Date: Tue, 2 Dec 2008 10:44:02 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned-2


Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned
By Scott Turner

Chapter Two


Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction.  It occasionally contains
scenes describing sexual activity between consenting adult men.  If it is
illegal for you to possess such material, or if your parents don't want you
reading it, please find another story.  This story is copyrighted, 2008,
and all rights are reserved by the author.  It may not be reproduced,
reposted or published without the expressed written permission of the
author.


      "Greg!  I was gonna call you tonight and say thanks!"
      "Hey, stud.  Glad the plant arrived safely.  Had the chance to kill
any kids yet?"
      Scott snickered as he opened the car door.  "Not yet, but I've only
met a couple of them."  He slopped some coffee onto the top of his hand as
he tried to negotiate getting into the car.  "Hang on a sec.  I'm at a gas
station and want to get back into the car."  He tossed the phone onto the
passenger seat and slid behind the wheel before setting his cup in the
holder and picking up the receiver again.  "So, thanks again.  That was
really nice.  How are ya'?  I miss you."
      "I miss you something fierce."
      "So what's on your mind?"
      "Your cock."
      "Perv.  Don't get us going.  I don't need to be sitting here in my
car a half hour from home with a big ol' woodie."  Somehow their
conversations nearly always deteriorated into the pornographic.  Scott
loved it, but mostly when he was in the privacy of his own bedroom.
      "I'm sure the soccer moms cruising through the parking lot there
would love it.  Your sweet package all bulged out and tenting in your
shorts."
      "Bastard!  God, you are such a dick tease, even over the phone.  Did
you just call to use your sexy voice to give me a frustrated boner at the
end of my first day?  I have one when I go to sleep thinking about you.  I
have one when I wake up in the morning..."
      "That's just `cuz you gotta pee."
      "And because I miss you.  I dreamt about you the other night.  We did
outrageous things."  They both sighed.  "But really, Greg.  What's up?"
      "My dick.  But besides that, I have a Friday and Saturday off for the
first time in months.  And Nicky's gonna be gone for the weekend, He's
goin' home for a cousin's wedding, so I have the place to myself and I
don't have to work `til noon on Sunday."  Nicky was Nick Torres, Greg's
roommate.  They'd been one-time fuck buddies, as Greg put it, but that
neither one of them was looking for a romance.  Rather, he'd explained, it
was merely a convenient arrangement.  Nick was at Minnesota State in
Mankato, Greg was moving to Mankato...it made sense.  Besides, he'd said to
Scott so many times, "nobody's gonna take your place as long as you're
willing to put up with me."
      Scott smiled.  "Okay.  Thanks for the rundown on your professional
life.  So what's on your mind?"
      "I told you what's on my mind."  He giggled in that familiar way that
made Scott's groin stir.  "Here's what I got in mind.  You come up here on
Friday.  We mess around a lot, get all caught up, and fuck like bunnies
some more.  On Saturday we do something out and about in Mankato, and then
fuck like bunnies some more."
      "What, no fucking like bunnies on Sunday?"
      "Aaahh, maybe.  We'll see.  I'd probably be worn out by then, and
find walking pretty difficult.  And I gotta be in to work the buffet brunch
at noon."
      Scott took a gulp of the sludge he'd just bought and winced as he
swallowed.  "Aaah...not a real good weekend for me to travel.  I'm figuring
I'll be moving on or around Labor Day weekend, but figured I'd spend a good
chunk of this weekend sorting and packing shit."
      "You have a new place already?"
      "No, not yet, but I'll be looking around seriously this week.  But
since I don't actually have to be at school until next Monday, I was
already thinking of taking this Friday off.  If that heap of a truck you
bought is still running, why don't you come to Madison?  You can give me a
hand with the shit and we can fuck like bunnies at my place."
      "Weeeelllll...that could happen."  Scott's eyes widened a bit.  Greg
had come to Madison exactly three times since he moved to Minnesota, and
one of those trips had been Scott's graduation the previous spring.  "I
mean, I really do want to see you.  We ought to celebrate your new job
right, and I might have some news for you by then, too."
      "Oh ho!  Like big league news?"
      "Can't say for sure, yet, but coach Bidwell said he wants to meet
with me and this talent scout-recruiter guy on Thursday."
      The fattest cat in the world greeted him at the top of the stairs
with his usual `feed me' glance before leading the way to the food dish.
Brett the Dog, a handsome chocolate lab who'd once had a name worse than
Brett the Dog, scampered into the kitchen when he heard the food hitting
the cat's dish.  He was greeted with a scratch on the head from a smirking
Scott.  "He never comes here to visit.  Methinks something is afoot, noble
pooch."


      The following morning, Scott was back at his desk filling out the
paperwork necessary for his medical and dental insurance.  He'd been
hearing lockers, both near and far, opening and slamming shut from the
moment he'd sat down.  Jim Daley had come by just after Scott poured his
first cup of coffee and extended a dinner invitation for the following
evening, which Scott eagerly accepted.  Jim explained that the football
team was going through their two-a-day practices, the boys and girls cross
country teams were meeting with their coaches after a full morning's run,
and the marching band would be working on the practice field most of the
day.  The cheerleaders were working out in the gym and the commons.  In
other words, according to Jim, it was a normal mid-August day at any high
school in the state.  Never mind that the legislature had, in its infinite
wisdom, made it impossible for a school district to start classes before
Labor Day.  But they weren't going to screw with the sports teams' or the
marching bands' schedules.  "We can start `em playing ball or playing
trumpets," Jim had said, "but we dasn't ask them to start reading and
writing before Labor Day.  That would muck up the labor pool of the farming
and tourist industries who want to keep these kids at their minimum wage
jobs `til the last possible minute during their big seasons."  So, over two
hundred kids who wanted to play their sports or other activities were at
school weeks before the first bell of the new school year rang, just not to
do school work.
      A young man's voice echoed down the hallway, "Hey, the door's open.
Let's go check it out.  C'mon, `Topher!  You're gonna wanna meet this guy!"
A moment later two guys, obviously athletes, stood in the doorway.  The
tall one smiled.  "Hey, Mr. Turner, remember me?"  His dark brown hair was
matted to his forehead just above his thick eyebrows, either from a recent
shower or the sweaty workout the football team had just completed.  As he
approached, it became fairly obvious that it wasn't the shower.
      Scott stood and waved them both in.  "Zach Jacoby!  My able tour
guide.  How could I forget?"  The second young man was quite a bit shorter,
about five-foot-eight, but was also very well built, stretching the limits
of his "NAHS" tee-shirt at the chest and the short sleeves.  He had curly,
sand-colored hair, just a shade or two lighter than Scott's, and he gave
hint of a limp as he cautiously entered the room.
      "We just finished morning practice and picked up our schedules in the
student office.  Your name's on both them and it's the only one we didn't
know already."  Zach shrugged.  "Well, I kinda do know you a little, and I
got you for AP History all year and then again for government second
semester."  Then his grin widened and his dimples deepened.  "Dude!  I'm so
glad they hired you!"
      Scott stuck out his hand and Zach impressed him again with a firm
grasp.  "Well, Zach, I hope you're in good hands in here.  Sounds like
we're going to get to know each other pretty well this year."  He looked at
the other.  "And you are...?"
      The lad's shyness was evident when his eyes went to the floor and he
meekly accepted Scott's handshake.  "Uhm, I'm Chris...uhm, Propst."
      Scott tried to put him at ease.  "Good to know you, Chris uhm Propst.
Are you going to tackle the AP class too?"
      Chris grinned and blushed a bit as he rolled his eyes.  "Oh heck no!"
He relaxed and nodded toward his buddy.  "He's the brainiac.  I got you for
government first semester `cuz it's required to graduate.
      Scott smirked.  "Sounds like you're really looking forward to it."
      Chris snorted.  "Hardly.  Sorry, Mr. Turner, but I hate that crap."
      Zach pointed a thumb toward his friend.  "When we're not out on the
field, `Topher is mister theater and music and art and all that crap.  But
he can draw or paint like a son of a gun, and his voice isn't half bad."
      Chris rolled his eyes and swatted his buddy's arm.
      Scott's face questioned.  "Topher?"
      Chris mugged and shrugged.  "Yeah.  My older sister is Christina and
I'm Christopher.  So around the house the folks started calling us `Tina
and `Topher.  That way they're not always hollering for just Chris.
      Zach wiggled his brows.  "And Tina is one serious hot babe.  She got
all the looks in this generation."
      Chris sneered.  "'Scuse me?  That's my sister you're talking about."
      Zach nudged him.  "C'mon bud, you know she's hot."
      He gritted his teeth.  "Sisters are not hot to their brothers!"
      Scott sized up the shorter kid again and changed the subject.
"Forgive the stereotype, but you look more like a wrestler than a fine arts
guy.  Not that one automatically excludes the other.  I had a buddy in high
school who was a state champ in wrestling and was also selected to sing in
Wisconsin's high school honor's choir.  They even went to the White House
to perform."
      Chris nodded and smiled with wide eyes.  "Very cool!  And I do
wrestle, prob'ly at the 165-pound class this year.  But, yeah, I have a
better time with art and choir than I do with the textbook stuff."
      Scott gestured toward a couple of desks and propped his butt on the
edge of his own.  "Grab a seat, guys."  He folded his arms.  "Nothing to be
sorry about there, Chris.  A lot of folks don't like that political crap,
as you said.  I guess I'm kind of a politics and history nerd.  It just
doesn't mean much to most folks your age.  Not your fault.  I'll try to
make it as pain-free as I can."
      They chatted for about twenty minutes.  Both young men were going to
be seniors this year.  Scott learned that the two had been best friends
since the second grade, when Chris's family moved into the house whose back
yard abutted the Jacoby's.  Zach exuded an enthusiasm for the AP class, as
well as the government class, and he shared that he was in the process of
applying for an appointment to a couple of the military academies.  His
dream was a call to the Naval Academy in Annapolis, and hopefully a job in
Washington D.C., following whatever tour of duty he might be called to.
Zach was one of two quarterbacks for the Raiders and Chris was their
center.
      Scott nodded.  "You're built like a center, Chris.  Low to the
ground.  Wide and solid."
      Zach giggled as he glanced to his side.  "You mean he's got a fat ass
that can't be moved once he's snapped the ball."
      Chris's face reddened a little and he poked his friend with a finger
before looking back at Scott.  "You a football fan, Mr. Turner?"
      Scott's eyes widened.  "Big time!  Never played in high school, but
I'm a die-hard cheesehead and a rabid Badger fan!  I played some baseball
when I was your age, but wasn't up for taking the kind of hits you do.
From the looks of your walk coming in, Chris, I'd say you took one today."
      Chris just shrugged.  "Just wrenched my ankle a bit.  Nothin'
serious."
      Zach reached over and slapped his buddy's shoulder.  "He never let's
`em get by to lay some hurt on me when I'm behind him, and he can plow
through a line and create an opening whenever we're gonna run the ball.
The dude's a machine."  Chris rolled his eyes and blushed yet again.
      Scott smiled and nodded.  "Home opener's already coming up next week,
right?  That's even before classes start."
      Zach nodded.  "Yep.  We've always opened the season the Thursday
before Labor Day.  All the other games are on Friday nights.  The
Beechfield Bombers are coming to town to get crushed."
      Chris grinned a nasty grin.  "They really suck.  Always have.  Good
way to start the season."
      Scott chuckled.  "Sounds like you're smelling blood already, Chris."
      Both guys nodded and snickered.  Chris added with a scowl, "They're a
bunch of pussies who like to take cheap shots `cuz they ain't got no
talent."
      Zach wore a sly grin.  "Chris is kind of on a mission here,
Mr. Turner.  He took a knee to the nuts last year from one of their inside
linebacker, and it was after the whistle.  Took him out of the game that
night, and he was peeing blood for a week.  It's gonna be all I can do to
keep him on a leash and not let him do anything too stupid at that game."
      Scott raised a brow.  "Too stupid?"
      Zach smirked.  "Well, nothing obvious, anyway.  A little stupid I can
live with.  But I think I'm gonna start in that game and I can't do it
without my ball handler in front of me."  He glanced to his right.  "So
he'd better not do anything TOO STUPID."
      Chris's eyes darted to his left.  "You gonna bail me out if I go to
jail?  I am gonna lay that guy out, ya' know."
      Zach laughed.  "Hell, no, I'm not gonna bail your big ass out of
jail!  Just don't fuck things up."  Then he caught himself.  "Oh, sorry
Mr. Turner."
      Scott laughed.  "I'm a big boy, Zach, and I know all the naughty
words.  Even use them myself from time to time.  But let's keep it to a
minimum.  Shootin' the breeze like this is one thing.  But the rules will
have to change when we get to class."  He winked.  "I mean, what the hell?"
      Both young men laughed with him.
      Scott stood up and away from the desk.  "Well, gents, I'm glad you
stopped by.  But I need to get this paperwork into the central office by
lunch time, so I'm gonna have to throw you out.  Otherwise, I'll go through
this next year uninsured."
      Chris nodded.  "Yeah, and we're gonna run out and grab lunch before
the afternoon workouts."
      "Two-a-days.  Ouch.  That must be tough."
      Chris nodded again.  "The first couple days are a real pain, `til you
get used to it.  We got another couple hours this afternoon, and then I
gotta drag `Studly McWonderful' here to the weight room for another hour on
the equipment."
      Zach swatted Chris's beefy upper arm with the back of his hand.
"Only one more hour, right?  `Cuz my mom's making her chicken `n' wild rice
tonight and we don't wanna be late."
      Chris bobbed his head.  "Coach said an hour with the weights, and you
know they're keepin' track."  Then he thought for a second.  "So that means
we're doin' the dishes, huh?"
      "You know the rules.  She cooks and we clean.  That's why she lets
you come over to eat."
      Chris looked at Scott.  "My ma's a great lady but a terrible cook,
and both she and my dad work second shift at the MetalFab plant on the
south end of town, so I chow down two or three nights a week over at their
place."
      Scott shrugged.  "Sounds like a good arrangement." He walked them to
the door.
      The teens ambled down the hall and Zach looked over his shoulder.
"Gonna be at the game next week, Mr. Turner?"
      "Wouldn't miss it.  And I'm not gonna bail you out either, Chris, if
you do something too stupid in that game."
      Chris held up a hand and waved over his shoulder.  "Not to worry.
Catch'ya later Mr. T."
      Scott chuckled.  `Mr. T.,' he mused, and he chuckled again to himself
recalling the old `A-Team' reruns he'd seen on TV.  He sneered as he walked
back to his desk, "Ah pity da fool...!"


