling his eyes, the bartender went to help other customers.
            Replacing his glass, Jordan resumed scanning the room.  The bar was slammed of course, and the club’s sound system was playing 80s & 90s pop.  The skinhead saw many familiar faces tonight, in addition to the inevitable douchebags who had just struck out on Halsted.  Glancing at his watch, Jordan was just about to call it quits when he felt the dead-eyed stare of Sir Frankie’s unwanted boy crawling on his skin.  Jordan looked up in time to see Carlos breaking off eye-contact, before turning towards the S-shaped hallway and heading into the clubroom.
            Jordan followed suit.

             *  *  *  *  *
 
           Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
           Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            The nameless house music thumped like a synthesized heartbeat as Jordan entered the red-lit clubroom, joining the phantasmagorias, silhouetted against high-def televisions, each playing explicit bondage porn.  Jordan’s face became obscured by sleazy black & white shadows, moving across his eyes and cheeks like the flickering screen of an XXX cinema.
 
            Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            As the faces of the damned moved around him, Jordan pressed deeper into the center of the clubroom.  And once he was there, he found himself face-to-face with Carlos – who stepped forward with arrogance.
 
            Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            Jordan’s blood turned as cold as beer.
            The room’s fluid shadows looked muted in Carlos’ foundation powder.
            When someone dropped a bottle on the floor, Jordan turned away for just a moment –
 
            Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            - And  like the brilliant hedge animal scene in Stephen King’s The Shining, Carlos was now noticeably closer, when he looked back.
            “Tell me Jordan, are you enjoying playing nursemaid?” he asked.  “Because that’s what your life is going to be with Sir Frankie – cleaning puke, emptying bedpans, wiping his ass.  Or, even better, did he give you that bullshit line about how guys in the leather community don’t see age or body size?”
            Jordan narrowed his eyes.
            He took a quick glance to the right to see if Sir AmMar was watching –
 
            Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            - And when he looked back, Carlos was even closer.
            “Frankie…is fucking crazy!” Carlos told him coldly.  “I mean, you hear how he talks to himself, right?  That’s not normal, Jordan.  It’s a sign of schizophrenia.  Or, at least some type of personality disorder.  And you of all people should know that.  I mean, doesn’t mental illness already run in your family?”
            Jordan’s hand became a fist.
            He was about to pull back, when a dark displacement of air brushed beside him –
 
           Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            - And when he looked back, Carlos was in his face.
            “You know I hear that he’s drinking again,” Carlos said loudly, antagonizing, changing his approach.  “And there is nothing more dangerous than a Dom who can’t control himself when he’s trying to control a sub in a scene.”
            Jordan brought his fist backwards, like a bow.
            The air displacement pressed up against his back, raising his neck slightly…
 
             Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            - And when he looked down, Carlos was in his head.
            “And I hear he’s drinking with that Brian guy” –
             Jordan swung HARD, aiming directly for Carlos’ teeth –
        SMACK! – but Big Bad Brian’s gloved hand shot out from behind him, stopping his fist nanoseconds before its broke Carlo’s jaw, with witnesses holding cell phones.
 
            Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            AmMar looked up from the bar –
            “What is going on there?  You must stop this, stop this right now!”
            The massive Syrian daddy almost leaped over the bar counter, getting between the two boys.  “Out!  Out!  Both of you – OUT!”  He nodded to John, who had just entered the clubroom, carrying a bucket of ice.  John placed his gloved hand firmly on Jordan’s shoulder – “It’s time for you to leave, Jordan.”
            Carlos smirked, and started to turn away –
            “HEY!” John yelled.  “You’re done for tonight too, Carlos.”
            “But I’m the victim here,” he attempted…
         “BOTH of you…need to leave…NOW,” John said firmly.  “If you don’t, I’m callin’ the cops.”   Both Jordan and Carlos looked at the heavy officer’s handcuffs that John liked to wear on his belt.  “Don’t make me do it, guys.  Because you know I will…”
 
             Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST, Bum-SSST!
 
            As Brian kept his distance, John followed the two feuding boys as they left the clubroom, walked through the S-shaped hallway, then on through the front bar – and out the entrance door.
            He waited with the doorman for a few minutes, to make sure they didn’t return.
           
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            Outside the bar, Jordan pulled his jacket collar up and lit a cigarette as he walked down the sidewalk with attitude.  A thousand different thoughts swirled throughout his head, and he tried to keep himself from getting angry – not for just getting thrown out of the club, but also for as emotional as he had allowed himself to become, as Carlos cut him deep with words, which Frankie had warned might happen.
            The cold late-January night was sharp and still above the Chicago skyline.
            Jordan’s skinny body hurried along the pavement.  His dark figure moved with deliberation between the shadows of the alleys and the cones of streetlamp’s sidewalk light.
            Some time had passed when Jordan turned on Broadway, and continued his journey towards Frankie’s apartment.  But something was off, he realized, something in the way that the passing vehicle lights illuminated both surrounding buildings and parked cars to his left.  A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Smokey following him, a few car-lengths behind.  Flicking his cigarette, Jordan picked up the pace…but he could tell that Carlos had noticed this, and was matching his stride, his direction, his evasion.
            By the light of the North Community Bank building, Jordan turned to his right and shot down the Belmont Street sidewalk.  He could feel his heartbeat quickening, as he passed closed bookshops, thrift stores, and restaurants.  He could hear the Cadillac’s motor revving just over his shoulder.  Jordan raced a delivery truck across the intersection just as the light turned red, but Carlos gunned his engine and blew through the crosswalk.
            Jordan started running now.
            Two blocks down, the skinhead skidded to a stop at the only business open.  He found himself in the doorway of the Belmont Street Deli, and a quick glance into the restaurant’s interior caught the attention of Sir Vinnie, who was grinning while holding a knife.  Spinning on his boot heels, Jordan slammed his back against the Deli’s exterior window.  He could see Smokey approaching slowly, his eyes locked on Carlos’s own – smiling a disturbing grin.
            Seeing no other option, Jordan bolted for the alley, where Vinnie had nearly assaulted him just a few nights earlier.

               *  *  *  *  *
 
            Standing alone in the middle of the dark alleyway, Jordan resembled Mike from The Blair Witch Project in the film’s final scene, where the boy was facing the cold basement wall, looking downward.
            Changing points-of-view, Jordan was now in the center of the page; his blurry skinhead features were just barely visible inside the Fleetwood’s headlights, which approached slowly from behind.  The Cadillac stopped, and its driver’s door opened.  Elvis Presley’s “Teddy Bear” could be heard on the sound system.  Carlos emerged, then slinked into the headlamps’ glare.  Carlos became a silhouette while Jordan became a shadow.          
            Elvis belted lyrics as Carlos slowly minced forward:
 
             “Baby, let me be … your lovin’ teddy bear …”
             “Put a chain around my neck, and lead me anywhere!”
 
            Jordan kept his head lowered, with his gloved hands folded in front of his groin.
            “Did you really think you could get rid of me that eaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasy?” Carlos taunted, creeping like a cat.  “I can see right through you, Jordan.  Your pain.  Your despair.  Your total lack of self-worth…”
            Shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet, Jordan maintained his face’s downward position, closing his eyes in the dark.  He listened to Carlos intently.
            “And you are worthless, Jordan.  You’re broken, just like Frankie.  Anyone can see that.  And everyone knows why you wear those long wristbands now.”
 
             “I don’t wanna to be a tiger … because tigers play too rough …”
              “I don’t wanna be a lion … cause’ lions ain’t the kind you love enough …”
 
            “You should hear what people say about you in the restaurant now,” Carlos went on, coming closer.  “They say you belong in a home, like a dog.  In a cage.  In a basement.  Locked away so no one can ever see you again, or see those ugly-assed scars on your arm…”
            The perspective pulled back to reveal Jordan in his entirety.
            He was holding the bat that Vinnie had used to kill rats a few nights earlier.
 
