MIKE LEANED against his truck outside, waiting for Truman. It was at moments like this one that he wished he smoked. There was something he couldn’t deny in his mind’s eye about a man waiting for the person he loved to arrive, leaning against a pickup truck, smoking a cigarette, eyes full of longing. It was sexy. Romantic.
Reality check! Think about your two-pack-a-day dad and his disgusting hacking every morning, right before he lights up. Consider the stink of him. The premature age lines, drawn by smoke, on his face. Mike shook his head at his thoughts. There was nothing sexy or romantic about smoking.
Still, he hoped that when Truman finally emerged from the field house, he would find Mike sexy and romantic.
Earlier, Mike had struggled out of that insane women’s get-up (and the makeup! Lord, that was a whole ’nother story) he’d donned to show his love and support for Truman. Someone passing by the truck might have thought he was wrestling a bear in the cab, such were his contortions. He’d hoped a cop wouldn’t happen by once he was naked! After all, he was in a school parking lot, even if it was at its outer edges.
But he’d changed quickly into the kind of comfy stuff he felt like himself in—a pair of jeans, so soft and pale they were almost white, with holes worn in the knees, and his favorite hoodie, back from when he lived in Washington State, gray and purple, with a University of Washington husky on its front, faded. The sweatshirt was also soft. The fleece inside felt good next to his skin, like a mother’s touch. Not his mom, of course, but he could imagine. Someone like Patsy…. He had on a fleece Carhartt jacket handed down from his dad and a pair of old work boots. He didn’t wear any of this crap because he thought it was sexy, but because he simply could forget the clothes on his back when he wore them. They were him—like a second skin.
He’d hopped down from the truck’s cab into the cool night air and decided that, no matter how chilly he got, he wouldn’t succumb to the temptation to get back inside. He wanted to be here for Truman when he exited through those doors. He wanted Truman to know that, even if the parking lot was empty, there was one person who couldn’t, wouldn’t go home until he’d had at least a glimpse of his favorite Myrtle Mae Simmons.
A few minutes before, Patsy had driven up to him in her belching beater and rolled down the window.
“You waitin’ for the superstar?”
Mike grinned. “Yeah. Do you mind if I whisk him away for a couple of hours?” He nodded toward the truck. “I got wheels.”
“That’s up to him.” She stared up at Mike, grinning, as though the two shared a secret. “He was amazing tonight, wasn’t he? Just so funny, so real.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I can’t believe he’s mine, that I raised him. Because Lord knows, I wasn’t able to give him much!” She snorted. “You’ve seen our house.”
Mike didn’t know what to say. Or rather, he did know what to say but was unable to get the words out around the big tangerine-sized ball in his throat. He would have told her that Truman was lucky to have a mom like her, one who loved him unconditionally, one who’d always put him first, sometimes—often, Mike was sure—sacrificing her own happiness and well-being to ensure her son got the best she could give him. Mike sure would have liked to have had some of that kind of love. Never mind the material crap Patsy seemed convinced Truman needed. He put his hand on Patsy’s car door and said, “You’re a good mom. Anybody can see that.”
Dark eyes shining, she stared at him for a moment. And in that moment, Mike felt the two of them became friends.
But he wanted to share a special moment right now with Truman and not Truman and his mom, so he broke the moment by stepping away from her car and said, “Yeah, he was something else. But then you and I aren’t surprised, are we?”
“Not at all. We’ll see you later, Mike. Come by the house if you guys want. Raid the fridge.” She laughed and rolled up her window. She drove away, leaving Mike waving his hand in front of his face to dispel the exhaust fumes.
He watched the parade of headlights as everyone headed out—and home, or to wherever they were going afterward, Patsy’s Elite Diner, or maybe the Mexican joint up in East End.
Now he was alone, shivering, and worried that he’d missed Truman exiting the field house. Wind blew out of the north, hard enough to moan like a howl. The moon had risen, almost orange, hanging like an impossibly big sphere near the tops of the Appalachian foothills. Mike wondered if this was what people meant when they referred to a harvest moon. He swore he could see a face in its cratered surface. Whatever. It sure was pretty, despite making a guy feel very alone.
The darkness all around him seemed to press in. Mike felt as though there were ghosts among the dark shadows, and they were whispering—knowing, as ghosts often do, what his fate was to be.
Did I really miss him? Am I standing here waiting for nothing? The thought chilled him even more than the wind out of the north. He had a six-pack of Iron City beer, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and a bouquet of red roses waiting on the bench seat. His idea of an after-party. He hoped Truman would be surprised—and pleased.
He won’t be much of anything if he already left. Mike clutched the keys in his pocket, ready to depart. He could catch up with Truman later. That idea, though, weighed heavy on his heart. A sad, self-defeating part of himself told him Truman wasn’t coming. That his performance tonight was a triumph and he would be too busy to find time for the likes of Mike. And besides, why would Mike think Truman would meet up with him when Mike had to admit that, in the recent past anyway, all he’d done was ignore the guy.