      The following morning, Scott walked straight to the office and looked
at his mailbox.  Millie was busy shuffling a stack of envelopes and loose
sheets of paper from this office or that, popping them in the boxes.  "Good
morning, Millie!  Beautiful day today, huh?"
      "It is if you're outside I guess."  She reached to the top shelf and
tossed an envelope in Dr. Watson's box.  When she stepped to the side,
Scott took about half the stack out of his box.  "Good Lord, Millie!  It's
like this paper populates all by itself!  Does it ever end?"
      Millie sniffed, her eyes never leaving the mailboxes.  "It certainly
does not populate by itself.  I put it there.  It slows down a bit when the
school year gets under way."  She handed him another stapled packet of
about four pages.  "You'll want to make a note of the `Confidential'
heading on this one.  It's a list of all of our students with disabilities,
and you'll want to keep it in its own folder.  I'd cross-check this list
with your class lists and make a note of your special education students
who might need some accommodations in your classes.  Their case managers in
the special ed. department are all noted in the third column.  Because
you're new here, you can expect a visit from one or all of them in the next
few days."
      Scott nodded.  "I imagine I'll be getting to know that crew pretty
well."
      Millie almost smiled.  "Oh, yes.  Teaching a couple of courses
required for graduation puts a special emphasis on your work with these
kids."  She rolled her eyes.  "And a handful of their parents have us under
a microscope to make darned sure their kids get everything that federal
special ed. law requires."
      Scott shrugged.  "We covered a lot of special ed. law in my program
up in Madison.  One of my prof's liked to say that one good way to judge a
school system is by the way it treats its neediest students."
      Millie shook her head. "And a lot of the moms and dads out there are
demanding a Cadillac for their kids, even if they might only deserve a
Ford.  Honestly, the resources we are required to devote to them!"  She
returned to her desk and opened a three-ring binder before sharpening a
pencil.
      He scanned the list.  He recognized a couple names on the "EBD,"
emotionally or behaviorally disabled, roster.  He flipped the page to those
with learning disabilities, the "LD" students.  About two thirds of the way
down the alphabetized list, a name jumped out at him.  "Christopher
Propst."
      `Huh,' he thought.  `Chris, LD.  Well, I suppose ya' never can tell
with a lot of these kids.  But he did hint that he struggled in the
academic world.'  He emptied the rest of the mailbox and squared its
contents on the office counter.  "Is Dr. Watson available?"
      She didn't look up from her paperwork.  "I wouldn't have called you
if she wasn't."
      "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you'd called."
      "I left a message in your voicemail an hour ago.  It said two things.
First, the I.T. staffer will be in your classroom to hook up the new
computer.  You may want to schedule your lunch around his visit, since
it'll be easier for everyone if you're not tripping over each other.
Second, Dr. Watson would like to see you some time today.  Honestly,
Mr. Turner, you'll need to make a habit of checking your voicemail on a
regular basis."
      Feeling gently scolded, Scott nodded in earnest.  "I'll make a note
of it, and will be sure to make a habit of it.  I thought she was taking
vacation this week."
      "When Dr. Watson says `vacation,' it usually means she's just not
scheduled to be in.  That doesn't mean she won't be in to check up on this
or that.  It's simply that `officially' she's not in."
      "So she's `unofficially' wanting to see me about something?"
      "I said I wouldn't have..."
      "Gotcha, Millie.  You wouldn't have left me the message that I
haven't heard yet if she wasn't in her office, unofficially, and officially
wanting to see me.  I'm still a work in progress, Millie, but I'll get with
the program."  His wink went unnoticed as he walked past her desk.  Kim's
door was open so he strolled down the hall and stuck his head through.
"You wanted to see me Dr. Watson?"
      "Yes, Scott.  I'm wondering, have you found a place down here to live
here yet?"
      "Well, originally I was thinking about commuting from Madison, but
planned to look around down in this neck of the woods to see what's out
there."
      She motioned to a chair in front of her desk.  "Not a bad thought.  I
know you love Madison, but a thirty or forty minute commute on country
roads can be a real strain in January and February, not to mention November
through April some years.  Let me give you something to think about.
George Hasborough taught Latin in this district for more than thirty years
and he retired about eight or nine years ago."
      "Latin?  Public schools still teach that?"
      She sniffed a short laugh.  "George was my Latin teacher, and we were
one of the last school districts in the state to still offer it until he
retired.  Since then it really has been a `dead language' around here.
Anyway, he and his wife had a fairly modest three bedroom country home
about three miles west of town on fifty acres of land.  He leases all but
about two or three of those acres to the guy down the road who has
basically annexed it to his own farm and works it for a good fee to George
and a good profit to himself, I'm told.  George kept the rest of the lot
for himself and his family, remodeled the house and the yard and built a
nice little place.  Not long after he retired, he and Margaret turned into
`Florida snow birds,' to escape our winters, and then they moved down to
DeLand year round."
      "I've been to DeLand.  Know a couple really cool guys down there."
Scott's mind flashed back to the week he and Greg had met Alex Johnson and
Austin Cambell.  He wondered how the married couple was doing.
      Kim brought him back to Wisconsin.  "Nice area.  I've been there
myself. Anyway, George put the house up for sale in a crummy market and
finally decided to keep it as a rental property.  First dibs always go to
young teachers just starting out.  Good rent, absentee landlord, plenty of
space and privacy, beautiful lot behind the house with farm field on one
side and a small wooded area on the other.  And I'm sure George wouldn't
bat an eye if you wanted to make some changes to the place, from painting
to landscaping."
      "Three bedrooms?  But I don't need a three bedroom place."
      "Think about it.  Make one of the bedrooms your own, make one a guest
room for when friends or family visit and turn the third into a home office
or a den.  There's a two-car garage, a deck attached to the back of the
house, a kennel out back, a small plot for a vegetable garden and a fairly
new utility shed that's attached to a small greenhouse if you wanted to
really test your green thumb."
      He looked at his hands facetiously.  "I'm not even sure I have one."
My only experience in gardening is pulling weeds as a kid in my Gran's
`victory garden.'
      Kim grinned.  "Victory garden.  There's an expression I haven't heard
in a few decades."
      "Yeah.  Her dad and a couple of my great-uncles served in World War
II, and she said everybody had a victory garden when she was growing up.
So, she schooled me in the fine art of weed pulling.  Said it built
character.  Of course, she said just about everything I didn't want to do
would build character.  Either that or it would put hair on my chest."  Kim
laughed.  Scott shrugged.  "She could be a bit of a nut sometimes."
      She smiled again.  "Well, the place has been vacant since the end of
the last school year.  One of our music teachers decided to go back to grad
school.  So George wants to get it rented again and would love to make it
possible for another starting teacher to call it home, if only temporarily.
All you'd have to do is take care of the rent, the lawn, the snow removal
and all the utilities."
      Scott thought for a second or two.  "When can I see it?"
      Dr. Watson held up a set of keys.  "I'm kind of George's agent in
this thing.  You can go out there anytime you want.  Should I draw you a
map?  It's real easy to find."
      Scott took the keys.  "That'd be great!  I'll need to clear out of my
room for a little while today and can drive out there before or after I
grab some lunch.  Me and Craig haven't had much chance to discuss it, but
I'm thinking we'll both need to be out of the apartment by the end of the
month, but I'm hoping the landlord will cut us some slack and give us until
Labor Day to make the move.
      A few hours later, following Kim's directions, Scott turned left onto
county highway D about two miles west of town.  Heading north for another
mile, he saw the landmark cemetery she'd mentioned and then the small red
sign at the edge of the road.  "1768 Hwy. D."  He pulled over onto the
shoulder and looked again to double-check before pulling into the driveway.
It was a modest place set back from the highway on a large lot, just as
she'd said.  One large oak and three healthy maples provided plenty of
cover in the front yard.  `And plenty of big-ass leaves in the fall,' he
considered.
      It was a plain looking, rectangular, two story house; white, with
black shutters framing each of the windows.  He turned right onto the long
gravel driveway and saw that what appeared to be the main entrance was
facing the drive instead of the highway out front.  A two-car garage sat
about twenty yards away from the house.  As he put the car in park and
scanned the length of the driveway, and then the distance between the
garage and the door to the house, he thought of winter.  And snow.  "Shit,"
he muttered.  "This would be a bitch on a nasty winter morning.  I'd need
to contract with a landscaper or someone who does snow removal to plow me
out every time it snows."
      He got out of the car and scolded himself.  `Okay, Turner, enough
bitching about the leaves and the snow.  You grew up in Wisconsin, dummy.
What do you expect?'  He fished the keys that Kim had given him from his
hip pocket and opened the door.  The kitchen greeted him and he smiled.  It
was wide open, save a sturdy block island in the center.  The four-burner
stove and oven were gas-burning, which he also liked.  Evelyn had always
counted on natural gas for her cooking.  The kitchen gave way to a modest
dining area across a breakfast bar, and that led to a hallway running the
length of the rest of the house.  On the left side of the dining area were
some vertical blinds that looked like they covered a sliding patio door.
`I'll check that out in a minute.'
      To the right, toward the road, he found a wide living room with
hardwood flooring.  In the center of the left wall there was a brick
fireplace about four feet wide. `Nice.'  He scanned the area and made some
mental notes.  `Would need to buy a nice big area rug to go under the
coffee table that's in storage back home, but it'd look good.  A lot of the
furnishings that Evelyn had left him, along with her house, were still
being stored back home.  `Jeez.  I'm gonna have to get mom down here to
help if I decide to rent this place.'
      He ambled down the hallway and found a full bathroom, the master
bedroom with a nice walk-in closet and an adjacent half-bath, and then the
laundry room.  "Damn," he whispered.  "It doesn't look this nice from
outside."  Upstairs there were two more bedrooms, one of which he'd decided
would become his office at home, and a good-sized storage space.  "Storage
upstairs," he muttered.  "Yuck."
      He went back and opened the blinds off the dining area.  He slid the
door to the right and walked out.  "Sweeeeet!"  There was a broad deck that
extended half the length of the house.  The back yard was enormous by his
standards.  What looked like a fire pit about four or five feet in diameter
was dug into the lawn roughly thirty yards away and a utility shed sat on
the edge of the lawn near the wooded area.  Just as Kim had said, a small
greenhouse stood next to the shed.  A garden plot had been tilled near the
back of the lot, but had obviously fallen fallow over the last year or so.
Best of all, as far as Scott was concerned, a nicely sized kennel with a
dog house inside the fence was attached to the back of the garage, complete
with a pet door going into the garage.  "Brett the Dog would love me for
that.  Aw, hell.  He loves me anyway.  Still, that'd be very nice."
      Kim had given him George's number down in Florida.  "I gotta call
this dude tonight."  He locked the house and strode toward the car with a
smile.