            “Just wanna be your teddy bear …”
            “Put a chain around my neck, and lead me anywhere …”
 
            The point-of-view changed again, and now Carlos & Jordan were seen from the side.  As Elvis sang from the left, Carlos reached out to touch Jordan’s shoulder from behind.  Carlos’ gloved fingers had just barely made contact with his leather jacket, when Jordan’s eyes went wide as he spun around violently and swung at Carlos’ face HARD, sending it sideways with a slice of what looked like hot cherry grenadine sailing through the nighttime air.
            WHOOMPH! – Carlos hit the pavement firmly, crumpling into a pile of flesh, bone, and hair.  Raising the bat again, Jordan swung it like a golf club, breaking Carlos’ arm through his leather – crack! – and sending him into a howling ball of pain.
            WHACK!
            WHACK!
            WHACK!
            Jordan brought the bat down on Carlos’ back multiple times.  He could hear muscles bruising like meat, and additional swings fractured Carlos’s leg above his ankle – as well as several fingers.
            RAGE filled Jordan’s face as he raised the bat high above his head.  He was about to bring it squarely on Carlos’ skull, but he stopped moments before swinging – when his eyes noticed something that would hurt him far worse than just a simple concussion.
            Repositioning his bat in his hands, Jordan turned to face Carlos’s car …
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            CRASH! – The left headlight shattered.
            CRASH! – The right headlight shattered.
            CLINK-ZING! – The chrome hood ornament went spinning into the night.
          CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! – Jordan’s bat reduced Smokey’s windshield to a testament in safety glass.  Continuing onward, the skinhead used the bat to leave deep dents in the Cadillac’s hood & trunk.  Once finished, Jordan strolled down the Fleetwood’s side nonchalantly, scratching the charcoal grey paint with the switchblade he’d found in Frankie’s pocket – Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
            CLANG! – the driver’s side mirror went airborne.
            CLANG -WHIR-WHIR-WHIR! – the passenger’s mirror spun like a hubcap.
            CREESH! – went the left taillight, CLATTER! – went the right.
            Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! went the paint on the passenger’s side, as Jordan – now trained in Sir Frankie’s obsessive need for order – wanted both sides to match.
            Reopening the driver’s side door, Jordan hit the steering wheel squarely in its center, triggering the airbag – HISSSSSSSSSSSSS!  Dropping the bat on the ground with a clatter, Jordan came up to Carlos – now a sniveling mass of Sephora & snot – unzipped his jeans, aimed his chastity device as best as he could, and pissed on Carlos’ face, making sure to thoroughly soak his hair.  Once done with that, Jordan tapped dry over Carlos’s stomach, zipped up, spat on his forehead, then headed down the alley with vengeful spite, turning onto Belmont, and resuming his walk towards Sir Frankie’s apartment.
            Elvis was singing “Devil in Disguise” on Smokey’s stereo now …
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Hey,” Jordan said quietly to Russ, who was sitting on the side of Frankie’s bed, while the Sir laid sleeping, curled up into a little ball under the covers.  Russ had been reading Good to Great on his iPad when Jordan entered, and stood up carefully so as not to disturb the resting.  He walked silently over to Frankie’s dresser, where Jordan was taking his jacket off and putting away his gloves.
            “Thanks for sitting with him tonight,” the skinhead whispered.  “I really appreciate it.”
            “It’s fine, Jordan.  Like I said, all you have to do is ask.”
            “Was everything okay tonight?” Jordan asked, draping his biker’s coat over his forearm.  “Did Sir Frankie say anything to you?”
            “Not a word,” Russ told him.  “He’s been asleep the entire time.”
            Russ followed the young man into the hallway, and waited while Jordan hung his jacket in the closet.  When Jordan turned on the light, Russ noticed the boy had blood spatter on his neck.  His eyes widening in concern, Russ touched him on the shoulder – “What happened tonight?”
            “Blah. I don’t want to talk about it, Russ.”
            “Oh, no you don’t.  There’s blood on your neck?”
            “Russ – please.  I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
            “God dammit, Jordan!  If something happened and you’re not telling me” –
            “STOP” – Jordan cut him off, smiling slightly.  He brought both hands up to Russ’s upper arms, and pulled him in close, hugging him.  “I’m fine,” he whispered in Russ’s ear. 
            “And that’s all you need to know right now.”
            The two men separated.
            “Okay then.” Russ reached for his own trench coat. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready…that’s how this usually works.”  He tugged the coat on and buttoned it closed.  He pulled on his gloves, then added his fisherman’s hat.
            “Have a good night, Russ.  And again – thanks for tonight.”
            Old Guard Russ nodded quietly, then stepped through the front door as Jordan held it open.  The two said goodnight one last time, and then the boy closed the door and locked it.  He shut the foyer light before returning to the bedroom.  He then took a long, hot shower before joining Sir Frankie in bed.
            Pulling the frail Dom in close, Jordan stroked his stroked Frankie’s chest with tenderness, as he assumed the role of protector.  Sadly, Jordan realized, this was only the beginning.  Sir Frankie was only just starting to remember what had happened in his childhood, and things were going to get much, much worse before they had even the slightest chance of getting better.
            Frankie wanted peace.
            Frankie wanted the chance to experience joy.
            And more than anything, Frankie wanted love from another, from a man who accepted him for exactly as he was.         
            Closing his eyes, Jordan cradled Frankie’s head on his shoulder.
            He could feel Frankie’s pupils moving rapidly behind their lids, trapped in deep REM sleep.  He tried not to imagine what must have been unfolding within his Sir’s broken mind, but as the Dom muttered incoherently, all Jordan could do was to hold him as tightly as possible.
            Eventually, over the course of the following hour, the two men would fade together into a shared narcoleptic oblivion.

Chapter Fifteen
​Conversational Interlude

---

​             iTunes Playlist: EVITA Soundtrack
            Original Broadway Cast Recording, 1979
 
 
            “Good night and thank you, Magaldi!  You’ve completed your task, what more could we ask of you now…?”
            “Please sign the book on your way out the door…that will be all, if we need you, we’ll call…but I don’t think that’s likely somehow…!”
           
            “So, what’s it like going an entire life without ever having made a genuine intimate connection with another human being?” Michael asked, leading Alan across the white marble floor.  “At the age of fifty-three, you must be very lonely, to the point of desperation.”
            “You don’t know the half of it,” Alan told Michael, vamping beside him beneath the crystal chandeliers.  “I’ve been so lonely for so long, I’ve literally become suicidal.”
            “I’m assuming that derives from depression,” Michael clarified, posing seductively after Alan twirled him around. “A long-term depression referred to as dysthymia, a type of sadness that can drag on for decades, hidden in plain sight of others.”
            “Indeed,” Alan responded, holding Michael’s arm up high and bringing their chests in close.  “And my sadness, over a period of decades, has, inevitably, devolved into grief.”
            “So, depression, loneliness, and grief,” Michael synopsized, kicking his ankle outward in a manner that mirrored Alan's movements.  “That’s a very dangerous trio of emotions, especially for someone who has trained himself to repress his own.”
            “That is correct,” Alan replied, turning Michael the other direction and coming up behind.  The two Leathermen locked hands again.  Frankie took the lead this time, and slinked across the tiled floor, but in a different direction.
           
            “Goodnight and thank you, whoever…she’s in every magazine, been photographed, seen, she is known…”
            “We don’t like to rush but your case has been packed.  If we’ve missed anything, you could give us a ring…but we don’t always answer the phone…!”
                       
            “Tell me Alan, going back to suicide, how close would you say that you actually are, in regards to committing the act?” Michael asked, spinning like a top as Alan held him with an outstretched arm.
            “That’s a difficult question to answer,” Alan told him. “I have lived with thoughts of suicide for so long, they’ve become completely normal to me.  As normal as breathing, eating, and using the toilet.  Some days I wake up and think: do I get out of bed for a cup of coffee, or do I cut my wrists?  It’s a coin-flip, really.  And it’s extremely frightening because I am not exaggerating or being flippant about having these daily thoughts.  I think about killing myself all…the…time.  Almost every moment of every day.  And it’s chilling because of how natural it’s become to me.”
            “Does anyone know that you feel this way?” Michael asked, bending his knee while stretching the other leg outwards and pointing his toe.  “Anyone at all?  Any friends?  Family?  How about the psychiatrist who prescribes your antidepressant medication?”
            “No,” Alan admitted.  “And that’s because I’m literally unable to share this information with them.  My mind is divided into compartments with protective barriers.  And every barrier has a lock and redundant layers of security.  My thoughts of suicide are so well protected, that my conscious mind – literally – cannot access them, to vocalize their life-threatening danger.  It’s like having a stash of cash in a safe, but you use it because you don’t have the combination.”
            “Who has the combination, then?” Michael inquired, his chest now pressed against Alan’s own, so their faces were locked in profile, nose-to-nose, Muir to Garrison – as the Leathermen posed in an Argentine stance.
 