But….
But….
But…. There was no need for those dark emotions because there he was, pushing through the heavy glass doors to emerge into the night. Alone. The sight of him, unaware of Mike for just this moment, made Mike catch his breath.
What a handsome boy. The wind caught the hair that was always coming down over his forehead and lifted, revealing for a moment Truman’s whole face. Sexy. Vulnerable, yet strong. And yes, manly. Even in a dress and long blonde wig, Truman was a man. Because of his confidence, his unwillingness to bend to convention, his willingness to love….
Truman Reid, will you be mine? Mike stepped forward to make himself more visible in the pool of light from one of the parking lot’s tall lamps. He imagined himself as Truman might see him and flattered himself with putting a kind of quiet joy—and lust—in Truman’s heart.
When their gazes connected, across the dark sea of asphalt, Mike felt simultaneously chilled and warmed—as though a shot of something hot had been set loose in his veins, filling him with a heat like liquid sunshine. The temperature of that heat skyrocketed when Truman, spotting Mike, smiled. Truman’s smile was megawatt, even in this dark, deserted parking lot. And it thrilled Mike beyond words because the smile was his and his alone.
Mike raised his hand in a shy wave. And grinned a bit as Truman hurried over to him.
Truman slowed as he neared Mike. “Hey, stranger,” he said in a voice that was just a notch above a whisper.
“Hey yourself.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, each shifting their weight from one foot to the other, considering the starry night sky, eyes meeting furtively, shyly.
Finally Truman broke the silence because Mike never knew what to say. “You make a shitty woman. I mean, if all the women in the world looked similar to what you put out there tonight, I’d have my pick of any man I wanted because, honey, all the men in the world would turn gay.”
They both cracked up.
Mike wasn’t insulted, not really, because he could see the warmth in Truman’s body language and in his smile. Besides, Mike liked to believe, had to believe, that if all the men in the world turned gay, Truman would still pick him.
“So that’s the thanks I get for going to all that trouble? You dis me? Fuck you.” Mike turned as though he were going to hop back in the truck and drive away.
He knew exactly what would happen. He smiled as he felt Truman’s hands grab at the back of his fleece jacket. He turned.
Truman’s eyes shone. He shook his head. “I do thank you, Mike. I don’t think anyone has ever done anything so selfless and so brave—for me. I can’t tell you how much what you did means to me.”
Mike felt heat rise to his face. “Ah, it was nothin’. All in a day’s work, right?”
“You know that’s not true. So, thank you.” Truman hugged him tight, his face pressed against Mike’s cheek. Mike felt like he could stay in the warmth of Truman’s embrace—just like this—forever. But a voice from the south, from a different head, was stirring and begging for more. Some parts of us are never satisfied….
Embarrassed, Mike pulled away, hips first, the rest of him following. “You got plans?” he asked, knowing the hope in his voice was so apparent as to make him a pathetic creature, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t help it.
“Well, Amber Wolfgang is having an after-party at her house. She’s rich—they even have an indoor pool! And there’ll be pizza.” He grinned. “And beer, or so I hear.”
Mike said, “I got beer. Iron City. And Cool Ranch Doritos. And these—” He hurried around the side of the truck, opened the door, and came back to Truman holding out the dozen red roses he’d bought earlier at the Giant Eagle supermarket. “For my superstar.”
Truman took them shyly, staring down at them as though they were something rare and precious. Voice choked, he managed to say, “No one ever gave me flowers before.”
Mike grinned. “Get used to it, sweetheart.”
They were just about to lean in for a kiss when the sound of a car starting up interrupted. Mike turned toward the sound, a little surprised because he thought he was the last one in the parking lot. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the other vehicle because it was at the opposite end.
But as it neared, Mike got a chill because he recognized the car—a beat-up old red Mustang. It came close, the headlights blinding Mike for a second, but when the car turned toward the exit, Mike recognized the face behind the wheel, maybe because it was a face he’d seen previously in darkness. He put two and two together once he saw the guy with the glasses and thinning hair coupled with the old red Mustang.
His mouth dropped open. And something queasy and dread-like woke up in his gut, making him feel a little sick.
Truman looked after the car, watching it, Mike guessed, to make sure it disappeared down the hill. He turned back to Mike. “I’m surprised they just drove on by. I mean, without calling us fags or something. Or maybe telling us we were on the highway to hell. Or worst of all, that they’d pray for us. I don’t need their sanctimonious prayers. And neither do you.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You do know who that was, don’t you?”
Mike knew.
Mike knew all too well. His recent night at the park rose up in memory like one of those old 70s porn movies he’d discovered online. He didn’t know, though, if he wanted to admit that association to Truman. He tried to swallow and discovered he had no spit. With a shaking voice, he asked, “Who?”