      "You're cookin?"  Scott was toeing off his sandals and looking at
Craig's behind as his roommate leaned down and peered into the open oven.
"Craig, old man, you never cook.  I mean never!"
      Craig Bostwick and Scott had been paired purely by chance when they'd
been assigned to share a room in the dorm that first year in Madison.
Craig had introduced Scott to Marty and later Brett, the labrador's
original owner.  Craig, Scott and Brett had shared the apartment the
following year, but it had been just Craig, Scott and the pets for the past
two years.  Craig had written for an independent paper in Madison for a
couple years.  Then, after graduation, a friend of Scott's from back in the
days working under the dome had helped him land a job writing for "The
Wisconsin State Journal."
      Craig nodded and shrugged as he stood.  "Lasagna.  You know it's
about the only thing I know how to make.  Got a hankerin' for something out
of the oven, so I got some stuff at the store, a bottle of red and a big
bag of those breadsticks fresh from that little bakery down at the co-op on
Mifflin Street.  Those hippies might be a few decades behind us in a lot of
ways, but they sure as hell know their bread."  He looked over his
shoulder.  "You're looking pretty casual for a working professional."
      Scott was wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned
with a beautiful outline of the Sydney Opera House.  Kip and Glenn, two old
friends from his early college days had made it a Christmas gift the last
time they visited Madison.  "Hey, it's not that bad.  The shorts are newer
and I think the shirt's kind of classy.  It's a friggin opera house on the
front.  I'm not actually on the clock yet at school, so I'm gonna wear what
I want `til next week.  I'll move into long khakis and polo shirts then,
but the neckties can wait until the kids show up."
      Still wearing an oven mitt, Craig managed to uncork a big jug of
Chianti and poured two glasses.  He handed one to Scott.  "You're making
the salad."  He tried to step over the dog, who promptly stood up on all
fours, nearly knocking him on his ass.  "And remind me again why you said
you'd take this mutt off Brett's hands?"
      Scott took the glass, raised it an inch or two and nodded in a silent
toast.  "Because he's a noble beast with a face cuter than yours, and
because I wanted the satisfaction of renaming him."  Scott scratched the
dog's head.  "And you expect me to make the good Caesar after a long day in
the trenches?"
      "Dude!  I love your Caesar!  The dog, I could do without."
      "We have bottled dressing in there you know, and you'd never wake up
in the morning if he wasn't licking your face after I let him out to go
pee."
      "But I got the Romaine lettuce...that's what it's called, right?  And
the bottled stuff is a sad imitation.  But it's usually a hand he licks, or
a foot if it's sticking out, the goofy fucker, and I got a wedge of the
fresh parmesan and all the good shit.  I even got anchovies and made sure
there was an egg in the fridge."  He took a drink of wine, looked at Brett
the Dog and shook his head.  "He's way too much effort for something so
simple as a name.  The fucker hasn't stopped watching me in here since I
grabbed the pan to brown the meat.  You only need one, right?"
      " One egg or one dog?  Yeah, one dog is enough.  One dog named
`Nigger' is one too many.  One coddled egg is all I need for the salad,
yeah.  You sure you want the fresh stuff?"
      "Pleeeeeeease?  I made the fucking lasagna!"
      Scott grabbed a glass bowl off of an upper shelf.  "You didn't fuck
up the wisk again, did you?"
      "Nope.  No need to.  There weren't any mice in the vicinity today for
me to beat to death."
      "You could have used a broom or a shoe or something the last time.
Jesus!  Remember the time I nailed one from ten feet away with a dictionary
and a good arm?"
      "That was a lucky shot.  If the little fella hadn't been trapped in
the corner..."  He reached in a drawer and tossed the wisk at Scott.  "And
it was my dictionary, you fucker.  Had to throw the dust cover away cuz of
the guts and shit."
      "Speaking of mouse shit, you didn't buy the anchovy paste, did you?
Tell me you didn't buy that shit in a tube."
      "Please.  Scott Turner's Caesar only uses the filets.  You told me
that once in no uncertain terms.  Give your buddy some credit!  And watch
it when you step out back.  Brett the Dog barely cleared the back stoop
before he took his late afternoon dump."
      "Okay, but you get to chop `em."  He found the can and slid it down
the countertop along with the small cutting board.
      "That wire thingy was handy and it got the job done, didn't it?"
      Scott nodded.  "Well as long as he didn't shit on the stairs."  Scott
opened the fridge and stuck his head in.  "Let me ask you something."
      "Shoot"
      "When did we start being able to have multiple conversations about
totally unrelated topics all at the same time, and yet they still made
sense to both of us?"
      "This doesn't mean we're engaged or anything like that, does it?"
      "In your dreams.  I'm a catch.  You, on the other hand, are not."
      "Oh, that's right.  I keep forgetting that.  Thanks for reminding me.
In that case..."  Craig looked at the ceiling and thought about it.  "Uhm,
it was about a month or so after we got thrown together in the dorm.  As I
recall, you were pissed off at that Kip dude about something, but you were
asking my thoughts on the female of the species."  He laughed.  "But you're
wrong.  The whole thing didn't make any sense at all at the time.  No more
sense than lasagna, killing mice with a dictionary or a wisk, Caesar Salad
or why this dog has a stupid name and why he keeps invading my space.  Of
course, at the time you were pissed at a guy and talking about chicks.
That was when you..."
      Scott stood up and grinned shyly.  "When I was still trying to `play
for your team?'"
      Craig snorted.  "Yeah, something like that.  You were sniffing around
Kelly something furious at the time."
      "I was confused.  And Kelly was somethin' special.  Still is, as a
matter of fact.  I have to give her a call and fill her in on all the
changes going on."
      Scott started tearing the lettuce and looked over his shoulder.  "So,
I take it there's news on the housing front, or with Steph or something?
You must be wanting to celebrate something.  You never cook."  He lifted
his head out of the fridge.  "And like I said one dog named `Nigger' was
one too many.  Brett thought it was funny when he moved the big guy in with
us; just one more lame effort on his part to play in the world of political
incorrectness."  He reached down and cupped his hand under the dog's chin.
"But it wasn't funny...waaaaas iiiit?"
      Craig shook his head.  "You and that friggin' doggie speak.  Do you
really think they understand us better when we talk like we're mentally
handicapped?"
      Craig finally removed his oven mitt and smiled.  "But, yeah.  Steph
got the job with Marriott here in town.  I started scouting apartments or
houses to rent, and she's coming up this weekend and we'll make the
rounds."  Stephanie was an old flame of Craig's who had played volleyball
and gone to school at Ohio State.  They'd remained in contact throughout
the college years and Scott had always hoped something would come of it.
The tall blond could be something of a firecracker and Scott thought they
made a great pair.
      "So we are gonna celebrate then."  He sipped and raised his glass.
"'Cuz I think I found the right place for me to move into down in New
Allsted."
      Over a robust meal that included much reminiscing and raucous
laughter, the two old friends planned their departure from the apartment
they'd shared for the past three years.  Craig would borrow a pickup from
one of the guys at the newspaper.  Scott would talk to his dad and see
about borrowing one of the farm trucks from the Kirschbaum boys, both of
whom were regular clients of Big Scott's, when he was still practicing law.
      Craig put down his fork and smiled.  "Whoda thunkit?  Tossed together
by the powers that be of the UW's housing authority, perfectly random
fuck-up on their part, and here we are.
      Scott pretended to wipe away a tear as he looked down at the dog.
"And now we're breaking up the family, honey."  Scott hunched over on the
table.  "And we survived Brett the Roommate, and the ho', Angie, my ups and
downs in the WSA and as a Senate staffer, your ups and downs with the
newspaper and with Steph, my ups and downs with my personal life."  He
tried to look pensive, but still playful.  "But you never batted an eye on
all that."
      "You being gay?  What's to bat my pretty little eyelids about?"
Craig scanned his plate and then put it on the floor for Brett the Dog to
pre-wash, as they'd come to call it.  "Not for a second, or for a fraction
of a second.  You remember our reaction the night you came out to me and
Brett, don't you?"
      Scott coughed on a sip of wine.  "As I recall, your guys' general
reaction was, `Well, duh!'"
      "I admit it, Scott.  I didn't have much experience with gay guys
until I got to Madison.  I'd grown up thinking that all gay men were these
swishy, lispy poofs who either got all up in your face with their "We're
here, we're queer" shouts, or that they lurked in the dark corners, waiting
to pounce on us unsuspecting straight guys."  He sipped and shook his head
in a sense of defensive alarm.  "Not that there's anything wrong with the
swishy poofy guys, either."
      Scott laughed and clapped his hands.  "Perfect, Craig!  Only you
could segregate the gay from the really, obviously, flamboyantly gay and
still love us all."
      They finished the meal as they coordinated the moving plans.  Scott
called his dad to see if he could enlist one of the Kirschbaum's farm
trucks.  "I thought I'd come up on Friday night and we could pack up the
stuff from Gran's old place that I want to keep.  And bring Sean and Seth
along, if they're free.  A couple of big strong farm boys wouldn't hurt."
      Big Scott thought there was a dirty joke in there somewhere, but he
let it go.  He was okay with his son's sexuality, but not entirely
comfortable joking around about it.
      Craig would talk to the landlord, Wilbur, about giving them until the
first weekend in September to do their moving, as it would give them the
whole Labor Day weekend to get unsettled and then resettled in their new
separate addresses.