            “Goodnight and thank you, whoever...we are so grateful you found her a spot on the sound radio…”
            “We’ll think of you every time she’s on the air…we’d love you to stay, but you’d be in the way…so do up your trousers and go…!”
 
            “It’s funny you should ask that,” Alan chuckled, taking Michael in his arms and sweeping him off his feet.  “There is one person who does have the ability to unlock the safe.”
            “Who?” Michael asked seductively, spinning around and around and around…
 
         SPLAT!
         From out of nowhere, Frankie’s body fell from great heights.  It hit the ground HARD, and its face-down figure splattered every possible direction, sending an arc of blood, torn flesh, muscle tissue, broken bones, and viscera into the air – like a dolphin doing aquarium tricks, splashing front-row observers.  Both Alan & Michael got nailed by airborne gore.  It hit their faces so forcefully, one could actually hear it SLAP.  Once it was over, red slop dripped off their chins, as the two now resembled Batman’s “Two Faces.”
            “Oh,” Michael realized, spitting out an arterial lining –
            “Yeah…I guess that does make sense.”
 
 
 
             “Oh, but it’s sad when a love affair DIES…!”

Chapter Sixteen
A Boy and his Dog

---

                “You stink, Sir.”
            “Yeah, I know.  I think I made my own gravy,” Frankie said, sitting up.  He threw his legs over the mattress, and, like 9 to 5, yawned and stretched and tried to come to life.  A large, framed poster of Star Trek: The Motion Picture hung over the bed, directly behind him.  Scratching his stomach, Frankie stood up and stretched like a cat.  He was wearing wrinkled satin pajamas, and his head, cheeks, and neck showed five-day’s worth of stubble.  His wiry goatee went every direction, and his skin was the color of spoiled milk – 
            He looked filthy.
            A faucet squeaked on in the bathroom, and was followed by the sound of running water.
           Frankie could see Jordan moving around in the room, laying out towels, opening a fresh bar of soap, and carefully arranging his Sir’s grooming tools on the vanity.  A few moments passed while the water heated up, and once it did, the skinhead appeared in the bathroom doorway –
            He was naked.
            “Your shower’s ready, Sir.”
            “Thanks,” Frankie told him, joining him by the stall’s glass doors.
            As steam billowed upward from the enclosure, Frankie held out his arms as the young man undressed him.  Jordan removed his Sir’s black pajamas and disgusting, crunched-up underwear before allowing Frankie to enter the shower first – then waited for his nod to follow.
            Once inside the shower, as hot piercing water jets pounded Frankie’s skin, the skinhead went to work washing his Sir, soaping his arms & legs, lathering his torso, back, crotch, taint, & ass, and shampooing Frankie’s flattop & beard several times, before soaking them with leave-in conditioner.  Jordan then addressed his Sir’s face, grabbing tools from the bathroom sink and working around the Crucifix on a chain while using them to shape and shave all the stubble.  Once that was finished, the young man rinsed Frankie’s hair, then allowed his Sir to hog the water, as he stood in the jets in silence, relishing the sting of liquid needles on his skin.
            After that was done, Sir Frankie washed his boy.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
           
            “Can I have a break, Sir?” Jordan asked bluntly, forty minutes later at the kitchen table.
            Frankie looked up from his computer.  He was dressed very casually today – blue jeans, white socks, black belt, an Alley T-shirt, bar vest, and no boots.  A steaming cup of coffee sat next to him, as did a half-eaten bowl of cereal, a banana peel, an empty glass of V8, and a MacBook Pro with a Dr. Steven Greer video on the screen.  He was absentmindedly drawing three-dimensional cubes in the margins of an open notebook while Schrodinger watched with amusement.
            “Whoa – I thought you enjoyed our breakfast club.”
            “I do, Sir.  I just need a break.”
            “A break for a day, a break for a couple days, a break for a week?” Frankie asked, knowing where the young man was going with this.  After these past few weeks, he wasn’t surprised at all.
          “Just for tonight, Sir,” Jordan told him, sitting in the chair next to him.  The skinhead took Frankie’s hand.  “I haven’t seen my friends in weeks, and there’s a pup party at Cell Block tonight.”
            “That’s fine,” Frankie told him.  “You deserve a night off.  What time does it start?”
            “Eight,” Jordan said.  “But things never really get going until around ten or eleven.”
            “And you’ll be leaving the nest for the night?” Frankie clarified.
            “Russ will be here,” Jordan said.  “I’ve asked him to come over if you said it was okay.”
          “If I said it was okay?” Frankie repeated.  “To let you leave the house?  Jordan, it’s fine.  I can survive without you for an evening.  Besides, these past few weeks have been a little rough, and to be honest, I could do with some time off from you.” –
            “No offense,” he added.
         Jordan smiled.  “I’ll make a lasagna this afternoon so you guys have something to eat.  I’ll probably run to Jewel this morning – need anything?”
            Frankie shook his head.
         “All right, then,” Jordan said.  Frankie noticed the young man was beaming.  “The house is clean, the bed has fresh sheets, and I think everything is caught up.  Besides, I’ll still be here for most of the day, so if there’s anything that you think of, just let me know.”
            “Yes, of course.” Frankie said.
            “Awesome.”  The young man was grinning now.  “Awesome, awesome, awesome…”
            “You wearing rubber or leather tonight?” Frankie asked, sipping his coffee.  “Your hood is neoprene, so you could get away with either.”
            “Haven’t decided,” Jordan said excitedly, standing up.  Frankie observed that he was bouncing like Tigger again – That’s good to see.  “I’m thinking…rubber?  The sleeveless top?  Rubber shorts, black socks, tall boots and a tail?”
            “And by tail, you mean a butt-plug?” Frankie elucidated.
            “You could use one yourself Sir, with what I found in your underwear this morning.”
            “Touché,” Frankie said indifferently, putting his reading glasses back on.  He resumed watching the Disclosure Project video.
            “Maybe I’ll wear blue socks to match my hood’s blue jowls,” Jordan said happily from the living room.  “It has blue veining too.”
          “Be careful of what you say about blue veins,” Frankie warned, yawning, then coughing into his fist.  He went to say something else, but stopped to cough again.
            A black Rottweiler with blue cheeks, eyebrows, and blue inner-ears popped its head into the doorway.  Its built-in collar was blue, too.
            “What do you think, Sir?”
            “Please. I think you need a handler with a firm leash,” Frankie told him.
             Giddy, the dog disappeared.
             Amused, Frankie took another sip of coffee and shot a message to a sub he hadn’t met on Michael’s behalf:
 
             Sorry – been very busy lately.  I’ll get back to you shortly.
 