“Tammy Applegate and that homophobe dad of hers!” He laughed. “By themselves, they were probably too cowardly to say anything to me, or to us.”
Mike turned, staring off into the darkness. The lights of Summitville glowed down below, warm yellow. He imagined everyone in the world safe and sound, snug in their homes, free of memories like the one torturing him at this very moment. How could a moment go from magical to sick with one swift turn? “Shit,” he whispered.
He turned to find Truman staring at him, arms crossed, head cocked. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Mike had to look away from Truman’s inquiring eyes. He felt vulnerable, like he’d been under the rock Truman had just lifted.
“Yes,” Mike said, turning back to face Truman. He let loose a big sigh, almost a moan.
Truman took a step closer. “What is it?”
“That guy. Mr. Applegate. I’ve seen him before.”
Truman shrugged. “It’s a small town.”
“No. You don’t get it.” It’s time to tell him. So what? You didn’t do anything with him. You just happened to see something. The thought was cold comfort when Mike put it in the context of how he’d reacted to what he’d seen—the arousal, the temptation. You don’t have to tell Truman everything. You have a right to some privacy. How your body responded to something it saw is not cause for shame or guilt. Neither is it cause for confession. “You know the park?”
Truman nodded.
Mike didn’t need to name it because there was only one.
“You know what, uh, sometimes goes on up there, after it gets dark?”
Truman eyed him warily. And Mike could imagine where his mind was going. “No!” Mike cried. “I just go there to think, to be alone. But one night—”
And he told Truman what he’d seen.
He was surprised when Truman snickered. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sure it was him?”
“Oh yeah. Positive. Even though it was dark, no one else in town has a Mustang like that one. Vintage.”
Truman shook his head, and then he burst into renewed laughter, so hard he was eventually holding his sides.
“It’s not funny!”
“The hell it isn’t,” Truman said. “Mr. Holier than Thou up there on the hill giving hum jobs to the local men. It’s priceless!” He doubled over. Suddenly Mike saw the humor in the situation—and the hypocrisy.
What could a guy do but laugh?
And he realized there was no reason for him to feel guilty. So what if he’d experienced a little vulnerability, a little temptation that night? He didn’t act on it. He gave himself some credit for that. He couldn’t help being tempted, but he could help how he reacted to that temptation.
When they had reined in their laughter—and their tears, because, yes, it was that funny—Truman grabbed Mike in an embrace and kissed him. Long and hard. When they pulled away, a little breathless, Truman said, “I don’t want you going to that park at night alone.”
Mike bristled—but for only an instant. His first thought was about what right Truman had to tell him where he could or couldn’t go. It wasn’t like they’d made a commitment to one another. Not yet, anyway.
But that feeling, that indignation, was fleeting. Mike actually did want Truman to tell him where he could and couldn’t go. He cared. Mike wanted that concern, that jealousy, even. Hell, no one else in his life gave a shit where he was at any given hour or day.
So he just said, “Okay.” A lightbulb went off above Mike’s head. “Should we hop in my truck and chase ’em down?” Mike took some malicious glee in imagining Mr. Applegate’s face when he “outed” him, especially with his daughter sitting beside him. Talk about priceless! “He doesn’t have much of a lead. I could catch up.”
“And then what?” Truman asked.
“Well, we could let Tammy know what a hypocrite her father is. Hell, we could let the whole town know.” Mike shook his head. “That asshole. Bad enough he’s sucking cock when he has a wife—she does my ma’s nails every other week. But okay, so he likes a bit of cock….” He grinned at Tru. “Who doesn’t? But then, does he have to try and be all self-righteous about anyone who’s different? We should shine a light on that motherfucker.”
He fully expected Truman to chime in with agreement. But Truman surprised him. “Nah. I don’t think we want to do that, Mike. You and I both know that man’s tortured. He’s leading a double life. And after what you just told me, it kind of makes me feel different about him.”
“How? Why?”
“Because I know now that all this crap about me wearing a dress in a high school play is just camouflage for how he feels about himself. See, he doesn’t hate me, he hates himself. And in his own twisted way, what he did tonight was a bad attempt to deal with that.”
Mike felt a little abashed when he thought of Truman’s wisdom—and his kindness. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Mike didn’t say it, but he thought if he’d acted on his own temptation that night in the park, it wouldn’t have been as much out of lust as it was out of a kind of self-loathing.
He knew he had a lot to learn from Truman.
He also realized he had a few other things he hoped Truman could teach him. And this latter thought caused a sly, lascivious grin to cross his face.
He leaned close to Truman. “It’s fucking cold out here. What do you say we get in the cab, take a drive down by the river… and warm each other up?” His eyebrows wiggled.
“I can’t imagine what you have in mind, mister, but I’m willing to trust you,” said Truman, smiling and then turning toward the driver’s side of the pickup truck. “But only if you let me drive. Tonight I feel like driving.”
“Are you saying—?”
“Just shut up and get in the damn truck.”