      After a day of writing lesson plans and counting textbooks, he
emailed Craig at the newspaper.  "I'm locked into the new house.  Pretty
uneventful day.  Won't be home `til later tonight `cuz I' going over to Jim
Daley's for dinner.  See you when I get back."
      Jim met him at the door with a handshake and led him to the kitchen.
"I have one Old Fashioned every evening before dinner.  Tonight I might
have two since Helen is still playing bridge.  Will you join me?"
      Scott nodded.  "I'd love one.  No staff and students to deal with
yet, but still, it's been a long day.
      Jim nodded and smiled.  "Don't get too used to all that peace and
quiet.  Soon, you'll be bowled over.  Brandy or whiskey?"  He'd dumped a
tablespoon of sugar into two glasses and sprinkled in some bitters.  He
tossed a lemon wedge into each and mauled them both.  The man was serious
about his mixology.
      "Bourbon if you have it."
      Daley winked at him.  "Jim or Jack?"
      "Jim, please."
      Daley poured a stout shot of Jim Beam into each tumbler.  "Sweet or
sour?"
      "Sour, please."
      Jim nodded.  "Fruit or something else?"
      "Uhm...do you have olives?"
      "Olives, mushrooms and onions."
      "Then, olives, please."
      Finally, Daley guffawed.  "Christ, boy!  You drink like an old man!
Bourbon Old Fashioned, sour, with olives."  He shook his head and handed
Scott his drink.  "Pretty soon you'll be in line for the Friday night fish
frys at four thirty in the afternoon down at the Elk's Club, and playing
Bingo with the Catholics for fun!"
      Scott laughed shyly and blushed a bit.  "Blame my old man, and two or
three of my college roommates.  One of them was really into making these
now and then, so I've tried all the combinations.  I just like this one the
best."
      Jim speared two plump olives each with two cocktail pics and dropped
them into the cocktails.  He handed one to Scott and motioned toward the
living room.  "Fair enough.  I'll blame them all, but only if you'll stop
saying `please' at the end of every answer to my questions.  You give me
the impression that if I asked what day it was you'd say `Wednesday,
pleeeease.'"
      Scott sat on the end of the couch nearest the recliner as Jim took
his seat.  "So, you're in pretty early, even for a new guy.  How are you
finding things?"
      Scott sipped and then set down his drink.  "A little overwhelming
right now.  Meeting new folks here and there, wading through tons of
paperwork and reading through old lesson plan books."  He paused and
considered his next line.  "It, uhm, seems Mr. Cox was rather fond of
documentary and other types of video as a prime mode of instruction."
      Jim nearly spit out his drink.  After he swallowed, he laughed
heartily.  "Damn, man!  You are a politician.  That's putting it quite
tactfully.  Michael Cox was, in one of the few candid opinions I'll share
with you now, a coach first who had to teach in order to get a coaching
job.  As a varsity coach, he probably learned those organizational skills
that will make him a competent assistant principal.  But as a teacher, to
match your tact, he was rather fond of the VCR and the DVD player as a
means of delivering the content of his courses."
      Scott sighed.  "Kind of a stereotype isn't it?  The social studies
teacher/coach image?  Sitting every Friday watching some dumb-ass movie
while the teacher sat at his desk looking at his playbook for the night's
game.  I had that teacher, more than once, when I was in high school."
      "So just don't become that teacher, Scott.  You've seen how it
shouldn't be done.  Just do it right."
      "Yeah, last time I saw how `it' shouldn't be done I walked away from
`it.'  That's what got me out of politics and into education.
      Jim forced back a grin, for the most part.  "I know your resume and
some of your history, Scott, but please don't think that you've turned your
back entirely on the world of politics."
      Scott scratched his brow.  "How so?"
      Jim crossed one leg over the other.  "Well, how many constituents
does State Senator Scott Turner, Sr. have?"
      "There's about a hundred seventy five thousand in every senate
district."
      "And he probably hears from ninety percent of them none of the time,
five percent of them once or twice a session, another three or four percent
of them a few times every year, and twenty or so people call him every
damned week."  Jim sipped again.  "And most of those regular callers or
writers are nuts with one-item agendas that Senator Turner probably can't
do a damned thing about."
      Scott coughed through his laughter.  "Yeah.  That sounds about right.
I've handled some of the office phone calls and mail from time to time.
They'll call their state senator and want him to do something about Islamic
Jihad!"
      Jim laughed and looked over his glasses.  "Well, New Allsted High
School Teacher Scott Turner, Jr. has a constituency of only about a hundred
and thirty kids and their parents at any one time, and you're teaching
classes that the youngsters have to pass in order to get their diplomas.  I
dare say your contact list is going to be more active than even `Big
Scott's' or Maureen McCarthy's are.  It might be a lot smaller, but a lot
more active.  You're gonna have more than half of your folks calling you
and emailing you and showing up on your doorstep wanting to know what
you're going to do to help their little darlins get into the right college,
or even to pass your damned class."  He scratched his head.  "Think you
left politics?  Think again."
      "I do have a roster of 130 kids in front of me.  Would you go over it
and let me know who to look out for?"
      Jim wiped his lips and shook his head.  "Absolutely not."  Scott's
face showed his surprise.  "You're going to have to find that out on your
own, Scott.  I'll bet I know every one of those kids pretty damned well,
and I probably taught more than a few of their parents.  It wouldn't be
fair to the kids, and it would do you a great disservice if I sent you into
the classroom with some preconceived notion about any one of them.  Those
are understandings and relationships you're going to have to build on your
own."
      Just then they heard a car door close in the driveway.  Jim stood up.
"There's the missus."  He reached over and took Scott's glass from him.  "I
say we have one more, and I'll make one for Helen, and then you can help me
set the table."
      Helen Daley was a handsome woman.  Scott imagined she'd been quite
the looker in her day and judged that she'd worn the years very well.  She
was a good inch taller than Jim with gray hair of varying shades that had
been nicely coiffed.  She greeted Scott warmly, insisted that he call her
by her first name and then pecked her husband on the cheek as he handed her
the Old Fashioned.  Helen checked the stuffed pork chops that were in the
oven and stirred the scalloped potatoes before insisting that the men
should go back to the living room while she set the table, and then she
joined them for another fifteen minutes before declaring that dinner was
ready.
      They had a wonderful meal and very comfortable, sometimes animated
conversation.  Jim and Helen shared a few stories about their days as
childhood sweethearts who had gone their separate ways, only to rediscover
each other again when they were in their twenties.  Helen had been a nurse
until retiring two years earlier and she scolded her husband again for not
considering retirement.
      Jim chuckled and looked at Scott.  "And if I did hang it up, she'd be
giving me hell all the time for being under foot all day, pestering me to
get a hobby or something.  I stick with it so that she can enjoy the first
few years of her own retirement."
      Helen giggled.  "He's probably right.  I'll likely rue the day when a
new school year starts and he doesn't take a step out of the house."  She
winked at him.  "I'd have to have to make other arrangements with my
boyfriend if Jim was going to be home all day."  Scott chuckled and she
went on.  "I mean, he actually believes I was really playing bridge all
afternoon."  She patted Jim's hand as he rolled his eyes and scoffed.
      Helen turned back to Scott.  "So, have you met any of the other
faculty members yet?"
      Scott swallowed and nodded.  "I've met some of the other support
staff members, and a couple of the kids."
      Jim chuckled.  "Let me guess, both Millie and Bart have already tried
to scare the hell out of you."
      Scott mugged and nodded.  "And mostly succeeded."
      Jim waved a hand.  "Bart Emerson is really a teddy bear in a grizzly
costume.  He just doesn't want anybody to know it.  Millie is..." he
sighed.  "Well, she's just Millie."
      Helen added.  "Jim likes to call her the `necessary evil.'"
      Scott smiled.  "She's impressed me as a...a challenge, I guess.  I'm
gonna win her over."
      Jim winked at his wife.  "And he thought he's turned his back on
politics.  You win over that battle-axe and you belong in the U.N."
      Scott shrugged.  "And I met Brian Early in the English department the
other day.  He seems like quite the guy."
      Helen smirked as Jim rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.
"Careful there, Scott.  Mr. Early is—uhm, being polite here—rather
unconventional.  Wears his damned jeans to school, wears his damned pony
tail, wears his damned earring and most of the kids call him `Bri.'"  He
shook his head with an expression that neared disgust in Scott's eyes.
"The man is stuck in the sixties, and he's not really old enough to really
recall the sixties."
      Scott shrugged again.  "Maybe.  But we kind of hit it off during our
short conversation.  I got the sense that I would have liked him as my
teacher.  I got the feeling that he must really relate well to a lot of
kids."  Then he caught himself.  "Not that I don't respect your standards,
Jim.  You'd have really put me to the test, I'm sure."  Jim gave him
another moment to recover and Scott took the opportunity.  "And not to
worry, I don't intend to wear jeans, grow a pony tail or get any
piercings."
      Jim nodded with a subtle smile.  Helen continued to grin as she
cleared the plates.  "Are you a coffee drinker, Scott?  It's decaf around
here this time of the evening."
      He thanked her and nodded.  "Black, please."
      They had their coffee in the living room.  Jim and Helen shared a few
more stories of their three kids—two sons and a daughter—and their
five grandchildren.  Scott talked about his parents and his dear old Gran,
and a few episodes of his college days in Madison.  He included the story
about his best friend streaking across the football field.
      Jim laughed.  "Jesus!  I remember that!  I was watching the game on
TV and they went to commercial right after Dayne broke the NCAA rushing
record.  When they came back, the play-by-play guy started with `Folks,
you're not going to believe this and we can't show it to you, but...'"
      Scott beamed with some satisfaction.  "That was my buddy, Marty
Anderson.  He paid a fairly modest fine that was put up by other students,
and he did a hundred hours of community service after pleading `no contest'
to disorderly conduct."  He laughed and shook his head.  "He's quite the
guy.  Nicest, friendliest guy you could ever meet and we're still good
friends.  In fact, I'm his son's godfather and he named the handsome lad
after me.  Maybe you'll get to meet him some day."
      Helen snorted.  "Fully clothed, I hope."
      Scott shrugged.  "With Marty, one never knows."
      "Have you found place to live, Scott? Helen asked.
      He drained his cup and swallowed. His eyes widened and he nodded
quickly.  "Yeah!  It's going to be great!  I'm going to rent George
Hasborough's house out on county highway D."
      Helen clapped her hands together.  "Wonderful!  I know the place
well.  The Hasborough's are good friends, and Jim helped George with more
than a little of the remodeling out there.  It's a lovely place.  But it's
pretty big for just one occupant.  Is there someone special in your life
who'll be sharing it with you?"
      Jim shot a glance.  "Easy, mother.  Don't go snooping."  He looked
back at Scott. "Better watch it.  She thinks every single person over the
age of twenty must be miserable and is hell bent to try and help end their
misery.  A regular `Mother Teresa' of the suffering single set, she
thinks."
      Helen pursed her lips and shot a few loving darts with her eyes.
"Now, Jim, I wasn't being nosey.  And I'm not some snoopy old match-maker.
I just wondered..."
      "No problem, Helen.  No harm done.  But, no.  It'll be me, a
three-year old chocolate lab and the fattest cat you ever have or ever will
lay eyes on sharing the space.  I'm going to furnish one of the bedrooms
for guests, and convert the third to an office at home."  He put down his
empty cup and started to stand.  "Well, folks, this has been wonderful."
He extended a hand to Mrs. Daley.  "Helen, the meal was out of this world,
and I really appreciate the welcome and your hospitality."  They both
joined him in standing.  "Once I get settled in down here I promise I'll
return the favor."  He looked at his watch.  "But now, I have to head back
to Madison and start thinking about packing.  I'm coming back down
tomorrow, but decided to stay in Madison and pack on Friday.  Plus, I have
friend coming to town to help pack and celebrate the new job situation."
      Jim took his hand.  "We're going to hold you to that visit to the new
place, you know.  I haven't been out to the Hasborough place since they
moved to Florida full time."  Then he paused.  "Hey, Scott, I'm a long-time
member of the local morning Kiwanis Club.  We meet every Monday from 6:30
until 7:30, just enough time for me to get to school on time.  There's
breakfast, an informative program most weeks and we sponsor a handful of
local service projects throughout the year.  It's a good group of men and
women from throughout the community, and it might do you good to meet some
folks outside our little enclave of the school system."
      Scott mulled it over.  "Maybe."
      "It can be a little isolated if your life in New Allsted revolves
only around the school and its people.  I'd like to invite you to be my
guest at a meeting sometime soon.  No expectation of joining, just a visit
to meet some of the guys and gals."
      "I think I might like that.  But I'm going to have to wait `til the
kids and I are both settled into the new school year."
      Jim smiled again and nodded.  "Good call.  I'll check back with you."
      They said their goodnights and Scott ambled to his car feeling good,
if a bit sleepy.  He stopped and got a tall regular coffee on his way out
of town and then hit the highway back to Madison.