            Setting down his phone, Frankie turned his attention to his laptop and started getting caught up on the news from the last few days.   He was just about to click on an entertainment story when he brought his fist to his mouth, quickly.
            He coughed again, this time for much longer.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “There’s food in the oven, salad in the fridge, there’s pop, juice, I forgot to buy bottled water, but you can still use the tap, cookies, crackers with hummus, fresh apples from Cermak, I already fed Schrodinger, and oh – I think AMC has all the James Bond movies for free on demand,” Jordan told Frankie and Russ, as the two men saw him off in the apartment’s foyer.  The young man was balls-to-the-walls London skinhead again this evening, but he carried his pup gear in a duffel over his shoulder; everyone changed in the bar on pup nights.
            “Have fun,” Old Guard Russ told the boy as he opened the apartment door.  Jordan gave Frankie a quick peck on the cheek before scampering into the hallway, and out the building’s front entrance.  Russ closed and locked the door before looking at Frankie.
            “Looks like it’s just the two of us, Sir.”
            “Indeed,” Frankie said, headed for the living room.
             Russ followed.  The two aging men sat down on the couch together, as Frankie reached for the remote.  He pulled up the SyFy Channel in time to see Superman II’s Zod, Ursa, & Non spinning off into space, pounding on a sheet of mirrored glass.  He then turned to AMC.
            “Oooh – Diamonds are Forever,” Frankie said.  “That’s my favorite one.”
            “I like The Spy Who Loved Me,” Russ told him.  “It’s The Saint in a disco.”
            “Roger Moore is actually my favorite Bond,” Frankie said, “but Diamonds are Forever is my favorite Bond movie.  Vegas in 1970 – wow!  And it has one of the greatest movie mistakes of all time.”
            “What’s that, Sir?”
            “It happens during the car-chase scene in downtown Vegas at night.  Bond is being chased by police, and he eludes them by turning into an alley that’s too narrow for him to pass.  So, they did a stunt – Bond maneuvers his car so it’s on two wheels, allowing it to fit into alley’s narrow space.  The problem is, the car goes in on its right two wheels – but emerges on its left two wheels.  And no one caught the mistake.”
            “That’s funny, Sir.”
            “Indeed.”
             The two men watched quietly as the opening titles began.  The room filled with the sultry purr of Shirley Bassey: “Diamonds are forever … they’re all I need to please me … they can stimulate and tease me …”
            Russ smiled sadly –
            “So, it’s come to this, Sir.”
            “What’s that?” Frankie asked.
            “It’s Friday night and here we are,” Russ said.  “Two old men, sitting at home watching television as all the young boys are out having fun in the clubs.”
            “We’re not old, Russ.”
            “In the gay world Sir, yes we are,” Russ insisted.  “Once you hit forty – hell, once you hit thirty – you may as well be put out to pasture, like a horse who’s ready for glue.”
            “It’s not that way anymore though,” Frankie told him.  “I mean, people watch what they eat, they go to gyms, they try to stay young.  These days forty is the new twenty.”
            “But we’re in our fifties, Sir.  And we’ll be sixty before you know it.”
            “That may be true, but…” Frankie’s words trailed off.  He stared at the television somberly.  Yes, that may be true.  He coughed quietly into his fist.  “I honestly don’t know what to say, Russ.”
            Russ “hmph’d,” watching the movie as well.
 
            “I don’t need love … for what good would do me?  Diamonds never lie to me.  For when love’s gone … they luster onnnnnnnnnnn…”
 
            Reaching over Russ’s shoulder, Sir Frankie pulled the old boy in close.
            They watched the film together, in silence.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            “Hey, Jordan.  Long time, no see!”
            The Cell Block doorman looked up happily when Jordan came in, and leaned forward on his stool to give the young man a hug.  In the front bar beyond, the club was rapidly filling with guys in various states of undress; the room was busy with men changing from street clothes to pup-gear, and Jordan could see bare chests, leather harnesses, and pup-hoods in every breed & color.  Jordan joined his fellow pups, and found a place to unpack, strip down, and put on his rubber shirt & pants.  He waited to put on his hood because he wanted to have a drink first.
            “Jordan!”
            “Oh, look – it’s Jordan!”
            “I can’t believe it.  How’ve you been, buddy?”
            “Now, where have you been?  We haven’t seen you in weeks.”
             The cheerful welcomes of friends surrounded him, as Jordan came up to the bar’s service area and ordered a cocktail.  While waiting for his drink, he answered questions about his absence, and happily caught up on all the latest pup-gossip, as more guys entered the bar with duffels over their shoulders.
            The mood of “pup night” was much different than normal gear nights, as pups by their nature were playful things, and frolicked with each other like kids on the playground.  Jordan was clearly at home with his tribe, and as the night went on – and the crowd kicked into high gear, Jordan, as always, found himself in the center of the pup-pack and laughed happily with his canine companions, as even without owners, the boys played well together.
            But then, everything STOPPED as Jordan came forward and addressed the Reader directly.
            Silence.
 
           *  *  *  *  *
 
            Hello, Reader. –
            It’s me again.
          I know it’s been quite a few chapters since I’ve talked to you like this, but it was decided that despite being complicated, the plot was still simple enough to follow – and that my interjection wasn’t necessary.  We hope that you’re enjoying the story so far.  We also hope that you will enjoy what’s to come.  For now, however, I’m going to keep this simple –
            We’re about to have another music number.
            The song is “Some Nights” by Fun.
 
           - J
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            Silence.
            The crowd’s movement resumed.
            As the evening progresses, and the pups & handlers mingle, the perspective moves backward to set up the following shot: 
 

• The bar counter is in the background, like a horizon.
• Eight bar stools (backless) are evenly-spaced in front of the counter.
• A pup is standing behind each of the stools.
• Laughing pups are in the foreground, positioned in such a way that they’re lower than those along the bar, so the Reader can see everyone’s movements.
• Thunderbirds are playing on a single television, behind the bar.
• The far background (the wall behind the bar counter) is filled with liquor bottles, stacks of clear glasses, and various colorful lights (like neon, glowing liquor-themed lamps, and fun bar signs, provided by alcohol retailers) in order to provide a visually-interesting backdrop.

 
            Laughing, chatting, drinking, Jordan “works the room” on his way to the bar.  If this were a movie, it would take about sixty seconds before Jordan finds himself in the middle of the crowd, the room, and in the center of the shot described above. 
            As soon as this happens, EVERYONE looks UP at the same moment –
            They sing to the Reader, directly:
 
           “Some nights, I stay up cashing in my bad luck –
            Some nights, I call it a draw …
            Some nights, I wish that my lips could build a castle –
            Some nights, I wish they’d just fall off.”
 
           “But I still wake up, I still see your ghost –
            Oh Lord, I’m still not sure what I stand for, oh-oh” –
 
            “(Oh-ooh-woah) What do I stand for?
             (Oh-ooh-woah) What do I stand for?”
 
             Most nights, I don’t know anymore …”
 
            Jumping off their barstools, the pups at the bar counter use the stools as timpani drums, banging on their seats like musicians in an orchestra.  At the same time, nearby pups pour their beers on the drums’ skins, causing a “water effect” as the drums, themselves, begin to glow from within.
 
             “Oh, oh-ooh-woah –
              Oh-ooh-woah, oh!”
 
               “Oh, oh-ooh-woah –
                Oh-ooh-woah, oh!”
 
            In the meantime, Jordan steps forward in the ensemble’s very center:
           
             “This is it, boys, this is war –
              What are we waiting for?
              Why don’t we break the rules already?”
 
               “I was never one to believe the hype –
                Save that for the black and white –
                Try twice as hard, and I’m half as liked,
                But here they come again to jack my style!”
 
            Jordan thrusts his pelvis three times to coincide with the music.
 
             “That’s alright (that’s alright) –
               I found a martyr in my bed tonight –
              He stops my bones from wondering just who I am, who I am, who I am –
              Oh, who am I?  Mmm. Mmm-mmm …”
             
            The crowd rushes inward, surrounding Jordan in a “U,” with the drums still clearly visible in the background.
 
             “Well, some nights I wish that this all would end –
              Cuz I could use some friends for a change!
              And some nights, I’m scared you’ll forget me again –
              Some nights, I always win (I always win)” –
 
              “But I still wake up, I still see your ghost –
               Oh Lord, I’m still not sure what I stand for, oh-oh” –
 
              “(Oh-ooh-woah) What do I stand for?
                (Oh-ooh-woah) What do I stand for?”
 
                 “Most nights, I don’t know anymore …”
 
            The majority of the bar’s lights dim suddenly, as a “twinkling” effect appears around the perimeter.  A single, soft spotlight illuminates Jordan from above, with sparkles floating down from the ceiling, like snow.
 