      Thursday morning, Scott was at his desk trying to navigate the school
district's computer network and initialize and set up his email box on
his new computer. He was contemplating possible sign-ins and passwords for
his network login.  Most of the few code words he'd used to sign in on-line
were rather perverse, and he thought better of it for school.  It occurred
to him that "BendUOver" and "CockyBoy" just didn't seem quite right for a
faculty member of NewAllsted High School.  And, his dad had cautioned him
about the content of his school email, noting rather pointedly that any
and everything that went in and out of his computer could be subject to
search under the state's Public Records Law.  There was a rap on the
doorframe.  "Mr. Turner?"
      Scott looked up and stood.  "I'm Scott Turner, yes."
      She was a petite brunette with shoulder length hair.  Everything
about her was petite.  Small nose, small eyes and, Scott noticed, tiny
hands with a surprisingly firm grip.  "I'm Judy Ronzani, one of our LD
teachers.  You have a few of my kids in your required classes.  Do you have
a few minutes?  I'll be here all day if it would be easier for me to come
back later."
      "You're in early.  I thought the returning staff wasn't due `til next
week.  But this is fine.  Come on in."
      Judy chuckled.  "If I waited `til next week, I'd be swimming up
stream for a month.  Most of the kids on my caseload I already know, but I
have to review every IEP for the incoming freshmen, and I have a lot this
year."  Every student with a disability had their own "Individualized
Education Plan" that detailed the nature of the disability and to what
steps the district had to go in order to provide what the feds deemed the
most "appropriate education."
      "I wondered if we could just go over the kids we're going to share
and the accommodations we'll have to work on together to get them through
the year."
      He motioned to the chair next to his desk.  "I looked over the list
and it looks like you work with about a dozen of my kids."
      She nodded.  "I work with them to varying degrees.  Some need more
than others.  You'll have copies of the official accommodation sheets on
each of them next week, but I heard you were in the building and since
you're new, and since I've worked with most of these kids for a few years
already, I just thought this would make things easier."
      Scott smiled and picked up his mug.  "Capital idea!  Are you a coffee
drinker, Ms. Ronzani?"
      She shook her head.  "Judy, please, but no.  Never touch the stuff."
      Scott turned and refilled his anyway.  "I confess to an addiction
here.  Been drinking the stuff since I was in high school.  I swear it's
what got me through college."
      She looked at poster of an aerial view of Camp Randall on the wall
behind him.  "I see you're a Badger."
      He sipped and nodded.  "Through and through, from dawn to dusk and
some nights even when I'm sleeping.  I'm afraid I can be a little
obnoxious.  I just keep telling myself that loyalty is an admirable trait.
And you?"
      "ASU.  My husband and I met in Tempe and we moved here five years ago
when he landed a teaching job at Beloit College.  I was lucky to land this
job right away when we made the move."
      "Sun Devil, huh?"
      "Yeah, but not a big sports fan, so feel free to blather on all you
want about the Red and White."
      "Count on it."
      Her eyes fixed on a pewter picture frame over Scott's shoulder, atop
the short book case he'd placed behind his desk.  She smiled.  "Oh, I love
that sentiment!"
      Scott glanced back and matched her smile.  He grabbed the frame which
held a two panel matted presentation.  "Yeah, me too.  This is a graduation
card I got from one of my professors at UW.  An important mentor for me,
actually, Dr. Ellison Cushing.  He assisted me in a scholarship in the
political science department, and continued to take an interest in me after
I made the move into Education.  I spent a couple semesters in his office
as his assistant on some research before I started my student teaching.  It
was all unofficial, of course, since I wasn't a grad student and wasn't
even a poli-sci major anymore.  Still, he saw to it that I earned
independent study credit for the effort."  He rubbed the edge of the frame.
"I loved this thought too, so I found a copy of the card and cut it in half
so I could lay the cover and the inside message side by side and had it
framed.  I wanted to read it every day.  The original from Dr. Cushing,
with a really nice message from him, is in a scrapbook in a box somewhere
waiting to be moved."
      The card was beautifully printed in a fine calligraphy.  On the left
half of the frame, the card's cover, it read,

     "One Hundred Years from Now,
     It won't matter what kind of car I drove,
     What kind of house I lived in,
     How much money I had in the bank,
     Or what my clothes looked like."

The right half, the card's inset said,

     "But the world may be a little better,
     Because I was important
     In the life of a child." *

      He put down the frame and looked down at the stack of folders she'd
set on the corner of his desk.  "So, tell me about the kids, and we can
start trying to make a difference in their lives."
      Judy smiled and nodded.  One by one, she reviewed the files for the
kids on Scott's class lists: the severity of their learning disabilities,
their work ethic, their temperament and, most importantly, what kind of
accommodations he'd need to make.  "I think we'll be able to schedule a
teacher's aide to sit in on one of your history classes each day and take
notes.  That way, when the kids are in our resource room, she'll know what
was covered every day and what's going to be expected the next.  We might
be able to cover the government class as well, but since they're all
seniors, there usually isn't as great a need."
      Scott nodded and grinned.  "Coming into the home stretch, the diploma
is within reach, I'm guessing the motivation is just a little bit higher
with that group.  And if it helps, since I'm kind of recreating all the
outlines and notes, I can email a copy as they're finished."
      Judy's eyes popped.  "Oh, that would be perfect!  I wish everybody
would do that."
      Scott shrugged.  "Well, I'll be writing them as we go along anyway.
It's nothing to zap an email to Special Ed. when I save them to disk.
Keep in mind, though, that events that could unfold out there..." he jabbed
a thumb toward to wall, "...in the real world can interrupt the best laid
plans.  One good unexpected economic meltdown, a war here or there, the
occasional presidential impeachment...they can all toss the lesson plan
schedule out the window for a time."
      Judy smiled and nodded.  "Understood completely, but anything you can
do to help us help the kids is great."
      "Okay, who's next."
      "Christopher Propst.  A senior in your government class first
semester."
      Scott's eyes widened.  "Yeah.  I know `Topher.  I met him the other
day."
      Judy giggled.  "Let me guess.  Zach Jacoby dragged Chris in after
football practice to start schmoozing with the new guy as soon as they
could."
      Scott's head bobbed and his eyes rolled a bit.  "There's a little bit
of Eddie Haskell in that Zach, isn't there?"
      She laughed.  "I only know Zach through Chris.  I mean, they're
practically joined at the hip.  But yeah, I think there's just a bit of the
old butt-kissing Eddie Haskell in him.  I mean, I think he's a great kid,
and obviously very talented, but I do believe he's not above trying to work
all the angles."  Then she got serious.  "But he's good for Chris."  She
paused.  "Chris is very special to me.  When I started here I was doing
middle school, mostly eighth graders, and Chris was one of the first kids I
got to know.  Then I moved to the high school the same year he did, and
he's been driving me nuts ever since."  She smiled a wry smile as she said
it.
      "Driving you nuts?"
      Judy cleared her throat.  "Well first, about his needs.  Chris is far
from our most disabled student in the LD category.  He's reading and
writing at about a sixth grade level, as of our testing last spring, and
those are the only areas where he's really deficient.  He has an incredible
memory, though, and that helps him perform well on objective tests:
matching sections with vocabulary and definitions right out of the book,
and a lot of multiple choice where the reading needs are not too
demanding."
      Scott raised his head.  "But essay questions and writing
assignments..."
      Judy nodded.  "They tear him apart.  He has a work ethic that won't
quit, but he just doesn't have the tools to perform in that arena at the
high school level.  He wants to, but just can't.  Not yet, anyway."
      "So why does he drive you nuts?  Aren't you used to that sort of
thing with the kids on your caseload?"
      "Chris is, uhm, reluctant at best to accept the assistance.
Actually, that's putting it pretty mildly.  As a result, he and I have this
sort of love/hate relationship.  He's hyper-sensitive to the designation as
a special ed. student.  He hates the label.  He resents the accommodations.
He hates being treated differently.  If it were up to him, he wouldn't be
labeled `LD', he'd never set foot in our resource room to be assisted by me
or one of our aides, and no teacher would ever make a modification for him
that other students might detect."
      Scott snorted.  "Mr. `Independent I Can Do It On My Own.'"  Judy
nodded.  Scott smiled.  "Well, I can kind of relate to that.  There's a
streak of that running through me too, for better or for worse."
      Judy leaned forward.  "Then you'll really understand him.  He's going
to need extended timelines on written assignments, and we can talk about
the best testing for him once I get a look at your plans and your exams.
But..."
      "But whatever I do to help, don't let him think the other kids know
I'm doing it."
      She pursed her lips and solemnly nodded.  "Exactly."
      Scott surveyed her face.  "He really is special to you, Judy, isn't
he?"
      She leaned back and relaxed.  "You're going to discover this year
that your first group of kids kind of have Velcro on them.  They stick with
you.  That was Chris with me, and we've been working together, sometimes
doing battle, for what's going to be our fifth year.  Ya' just have to love
the sweet little lunk."  Then she chuckled but furrowed her brows to try
and look tough.  "And if I have to drag his sorry ass kicking and screaming
across that stage to get his diploma next spring, then by God, I'm gonna do
it."
      Scott laughed and clapped his hands once.  "Now, we just met, and I
don't know you all that well, but I do believe you could do it, even if he
carries twice your weight."
      "He has so much talent, Scott, and so much heart!  You should hear
him sing and see his artwork.  In those areas, he's genuinely gifted.  I
have a painting of his hanging in my office wall.  You should stop in and
take a look.  I bought it a couple of years ago at the silent auction the
art department does with their student show every spring, and it drives him
nuts that I have it on display."  She was waving her hands now.  "And, in
the choir or on the stage, you'd think it was somebody else in Chris's
body!  He's got a tenor voice that can make you cry!  I'm not even Irish,
but his solo of `Danny Boy' at last spring's concert brought me to tears.
This shy kid who shuns attention everywhere else just shines."
      Scott was engrossed by the woman's enthusiasm and her admiration for
the young man.  "I saw the notice on the walls that the music department is
having tryouts in a couple weeks for `Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor
Dreamcoat' this fall.  Think he'll be in it?"
      Judy nodded with vigor and then smiled.  "I think they decided on
`Joseph' with him in mind.  Plus, they have a very strong female voice and
personality for the Narrator's part, and a really solid male chorus to play
all Joseph's brothers.  If Chris wants it, I'm sure he can play the lead."
      Scott raised his brows.  "That would be very cool!  It's a fun
musical, and playing that part would be a great cap to put on the end of a
kid's high school career."
      Judy's brows furrowed a bit.  "But, he'd need to juggle the football,
the musical...and the academics...all at the same time.  As a senior,
there's not a lot of wiggle room for Chris.  That's the only thing that
worries me.  If the wheels fall off one of his required courses..."
      "The diploma goes out the window."
      She nodded.  "For now anyway.  He could come back and make up the
credit in summer school or by correspondence, but he wouldn't be able to
walk in cap and gown with his class on graduation day.  That would just
kill him."
      Scott pursed his lips.  "We'll get him through."  Then he mulled it
over and chuckled.  "The center of the football team starring as `Joseph,'
complete with his amazing technicolor dreamcoat.  Who'd a thought it?"
Scott checked the clock.  "Hate to do this, Judy, but I'm supposed to meet
with the boss in about ten minutes.  We're going to go over my course
introductions and the first few weeks of my lesson plans.  But I'm very
glad you came by, and I do believe that we're going to get Chris and all
these others through a successful year.  Put my extension on your speed
dial if you need to."
      She put her small hand in his.  "It's already programmed in.  Great
meeting you, Scott.  Glad to have you aboard on the staff.  I really look
forward to working with you."
      "And I with you, Judy."
      She left and Scott sat and put a pen in his mouth.  `Chris Propst on
stage as Joseph.  That's got to be something to see.  Wonder if the guy can
dance.'  Then he thought about it.  `Ah, hell, Joseph mostly just walks and
does a little running.  It's the singing that's the deal with that part.
It's everybody else who has to dance.  Then, at the end, Joseph just has to
smile and turn `round and `round when they get the coat on him.  No
problem.  I'll bet he'd be great.'