                 “So, this is it?
                  I sold my soul for this?
                 Washed my hands of that for this?
                  I miss my mom and dad for this?
 
                  When I see stars, that’s all they are –
                  When I hear songs,
                  They sound like a swan, so come on –
                  Oh, come on, oh come on, oh come on…”
 
            ALL the pups are lined up behind Jordan now, as the background drums are now on wheels – and being pushed forward, as their drummers’ pound away with exaggerated movements, as though performing visually for the Reader.
 
                  “Well, this is it guys, that is all –
                   Five minutes in, and I’m bored again –
                   Ten years of this, I’m not sure if anybody understands!”
 
                  “This one is not for the folks at home –
                   Sorry to leave, Mom, I had to go –
                   Who the fuck wants to die alone all dried up in the desert sun?”
 
                  “My heart is breaking for my sister –
                   And the con that she called “love” –
                   And then I look into my nephew’s eyes” –
 
                  “Man, you wouldn’t believe …
                    The most amazing things …
                    That can come from …”
           
                   “Some terrible niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiights …!”
 
            Now on the move, the drums are pushed into the center of the shot, while their skins glow brilliant white, and the water-effect becomes fiery embers.  The entire ensemble comes up straight to the Reader, so close you can feel the airborne water coming off the paper from the drums.
 
                  “Oh, oh-ooh-woah –
                   Oh-ooh-woah, oh!
                   Oh, oh-ooh-woah –
                   Oh-ooh-woah, oh!”
 
            Jordan strolls in from the side, twirling his pup hood (now removed) in his hand, like a cane.  He stops at the center of the chorus.  His demeanor is noticeably more casual.
 
                 “The other night, you wouldn’t believe –
                  The dream I just had about you and me.”
 
                   “I called you up, but we both agree” –
 
                  “It’s for the best you didn’t listen …
                    It’s for the best we get our distance, oh –
                    For the best you didn’t listen …”
 
                   “It’s for the best we get our distance, oh …”
 
            As Jordan stands posed – legs spread outward, hands folded in front of his waist, head turned downward – the music softens and the page fades to black.
 
                *  *  *  *  *
 
            The closing credits of The Spy Who Loved Me scrolled slowly across the television as Carley Simon sang the title’s ballad.  The living room couch was empty as Frankie & Russ were in the kitchen, raiding the refrigerator at midnight.
            “Where’s the salad?” Russ asked, as the old man was hunched over the crisper drawers, digging through vegetables.  “He usually buys those salads in bags.  The kinds that come with croutons and dressing.”
             WHUMP!
            The KNIFE stabbed Jordan’s lasagna, as Frankie dug into it on the stove.  “Who the fuck wants lettuce, Russ?  I’m looking at meat and pasta, here…man’s food!”
            He hacked off a chunk, and threw it onto a plate – splat!
            Standing up, Russ kicked the door closed with his boot.  He was holding a bag of Asian Sesame Salad in one hand, and a container of French Onion dip in the other.  He waddled like a duck before setting them on the counter, next to his soda glass which still had a few swallows of water in it.
            “French Onion dip?” Frankie asked.  “What is this – 1972?  How old does Jordan think we are, anyway?”
            “Should I put it back, Sir?”
            “Hell NO, get the chips!” Frankie said excitedly, shaking the dip like a cocktail. 
            “I love this shit!”
            “Very honestly, me too, Sir,” Russ admitted, reaching for a bay of Lays.  “My Mother used to make it using sour cream and French Onion soup mix.”
            “Lipton?”
            “Yes Sir.”
            “Did she ever make Knorr vegetable dip?”
            “Yes Sir.  And Green Goddess, too.”
            Tearing open the bag, Frankie grabbed a chip and dug it into the thick, gooey paste.  He shoved it in his mouth, closed his eyes and chewed.  “This is divine.”
            “All we need is a port-wine cheese ball!  You think you’re a man, but some foods bring you right back to childhood, Sir.  This reminds me of growing up, eating French Onion dip and potato chips on the picnic table, listening to Neil Sedaka on the boom-box.”
            “Oh – I wonder, wonder, who, bah-do-do-do-” Frankie sang, reminiscing.
            “Love the Monotones, but that’s the wrong song, Sir.”
            “It’s wrong?  Which one did he sing?”
            “Victrola: Breaking up is hard to do without a big glass of Chardonnay,” Russ hinted.
             “I’m guessing that’s my cue,” Frankie said, looking up. “Want some wine?”
            “Ah – what?”
            “Red, red, wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine,” Frankie sang UB40.
            “That sounds good Sir, but I thought you only kept beer in the house.”
            Opening the pantry door, Frankie rummaged through the shelves – “Shit.”
            “Did you misplace something, Sir?”
            “Never – wait.” He found a bottle of Trader Joe’s merlot in the back.  “Here – three buck chuck! I used to cook with it, but I really don’t like reduction sauces.  It’s still fresh, though.”
            “Did you twist the top tightly, Sir?”
            “I’d shut up and just give me your glass,” Frankie told him.
            “Ah – it still has water in it, Sir.”
            “Like that bothers me?  Wanna see a trick?” Frankie asked, pouring anyway –
            “Eureka! I’ve just turned your water into wine.”
            “Can I assume I’m in the presence of divinity?” Russ asked, unimpressed.
            “Thy will be done: Bring God the chips & dip, my son.”
            “I’ll bring you the chips and dip, Sir.”
            The two men returned to the living room and plopped down on the sofa.  Setting his lasagna on the coffee table, Frankie grabbed the remote and scrolled through the On-Demand menu.  “All right…I love James Bond, but two movies are enough for one night.  What would you like to watch, Russ?”
            “Whatever Sir wants is fine,” Russ answered, sipping his wine.      
            Frankie grumbled.  “I used to go through this with Jordan, Russ.  I’m asking you a question: what would you…like to watch?  I have made the decision to let you choose the movie.  Or the TV show.  Or the YouTube video – I don’t care.  Cut this whatever-Sir-wants bullshit, okay?”
          “Right. Yes Sir.”
           “I’ll ask again, what do you want to watch?”
            On hearing this, Russ thought for a moment.  “Can we watch a rom-com, Sir?”
          “No problem,” Frankie winced.  Russ saw this. 
            “Actually Sir, let’s watch an action movie instead” –
          “ROMANTIC COMEDY MOVIES,” Frankie said loudly into the remote’s microphone feature.  He turned towards Russ as the menu popped up. 
            “What…God-awful…sappy-assed movie…would you like to watch, Russ?”
            Old Guard Russ smiled –
            “Terms of Endearment, Sir.”
            Frankie raised his eyebrows.  “Actually, that’s not as bad as I thought.”  He called up the film on the menu, chose it, then pressed PLAY.  In a moment, a young Aurora Greenway entered her daughter’s darkened bedroom and woke her up in the crib.
            “Thank you, Sir.”
            Settling back into the couch, Frankie crossed his legs and threw his arm over Russ’s shoulder again, pulling him in close.  The two men ate quietly as the screen went dark and the Michael Gore theme began to play.  A few minutes passed as the movie began, starting with the credits, then the post-funeral scene, then the following images of Emma growing up under the watch of her controlling mother.
            At one particular moment, as the screen went black during a scene change, Frankie brought Russ’s face in close and kissed him tenderly.  The dark screen caught their reflection, and for just a fleeting second, revealed Frankie’s true personality age – a young man, intertwined with someone much older.
            And the moment was beautiful …
           
            *  *  *  *  *
 
             Jingle, jingle …
 
            The front door deadbolt twisted open at three in the morning, as a clearly-tipsy Jordan entered the apartment foyer with a happy smile on his face.  He closed and locked the door, dropped his duffel on the floor, hung his beat to hell biker’s jacket in the closet, and quietly approached the living room entrance, where he found Russ & Frankie fast asleep on the couch.  Russ was sitting up, and Sir Frankie was curled up on the cushions, with his head on the old boy’s lap.  Jordan smiled again.
            “Russ,” he whispered, touching the man on his shoulder.  Russ woke up with a snort, then settled once he realized where he was.  He looked at the time.
            “Do you want to spend the night?” Jordan whispered.  “You can stay in the guest room – I’m sure Sir Frankie won’t mind.”
            Inhaling sleepily and clearing his throat, Russ shook his head.  He carefully stood up to avoid waking Frankie, and gently placed a throw pillow under his head.  Russ stepped away quietly.  He followed Jordan into the foyer.
            “You smell like a brewery,” Russ told the young man, as he opened the closet.  “You had fun tonight, I take it?”
            With Frankie visible sleeping over his shoulder, Jordan nodded happily.  “I did, Russ.  I really, really did.”
            “Did you stay out of the clubroom?” Russ asked, putting on his biker’s jacket.
            “God yes,” Jordan told him.  “That place is a zoo on weekends.  I mean, Touché’s clubroom is bad enough, but at least Sir AmMar is always there to supervise.  The Cell Block’s clubroom? On weekends?  I mean, it’s fucking insane.  I’m actually surprised that the city hasn’t raided them yet.”
            “Yeah, the clubroom is very dangerous,” Russ agreed.  He looked at Frankie asleep on the sofa before turning back to Jordan.  “Are you ever going to tell me why you had blood on you the other night?”
            “Yes, but not tonight,” Jordan told him.  “Very honestly, tonight I just feel…content.”
            “Content?” Russ repeated.
            “Yeah.”
            “Why content?”
            “I don’t know, Russ.  I just…” Jordan looked at Sir Frankie again.  “I’m just starting to feel like, maybe I’m where I’m supposed to belong, you know?”
            “With Sir Frankie?”
            “Maybe.”
            “He has a lot of baggage, Jordan.”
            “Yeah, but so do I.  And it doesn’t seem to bother him one bit.”
            “Are you thinking about building a relationship with him?” Russ asked point-blank.  “I mean, I know you two have an arrangement for the moment, but a relationship is something completely different.  An arrangement is fun, but a relationship is serious.”
            With Frankie asleep in the background, Russ added: “Are you ready to get that serious, Jordan?”
            “I think I am, Russ.  I really think I am.”
            “Okay, then.”  Russ put both hands on Jordan’s shoulders and gave them a firm shake.  “Then, I’ll help you with what you need to do next.”
            “Thanks, Russ.”
            “Have a good night,” Russ told him.
            Jordan smiled again as the old man unlocked the door and left the apartment.  Closing the door, the young man carefully locked it, then shut the foyer light before passing the living room entrance – where Frankie was still curled up on the sofa, dead to the world.
            Jordan walked down the hall and into the Master bedroom.  He turned on the lights, pulled back the bed covers, then returned to the hallway where he went to the kitchen, passing the living room again – where Frankie was now sitting up on the couch.
            Silence.
            His eyes were staring straight ahead, and his expression was similar to Jack Nicholson’s at the end of The Shining …
            But Jordan was too lost in his own happy place to notice the dangerous change in demeanor.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
               WHUMP!
            The KNIFE stabbed the lasagna he’d made earlier, left out by two late middle-aged men, who had stayed up waaaaaay past their bedtime, watching sad movies on TV.  Hacking off a chunk of pasta, Jordan went to place it on a plate, when a hand suddenly covered his mouth from behind, while a second aggressively grabbed his chest under his armpits and slammed his body backwards.
            The dish of lasagna clattered on the floor, as the hand over his mouth quickly snatched the kitchen knife and brought it to Jordan’s throat, threatening to cut his windpipe.  The young man’s body went numb in an instant, as his combat boots were lifted off the floor.
          “You fucking faggot piece of shit,” Frankie’s guttural grumble growled in Jordan’s ear. The young man’s heart nearly slammed out of his ribcage, as his hands thrashed violently, trying to find something to grab. 
            “Where do you think you’re going, boy?” 
            “You’re not leaving.  You’re not going anywhere…”
            Realizing his situation, Jordan let his hands fall limp to his sides.
            He felt his boot toes barely touching the tile floor.
            His eyes rolled into the back of his head…
            “Youth doesn’t last forever, you know.  And it can be taken away so easily, with just the right touch of a blade…”
            Jordan felt Frankie turn the knife so its sharp edge pressed against his esophagus. 
            He felt the metal push down, drawing blood…
            “All I have to do is to press right here, just a little more…”
            A hot trickle of wet crept down his neck.
            “And your life will be over, right here in my kitchen…”
            CREESH!
            The bottle of merlot that Frankie had taken out earlier smashed against his temple and shattered.  Shocked by the pain, he released his grip on Jordan, who had just hit him with the glass container – moments before being cut.  The distraction was just enough to allow him to break free from Frankie’s grasp, and bolt to the foyer, unlock the door, and run out of the building into the night without his coat.  He wouldn’t stop running until he reached his own apartment, where Russ answered his repeated pounds on the door, in a robe & slippers, with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth.
            No words were spoken as he quickly let Jordan inside.

Chapter Seventeen
The Spectacle of the Clubroom

---

        Frankie’s 80’ Eldorado pulled into the Jewel parking lot two months later, and glided to an air-suspension stop into the first open space it found.  The brake lights flashed red as the transmission was put into park, and was followed by the whinny of the engine shutting off.  A moment passed before the driver’s door swung open, and a pair of mid-heeled motorcycle boots appeared, touching the pavement on unsteady footing.
 
                *  *  *  *  *
 
            With gloved hands gripping the metal handle, Michael leaned on the shopping cart to help support his weight.  He was wearing his usual attire: square-toed boots, loose-fitting blue jeans, biker’s jacket, and a basic Muir.  Even with the clothing, his figure still appeared gaunt, and his movements projected an air of feebleness, as he gently reached for items on the shelves and dropped them into the basket.  He paused at the end of each aisle to catch his breath, and when he stopped to grab a 24-pack of water from a display, a staff member had to help him lift it.
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
            The apartment door opened with a grind and a squeak, and Michael entered the foyer with two handfuls of bags.  He immediately set them on the floor to rest, and after a few moments, dragged the water inside from the hallway.  Closing the door, he stopped to catch his breath, then entered the living room, where he unzipped his coat and tossed it on the coffee table.  He next glanced at the desk, where several red envelopes sat by the computer – along with an unopened overnight package labeled “Urgent.”  He looked at the mail, then at the groceries, then at Schrödinger – who was staring back in worry.  He chose to ignore everything and plopped on the sofa to rest his eyes for a moment.
            He woke up several hours later.
 
              *  *  *  *  *
 
            Sitting at the kitchen table, Frankie poked at the frozen pasta dinner that Michael had heated up for him.  It was a Marie Calendar’s meatloaf; Michael told Frankie to eat it because it had both protein and vegetables.  It wasn’t as good as the food Michael usually made of course, but their meals lately had chosen for ease of preparation, rather than the joy of cooking.  Scrolling through the nearby Recon profiles, Frankie paused at Abductedboy1998 and pulled up Jordan’s listing, to check if there were any changes since the boy had fled the apartment, nearly two months ago.  He didn’t see any, which he interpreted as a good sign, then scrolled to the bottom of the text:
            He touched the CRUISE button.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “What’s wrong?” Old Guard Russ asked, as he passed the open door to Jordan’s bedroom.  The young man was sitting Indian-style on the floor in front of his bed, looking at an open laptop.  He seemed angry.
            “Dude, Sir Frankie just cruised me on Recon,” Jordan informed him.
            “I see,” Russ said.  “Did he message you?”
            “Ah, nope.  Just the cruise.”
            “Nice?  I guess? Are you going to cruise him back?”
            “And why would I do that, Russ?”
            Russ leaned on the threshold and crossed his arms.  He noticed that Jordan had laid out his club clothes on the bed, and that the skinhead was clearly headed out for the night.
            “What are you going to do?”  Russ asked.
            Jordan didn’t hesitate –
            “I’m going to look for a real Sir.”
           