      Scott woke up early on Friday morning and greeted a light humid fog
of a late August morning with a smile.  The fattest cat in the world was
snuggled in his customary place against Scott's shins, preventing a smooth
exit from beneath the sheets.  Instead, he bent both legs up at the knees
and slid his feet toward the edge of the mattress above the feline's head,
without disturbing the cat any more than usual.  One green eye opened and
the cat protested mildly with a grumbly "mrowwf," muffled by the comforter.
      Scott's feet hit the floor, causing Brett's head to come up and look
back over his shoulder.  He padded into the kitchen and started the coffee
maker.  Brett the Dog wagged his tail and looked plaintively toward the
door.  "I know, I know."  He moved toward the exit and talked to the dog's
rear end as it rambled down the steps.  "You'll have a straight shot out to
the back yard in another week.  No steps to hurdle in the new place."
      After feeding both pets, Scott walked down the front steps to grab
the morning paper off the porch. "I should run today," he said to himself,
"or at least stroll around the campus.  Maybe I'll stop in and say howdy to
Dr. Cushing."
      He decided against a run, opting instead for the ten-block walk down
to campus.  A banner over the Library Mall heralded "New Student Week."
Each year, Thursday through Saturday prior to Labor Day had been scheduled
for new student orientation.
      He thought about it.  "I wish I already had the new students showing
up.  Another week of dealing only with adults could get a bit drab."  As he
surveyed much of the scantily clad eye candy tossing Frisbees and kicking
hacky sacks in front of the library he grinned.  `Who are you trying to
kid?  If you could stay in college for the rest of your life, you would.'
      Scott turned left, away from the mall, and neared the small square
building that housed the offices of the Wisconsin Student
Association. `Jamieson Hall,' read the plaque on a red brick pillar holding
up the porch's roof.  Scott smiled.  Walter "Radar" Jamieson had been the
long-serving clerk of the WSA, and the guy who had quietly guided Scott
through a couple years of ups and downs as the body's president.  The last
official act Scott performed was to sign the resolution calling for
renaming of the building after his trusted friend.  He was happy and proud
that the administration had acquiesced.
      A group of four guys wearing the same high school colors gathered in
a huddle near the curb.  One, the short one, was laughing.  "You guys are
fuckin' out of your minds!"
      The overweight kid slapped the little guy's shoulder.  "No way, man!
You'd have a lock on it!  And we'll help!"
      Shorty protested again.  "Devin!  Dudes like me don't just come out
of nowhere and get elected to student government on a Big Ten campus!  It
just doesn't happen that way, bud!"
      Scott smirked and strolled toward them, caught in the conversation.
The plump one was adamant.  "But we'll all help!"  The other two were
nodding as Devin went on.  "You're the smartest guy we know, you always
liked politics, I mean you actually get this shit, and you kicked ass in
every school election back home!  Come on, Grant!  Jeez, why not?"
      "Got some ideas?"  Scott surprised even himself, as he hadn't meant
to open his mouth.  The four guys stopped and stared.  But now that he'd
started something, he continued.  "I mean, really...uh, Grant is it?  You
have some ideas for the student government here?  You think there's
something the students here need from their campus leaders?"
      Grant leaned back on his heels and surveyed the stranger in their
midst.  "Uhm, yeah...I mean sort of, I guess.  But we were just sorta
jokin.'"
      Scott's eyes bugged.  "Then do it!  Listen to Devin and take a shot
at it.  But it ain't easy, Grant.  Sometimes, it downright sucks.  But when
it works, there's nothing like it on this campus."  All four of the guys
eyed Scott suspiciously.  "Really.  It's pretty easy to just get on the
friggin' ballot.  Just go on in there and get the nomination papers from
the guy or gal behind the desk.  Get a few dozen signatures on the
nomination papers and you're on the ballot. After that it's up to you and
your buddies here."
      The muscle-bound hunk in the huddle gave Scott a mild sneer.  "Yeah?
How would you know?"
      Scott thought it over for a second and just shrugged.  "'Cuz I did
it."
      `Muscles' looked at his shoes.
      He looked back at Grant.  "You got some good buds here who sound like
they have your back.  I did this once, Grant.  It's not magic or super-hero
shit, but who knows?  Maybe the gang here on campus needs you."  He patted
Grant's shoulder and went on his way.
      He walked back across the mall and stood at the bottom of Bascom
Hill.  The white columns of Bascom Hall shone at the top of the long,
rising expanse of green grass.  The statue of the seated Abraham Lincoln
looked so small from down at the bottom of the hill.  Local legend joked
that the great man stood up every time a virgin walked past him.  Scott
shuddered as he recalled a few hundred trips "taking on the hill,"
sometimes in a twenty-below wind chill.  As he started up the sidewalk he
realized that he only remembered the brutal trudges up the hill.  The
return trips back down hadn't made quite the same impression.
      `When I was your age...blah, blah...walked five miles to
school...blah, blah...up hill both ways.'  "God forgive me. I'm becoming my
father...and my mother...and my grandmother."
      As he neared the top a woman who could only have been a proud mother
of the sheepish young freshman waved at him with one hand and held out a
camera in the other.  "Young man?  Would you please take our picture?"
Scott happily obliged and thought of the same snapshot he'd posed with his
own parents a few years earlier.
      Handing back the camera to the grateful woman, he also recalled the
night a very amorous Kelly Abbott had nearly molested him on the marble
bench behind Mr. Lincoln's raised chair.  `That was one horny young lady,'
he smiled.  `And one fantastic blowjob.'  He still felt a dab of guilt and
regret for leading her on that way, grappling with his own sexuality for
another year and allowing her to think that he might be the one for her.
Still, he was grateful that they'd remained good friends, if somewhat
distant, even after he came out to her.  Kelly had graduated a year earlier
and was working on a graduate degree in public policy while she worked a
part-time research job at the state's justice department.  With Attorney
General Maureen McCarthy for an aunt, it seemed nepotism meant naught if
the job held by the relative was low-level enough.  `Wonder how the wedding
plans are coming,' he considered.  Kelly had become engaged to the chief of
staff of one of the party's other rising stars and they planned a winter
wedding in Milwaukee.  "A Ken doll with a barely detectable pulse," Scott
had described him to Marty once.
      Marty had reached over and playfully pinched Scott's nipple through
his t-shirt.  "So a step up from you then, huh?"
      He held the door for a trio of giggling co-eds who were exiting
Bascom Hall and mounted the stairs to the second floor.  `He'll be
surprised to see me,' Scott thought.  `I hope he has a few minutes to
spare.  Wonder if old Gloria is still standing guard outside his inner
sanctum.'
      He was surprised to see the door closed and the office dark.  It
appeared that not even Gloria was there.  "What the hell?" he muttered.  He
tried the doorknob but found it locked.  "He's always in two weeks before
the students show up."  He sighed and thought to himself.  `Maybe he's off
globe trotting, advising some fledgling new government in the fine art of
telling the people `no' and having the masses like it.  I'll send him an
email and let him know I landed, butter-side-up, in New Allsted.' He
muttered to himself again as he descended the stairs.  "I'll call him and
maybe we can have breakfast before one of the home football games this
fall."
      Scott checked his watch.  Nearly eleven o'clock.  He figured there
was enough time for an early lunch at Ella's Deli before he'd head back to
the apartment and begin filling boxes.  Greg was due in later that
afternoon, and there was no telling when he might see the light of day
again.  He picked up a copy of each of the two campus daily papers on his
way into the small restaurant and dropped them on an empty table before
heading to the counter to place his order.  After asking for a Reuben with
extra dressing, his all-time favorite, he sipped a Coke at the table
waiting for his number to be shouted.  A TV mounted on the back wall
promised to bring the local mid-day news after the end of whatever soap
opera was being shown.
      "Forty seven!  Sloppy Reuben!  You're up!"
      Scott smiled and grabbed a bag of chips and some extra napkins.  The
newspapers were well soiled with greasy fingerprints by the time he rolled
up his napkins and dropped them in the basket.  He leaned back for a minute
to chuckle at the sports writer's predictions of a trip to the Rose Bowl
for this year's Badgers.  "Maybe as spectators, dopey.  They have to take
on Michigan away in the Big House this year, and the only way they'll get
past Ohio State is if the team bus crashes on the way up here next month."
He sighed and folded the paper.  "But I guess I admire your optimism."
      The familiar theme music of the mid-day news faded and the
anchorwoman's voice jolted him as he stood up to leave.  "The UW community,
and indeed, the pillars of Wisconsin state government have today suffered a
terrible loss.  Popular political science professor Ellison Cushing
apparently passed away in his sleep overnight in his Madison home on the
near west side.  A neighbor who says he walked every morning with Cushing
called police when he failed to answer his door this morning.  Police are
saying he appears to have died of natural causes and that no foul play is
expected."
      Scott dropped his basket on the table and froze.  "Foul play?  What
the fuck does that mean?  Who the hell would want to hurt the man?"  A
middle-aged couple stopped their conversation and looked at him
suspiciously.
      He took a couple steps toward the TV set and stared at the morose
reporter.  "Cushing was an icon of academic excellence at the UW for more
than forty years, and was advisor to state and national leaders of both
parties, as well as to leaders of foreign countries from time to time."
      Scott swallowed hard and propped one hand on the back of a nearby
chair.  Maureen's face filled the screen, with her name and title imposed
across the bottom.  Her voice quivered.  "We all called him `Elly' behind
his back when we were kids taking his classes, and then later he told us to
call him that to his face."  She forced a smile.  "He was such an
influential force in my own public life and countless others both in and
out of service to the people of this state.  He has been one of Wisconsin's
truest treasures and he will be sorely missed...but never forgotten."
      The screen skipped back to the news anchor.  "We will have more on
the many contributions of Professor Ellison Cushing, complete with comments
from university officials, later today on `Live at Five' and again tonight
at six and ten.  In other news, a bank holdup on Madison's east side..."
      Scott turned and bumped into another customer whose sad face was
glued to the television.  He excused himself and headed straight for the
door.  The waste from his quick lunch lay strewn on the table.
      He'd forgotten his cell phone when he'd left that morning and it was
blinking to let him know that a call had been missed and a message was
waiting.
      "Hey, Scotty.  It's me.  Nicky got a later start than planned for his
trip home, and so I'm running a little late too."
      "That's just as well that he's going to be late," Scott thought as he
flopped on his bed.  "All of a sudden I'm not really in the mood to be all
that hospitable today, anyway."  He rolled on his back locked his fingers
behind his head and stared at the ceiling.  The fattest cat bounded over
the corner of the mattress and waddled his way up to nestle in Scott's
armpit.  Scott reached over, rubbed the cat's neck and sighed.  "One
hundred years from now..."