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            Big Bad Brian was posed at the front bar counter, arms crossed, shoulders hunched like James Dean in Boulevard of Broken Dreams, legs extended with one knee bent, like a rancher leaning on a fence.  Touché was busy with the Saturday night crowd, and the sound system was playing Howard Jones’ “Things Can Only Get Better.”  Frankie entered the club later than normal, and despite his layers of elaborate leather attire, he still looked insubstantial – a marionette of a leatherman, led by unseen strings.
            “Frankie!  How’ve you been?” Sir Zack asked, coming up.  “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
            “Hey Zach,” Frankie said, touching the man on his shoulder.  “I needed a little break from everything.  I took a few weeks to hibernate.”
            “What did you do?”
            “I ate, slept, watched a lot of Netflix.”
            “Television?” Zack asked, noticing Frankie’s weight.  “You don’t look so good.”
            “Crazy, but I’m fine,” Frankie assured him –
            “Hey – I also had Covid for a week or so.  Barely ate anything.”
            “Covid,” Zack repeated, not quite buying it.
            “Right. Who’s here tonight?” Frankie quickly changed the subject.
            “Ah, I think everyone’s here,” Zack told him.  “It’s the Full Moon party.”
            “Full moon? Is that anything like the full-frontal party?”
            “That happens every night in the clubroom, Frankie.  You know that.”
            The men nodded, separated, and went different directions.  Frankie worked his way to the serving area, ordered a water from Bob, then joined the rolling waves of people, as he swam towards the clubroom.  Ten minutes later, after touching base with several acquaintances, he had entered the S-shaped hallway and headed for the back.
            Unbeknownst to him, Carlos had been watching him from behind a pup-hood.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
            “I’m crucified, crucified like my savior… saintlike behavior, a lifetime I prayed…”
            “I’m crucified for the holy dimension … Godlike ascension, heavens away…”
 
            Army of Lover’s “Crucified” blasted from the clubroom stereo as Frankie entered Touché’s back bar and found a place along the drink ledge to stand.  Positioning himself so his back was against the wall, Frankie allowed the ledge to help support his weight, as he adopted a pose that resembled Anthony Perkins, standing in the dark beneath the motel OFFICE neon, observing Janet Leigh in profile.
            Frankie looked down for just a moment –
            And when he looked up, he saw the clubroom through the trembling eyes of Alan.
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
              “I’ve seen the deepest darkness and wrestled with the gods” –
              “Ride the noble harness, raining cats and dogs” –
               “I stand before my maker like Moses on the hill” –
              “My Guinness record breaker, I abide your will!”
 
            As the torrential dance beat rained down on the hall of leathermen, the red & white spotlights alternated in color.  As always, the back-bar patrons were silhouettes against pulsating pornography, while the air was filled with hands, arms, shoulders, and heads – all flaying to the rhythmic disco.
            And at that moment, Brian entered the clubroom.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
               “I’m crucified, crucified like my savior … saintlike behavior, a lifetime I prayed…”
               “I’m crucified for the holy dimension … Godlike ascension, heavens away…”
 
            From AmMar’s point-of-view on the service-side the bar, Jordan was positioned in the middle of the shot, with the dancers directly behind him against a background of Triple-X videos.  Like Humphry Bogart in Casablanca’s “Rick’s Cafe,” the skinhead sat alone at the bar, nursing a glass of Basil Hayden. Oblivious to his surroundings, Jordan seemed completely lost in his head.  He didn’t even notice as Sir Brian came up to his side, paused to look him over, before touching him on the shoulder.
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
              “Prophets I’ve been reading, stories I’ve been told” –
              “Before I end my breathing, I travel in the soul!”
 
            From Alan’s point-of-view, the crowd was so dense, it suffocated him. Pushing through the anonymous hands & faces felt like fighting other desperate people, who had pressed against the only exit door to a room being engulfed by fire.  The house mix filled his ears so quickly, he could only hear snippets of the lyrics; they became little bursts of static between a deafening hum that shook his skull to the point of making his eardrums itch. 
            He could see Jordan at the bar now.
            The young man looked up when he saw him.
            Alan fought towards the skinhead, as though throwing dancers aside, and when he finally reached him, he opened his arms in the widest way possible –
            “FRANKIE, WHAT THE FUCK?” Brian snapped, as Alan pushed the boy aside and grabbed him in a bear-hug.
              And the disco & dancers stopped  COLD –
 
             *  *  *  *  *
 
          In the silence of the clubroom, Alan intertwined with Brian, with one hand on his waist and the other pushing Brian’s arm upwards, positioning it in a Viennese waltz.  Brian then took the lead and the two leathermen came together, nose-to-nose, Muir to Muir, a Tom of Finland picture in a promenade pose.
            And the chorale began:
 
               “Joy!”
            “Joy!”
 
             “Joy, beautiful spark of Divinity, Daughter of Elysium!”
             “We enter, drunk with fire, heavenly one, thy sanctuary!”
 
             “Thy magic binds again, what custom strictly divided!”
             “All people become brothers, where thy gently wing abides!
 
            With fingers locked, the two Sirs twirled into the heart of the clubroom floor, forcing others aside.  As the Austrian tenor rang through the speakers, Alan & Brian locked eyes on the other.                
             And then Alan spoke:
            “I love you, Brian.”
            “Look, Frankie – I know.”
            “And why don’t you love me back?”
            “Now, you can’t force someone to love you, Frankie.  I think you already know that.”
            “That’s not fair. You’ve been with me my whole life,” Alan told him. 
            “And that’s the point, Frankie.  You’re a grown man now.  You need to stop living in your head and join the real world.  Christ – you’re 53.  My job was done a long time ago.”
            “But I don’t want you to leave,” Alan protested.
            “I was never meant to be here this many years,” Brian reminded him.
        “But you’re the only one who gave me hope after I was diagnosed with cirrhosis.  You told me my liver would regenerate.  You gave me something positive to focus on.  I’d be dead if I didn’t have you.  My depression was overwhelming, and I was becoming suicidal.  I was suicidal the night I texted that I loved you.  But then you posted all those pictures on Facebook…”
            “Dude, I wasn’t going to let you die – obviously – but I also shouldn’t be here in the first place.  Listen to me, Frankie:  You need to fend for yourself.  You cannot depend on other people, or allow them to get close to you” –
            “Period.”
            “All right, but it seems like every memory I have comes from you,” Alan begged –
            “Can’t you see what’s happening to me?  What if you’re not real?”
            “That’s just it, Frankie.  My memory has been with you – not me.  And you’ve taken that memory and turned it into something that isn’t real.  And that’s very dangerous because with the way you experience time, it’s easy for you to get trapped in the past.  I do understand why you focused on my memory, but I am not the person that you think I am.  I have no desire to be with you, and I don’t want you calling, emailing, messaging me online or texting anymore.  And if you ever show up on my porch in the middle of the night again, I’m calling the police.  I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’ve made a decision:” 
            “It’s time to move on, Frankie.  You need to evolve past this” –
            “If you don’t, I’m getting a restraining order.”
 
                     “Brothers, drink and agree (with me)
                  That all sinners shall be forgiven –
                  And hell shall be no more.”
 
            The sound in the room grew long and distorted.
            “Why are there so many of me, Brian?”
            “What?”
            FLASH!
            The white spotlights momentarily blinded the room, as the spectacle of the clubroom resumed, uninterrupted.
            “Why are there so many of me?” Alan repeated, while the Crucified dance-mix ricocheted through Touché’s back bar.  The infamous 2am rush had begun, and the crowd was rapidly changing from serious leathermen to drunken cruisers.  The room was totally packed with people, shoulder-to-shoulder, with no way to quickly exit should there be an emergency …
          And as Alan started to lose his shit in public, Brian realized to his horror that Frankie had picked the worst possible moment to have an emotional breakthrough.
 
                 *  *  *  *  *
 
                “I’m crucified, crucified like my savior… saintlike behavior, a lifetime I prayed …”
                 “I’m crucified for the holy dimension … Godlike ascension, heavens away …”
 
            “Sir, what’s going on!!?” Jordan rushed to Frankie’s side.   
            “WE HAVE TO GET HIM OUT OF HERE NOW,” Brian yelled, swiftly propping him up by the armpits, pretending to hug him back. 
            “Why are there so many of me?  Why are there so many of me?  Why are there so many of me” – Frankie muttered, burying his head into Brian’s shoulder.  “Why a there so many…wh-wh-wh-why are there…?” 
            His eyes had gone white.
            “What should I do?” Jordan asked quickly.
            “Take his shoulder!” Brian commanded.  “Prop him up!”
            “Got it!”
            “Here!” Brian fished out of pair of sunglasses from his pocket.  He threw them to Jordan.  “Put them on him!”
            “…Why? Why? Why? ...”
            Taking the shades with Frankie still over his shoulder, Jordan shoved them onto his face.              “Now what?”
            “…w-w-w-why?...”
            Tugging Frankie’s Muir over his eyes, Brian hastily scanned the room, looking for the closest exit.  Aside from the armed emergency door to the alley, the only way out was back through the club, then out the way they came.  This was not going to be easy…
 
              “I’m crucified, crucified like my savior … saintlike behavior, a lifetime I prayed …”
               “I’m crucified for the holy dimension … Godlike ascension, heavens away …”
 
            “Listen!” Brian leaned in close to Jordan and gave him quick instructions.  “I’ll hold him on the left like we’re having fun, and you hold him on the right – but act like he’s the one leading you forward.  Got it?”
            “Yes Sir.”
            “Don’t let anybody talk to him!”
            “Yes Sir.”
            “If someone approaches to start a conversation, just ignore them and keep moving towards the front door!  If that happens, they’re probably drunk anyway, and will forget everything when they sober up in the morning!”
            “Got it, Sir!”
         “And again, act like we’re having fun!  Laugh, smile, do whatever the fuck you have to – just do not let anyone know what’s happening, especially in the front, where its quieter!”
            “Understood!”
            “Ready?”
            “Yes Sir!”
            “GO!”

               “I’m crucified –
                Crucified like my saaaaaaaaaaavior …”
               “Saaaaaaaaaaaintlike behavior, a lifetime I prayed …”
 
            As white spotlights rained down from the heavens, Frankie was carried with outstretched arms over the shoulders of Brian & Jordan, as they led him through the clubroom, and into the S-shaped hallway.  Ignoring patrons’ looks, glares, and repeated attempts to engage, the Sir & boy glided Frankie through the front bar, then onto the sidewalk outside.  Once they had a gained a few feet between them and the club, Brian changed his position, and held Frankie up from behind.
            “Did he drive here?” Brian asked Jordan.
            “I don’t know, Sir.”
            “Go through his pockets.  See if he brought his car keys.”
            “Got em’, Sir!”
            “I don’t suppose that relic happens to have a key fob with a remote lock?”  Brian asked, already knowing the answer.
            Jordan shook his head.  “But I know where Sir Frankie likes to park.  If you keep him here, I’ll get the car.”
            “Do it.”
            Nodding once, the young man bolted down the sidewalk, texting while he ran.  He then shot across the street to the nearby hardware store, where the guys with vehicles liked to park.  While he was gone, Brian pulled Frankie up slightly, so they both would be more comfortable.
            Brian then took a moment to breathe.
            Jesus fucking Christ …
 
            *  *  *  *  *
 
            Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrind – SQUEAK!
 
            The door to Frankie’s apartment swung open as Jordan entered first and turned on the light.  Brian followed behind, carrying Frankie in his arms.  “Where’s his bedroom?”
            “Down the hall, to the right, Sir.”
            As Brian & Frankie disappeared into the Master bedroom doorway, Jordan went to follow, but stopped when he heard a knock at the front door.  Returning to the foyer, Jordan found Russ waiting outside the apartment.  He let him in.
            “Where are they?” Old Guard Russ asked, as he took off his leather trench.
            “Sir Brian took Sir Frankie into the bedroom,” Jordan told him – 
            “They’re in there right now.”
            “Can I have some coffee or something?” Russ asked, tugging off his gloves.  He looked like he’d been attending some sort of fetish party, as he was dressed head-to-toe in a fitted latex catsuit.
            “Of course,” Jordan told him, heading for the kitchen. 
            As Russ joined Sir Brian in the bedroom, Jordan passed the living room on his way to make coffee.  He didn’t notice Michael, who had fallen asleep on the couch much earlier, with the Encounter at Far Point episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation on TV.
            The young man vanished into the apartment’s kitchen.
           
            *  *  *  *  *
           
            “Who am I?
            When I look in the mirror, my reflection’s never the same.
            Sometimes I see a monster. 
            Sometimes I see a stud.          
            Sometimes I see a middle-aged man; sometimes a boy, struggling for control.
            There are times when I just see a “thing” looking back, and when it nods its head, I sometimes nod back.  Over the last eleven years, that thing’s grown hardened by regret…drinking, smoking, losing count of anonymous tricks, and trying desperately…and hopelessly…to find inspiration in another.  But no matter what reflection looks back, the one thing I always see is the fear of true identity, a male by default with the emotion of a woman. 
            Who am I?”   
           
             *  *  *  *  *

            “Where do you think he is, Sir?” Old Guard Russ asked Brian, who was standing at the foot of Frankie’s sleigh bed some time later.  Russ was to the right of the comforter, Brian was at the front; Jordan was laying sideways on the left side of Frankie – who, himself, was centered on the bed, on his back with his hands folded on his chest, beneath 1979’s Star Trek poster.  The guys had taken off Frankie’s coat, but had left his leather on, including boots & Muir.  Sir Frankie was clearly sound asleep, but his eyes were moving rapidly behind his lids, bouncing back and forth like a pinball in motion, in deep, fitful, and frightening REM sleep.
            “He’s somewhere deep in his head,” Brian said observably, holding his officer’s hat in gloved hands.  “God only knows where that might be.”
            “Do you think he’ll be okay?” Russ asked.
            Brian closed his eyes, and shook his head – I have no idea.
            “I’m sorry I went away,” Jordan whispered into Frankie’s ear. 
            “Do you want some coffee, Sir?” Russ asked.
            Brian shook his head again and replaced his Muir.  “I can’t stay.  I’m running a group at nine, and that’s in” – he looked at his iWatch – “forty-five minutes.  Shit!”
            Sir Brian stepped away and ordered an Uber on his phone.
            Jordan nestled in closer to Frankie. 
            “How about you?” Russ asked him.  “Want some caffeine?”
            “No,” Jordan told him softly with his eyes closed. 
            Russ followed Brian into the foyer, where the Sir was zipping his biker’s jacket.  “The car will be here in seven minutes.  I should be able to make it on time.”
            “Do you want something to take with you, Sir?” Russ asked.  “A bottle of water?” –
            “An apple?”
            “No,” Brian told him, putting on his sunglasses.  “I’ll check back later this afternoon, but I need to stop by my place first.  Lucy will have been in the house since this morning, and I’m sure she’ll have shit on the floor somewhere.  You can’t expect a dog that small to hold it for all day.”
            “Would you like me to let her out, Sir?” Russ offered –
            “I don’t mind.  Jordan can stay with Sir Frankie.”
            Brian considered this.  “Actually…yes, Russ – I’d appreciate it.  Give me your phone.  Oh – but unlock it first.”
            Russ unlocked his iPhone and passed it to Brian.  Sir Brian then accessed the contact list, and added his name and phone number.  Once done, he texted himself.  He gave Russ the phone back.
            “I’ll text you my address and the alarm password once I’m in the Uber,” he said.
            “Thank you, Sir.”
           Brian gave Russ a firm pat on the shoulder before leaving the apartment.  Once he was gone, Russ returned to the bedroom and stood in the doorway.  He went to say something, but then decided against it.  In his absence, Jordan had pressed himself as close to Sir Frankie as possible, with his bent leg and arms cradling Frankie’s torso – like the iconic Rolling Stone cover of John Lennon & Yoko. 
          Quietly, the old man watched the boy whisper ,
                                                                                                     “I’ll never go away”                                               
                                                                               “I’ll never go away.”                     
                                                                               “I’ll never go away.”

THANKS FOR READING!

The manuscript is 100% complete - and available on request.
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- Dave