      After an hour of fitful dozing, Scott opened his eyes and yawned.  He
checked his watch and glanced down at the fattest cat.  "Well, we lost a
great one today, big guy."  He stretched and yawned again.  "But, it was a
good life, well lived."  He thought again of Evelyn's passing and all the
great years she'd had.  "Billy Joel was wrong.  Often, the good grow old."
He stood and rubbed his face.  "Well, Greg's gonna be here in about an
hour, so I suppose we ought to try and be sociable, huh?"
      Scott stripped down and grabbed his robe.  He wrapped himself,
stepped over the dog who was lying in the hallway and walked into the
bathroom.  As he ran the shower and waited for it to warm, he made note
that it had never been difficult to be sociable with Greg.  Even before
Greg had moved and they saw each other nearly every day for most of a year,
it had felt so easy, so natural to be around him.  When Greg was nearby
Scott felt needed.
      Scott was excited that he was coming for a visit.  They hadn't seen
each other in over a month.  After Scott had received the job offer at New
Allsted, he called Greg right after calling his parents with the news.
Since then, they'd either spoken over the phone or emailed almost daily,
so getting caught up with one another wouldn't be a problem.  As he rinsed
his hair, Scott felt his cock becoming heftier and by the time he was
stepping out of the shower he was at half mast.  He looked down and
grinned.  "Patience, big guy.  Patience is a virtue.  I'm as anxious as you
are. It's been awhile."
      It was going to be a warm, humid evening, so Scott found a clean pair
of baggy shorts and a bright blue button down shirt that Greg had always
told him looked good.  Craig was out with Stephanie checking out housing
options for the coming year, so the guys would be on their own for dinner.
Scott brought Brett the Dog downstairs and went back up to make a drink.
He was thinking Chinese sounded good when there was a thump on the front
door downstairs.
      "Door's open and my hands are full.  You know the way!"
      He heard the door open and close again, followed by the slow
deliberate footsteps on the front stairs.  Scott peeked his head over the
railing.  "Hey, babe. Glad you made it.  I just made a drink and set it
down in the living room.  What'll you have?"
      Greg looked up and leered.  "I'll have you."  He continued his slow,
steady pace up the steps, his eyes locked on Scott's during the remainder
of his ascent.  Scott stepped to the top of the landing and grinned.
Reaching the top step, Greg reached around Scott's waist and pulled him
close.
      "I was thinking we'd either go out or order in for Chi..."
      Greg pulled him close and abruptly cut him off with his lips.  After
a passionate `hello' kiss, he pulled his face away and leered.  "In.  Let's
order in."  He resumed his all-out invasion of Scott's mouth.
      Scott, now pinned against the wall at the top of the stairs, finally
had his bearings and responded with enthusiasm, quickly becoming passionate
abandon.  He reached around and wrapped one arm across Greg's back, sliding
his left hand up Greg's muscular back, over the back of his neck and
finally wove his fingers through the dark brown hair on the back of Greg's
head.
      Greg pulled back again and gazed at Scott with smoldering dark eyes.
"Mr. Turner, I presume?  Got anything you want to teach me?"
      Scott faked a modest smile.  "Well, uh, you know I'm new at this
whole teaching thing, but I'll do my best."  Greg ground their crotches
together as he kissed Scott again, and Scott sensed the bulging but
restrained contour of the familiar mound beneath Greg's shorts.  "You wore
it!"  He giggled and kissed Greg's neck.
      Greg giggled along with him, but Scott couldn't see his favorite set
of dimples.  Greg's head fell back a little to give Scott better access. He
gasped and moaned at the playful lips and tongue dancing below his jaw and
whispered, "I know how much you like it."  He squirmed when Scott sucked
his left lobe in between his lips.  "And you know I like to wear it for
you."
      Scott mumbled into his ear.  "You know it drives me nuts.  You look
so fucking hot in that thing.  Best gift I ever gave anyone."  Two years
earlier, for Greg's birthday, Scott had given him a jockstrap in the
Badgers' cardinal red color.  He rubbed both hands across Greg's firm ass
cheeks and tingled when he felt the elastic straps framing Greg's beautiful
muscular ass.
      As they continued to wage a battle of lips and tongues with Scott
leaned back against the wall, Greg's fingers went to work on the buttons of
Scott's shirt.  Greg bent his head down and sucked on Scott's right nipple
while his hand massaged and kneaded Scott's aching cock and sack through
the fabric of his shorts.  The dog barked outside.  Scott put a hand to the
back of Greg's head.  "Not here!  Slow down hot stuff.  I don't know when
Craig and Stephanie will be coming back, and the dog's outside.  I'll go
let him in and meet you in the bedroom."
      "I'll be the one wearing only the red jock."
      "The hot brunette on his knees?"
      "Yeah.  That'll be me.  On my knees on the floor, or on my knees on
the bed?"
      "Your call.  I think I'll be able to pick you out."
      Scott kissed him quickly and headed for the back door.
      The bedroom door was open a crack and the room was dimly lit when he
got back.  Greg was indeed stripped down to nothing but his jock, and was
waiting a few feet directly in front of the door.  He reached out his hands
and wiggled his fingers.  "Gimme!"
      Scott stepped within reach and Greg's fingers went to work on the
button and the zipper.  "Hungry?  I thought we'd order Chinese."
      Greg looked up and licked his lips.  In the dim light his brown eyes
and dark pink lips all looked a bit darker than usual.  "Chinese later,
maybe."  He tore Scott's shorts and boxers down to his ankles.  "Cock now."
He lunged his face forward and swallowed Scott's hard manhood with one
smooth motion.  As Scott gripped Greg's broad shoulders and threw his head
back in a gasp, Greg grabbed his ass and held him there, gagging on his
lover's meat until he pulled off with a loud slurp.
      Scott looked down and kneaded Greg's strong shoulders.  They were
wide when the two had met, but the definition in Greg's upper body now,
both front and back was something to behold, even from above.  "You are a
hungry boy."  He took hold of his tool with his right hand and lightly
swatted Greg's cheeks and lips with it.  He pulled it upward, giving Greg
access to his scrotum and balls.  "I think you missed a spot."
      Greg grinned and licked his lips again.  "A pretty big one.  Sorry."
He slowly crooked his neck and moved his face forward, parting his lips to
suck first one, then both of Scott's nuts into his mouth.  Scott sighed and
carefully pulled a foot out of the leg of his shorts in order to spread his
legs and give ample access.
      Greg pulled back and grabbed Scott's manhood, playfully flicking the
head with the tip of his tongue.  Then he began a slow rhythm with his
head, forward and back, while Scott accommodated the effort with a slow
thrusting of his hips.  Scott put a hand on each side of Greg's face and
encouraged the feast below him with soft purrs and moans.
      Twenty minutes later, Scott was on his back on the bed, his legs bent
over the edge of the mattress.  He looked down and gasped ragged breaths as
Greg's muscled ass, still framed in the red elastic bands, slid up and down
Scott's steely, glistening pole.  Slowly at first, Greg whimpered each time
the head of Scott's cock hit his prostate.  Greg contracted his muscles
each time his chute slid up the length of Scott's tingling member,
eliciting a delighted cry from Scott's throat.  "God damn, Greg!!  You've
been practicing, you fucker!"  Greg just snickered above him and picked up
the pace.  Soon, Scott had slid ahead far enough to place his feet flat on
the floor between Greg's, and he had enough leverage to thrust his hips
upward to meet Greg's rhythm.  Greg's head bobbed left and right, up and
down.  In the dresser mirror Scott could see his lover's eyes closed in a
blissful grin while he fucked himself on Scott's full length.
      Scott felt it coming.  He sat up behind Greg and reached around him.
Two or three inches of Greg's hard member, slippery with oozing precum,
stood proudly against his stomach above the elastic band.  Scott hooked a
thumb in the tight material and pulled the pouch down below Greg's balls.
With his back pressed against Scott's chest now, Greg never ceased his
bouncing up and down on Scott's cock, nor did he ever halt his whimpers
with each thrust.  Scott grabbed Greg's hot pole and cried.  "Greg...shit,
Greg...I'm gonna...I'm..."
      Greg sat down firmly on Scott's groin.  "I KNOW!  ME TOOOO!"  His
head and chest jerked as he fired a volley of semen, hitting the surface of
the dresser a few feet from Scott's bed.  The spasm continued and Scott
cried out as he exploded deep inside Greg's hole, straining the condom with
one gusher, then another and another.  As Greg continued to gently quake,
his seed dripped down the tops of Scott's fingers.  Together, they fell
back onto the bed, Scott's chest providing a sweaty landing ground for
Greg's back.  Both men sighed and gasped and giggled contentedly while
Scott's gooey hand roamed aimlessly across Greg's heaving chest.
      After a half hour of cuddling, Scott got up and phoned the Chinese
restaurant a few blocks away and started the shower.  They thoroughly
cleaned each other and had just dried off and slid into some shorts and
t-shirts when the food arrived.  They sat, legs entwined, on either end of
the living room couch.  "Casablanca" was on TNT.  Greg had never seen it.
Between bites of eggroll, fried rice and the house special lo mein, Scott
got Greg caught up on the plot.  After they ate, Greg snuggled back between
Scott's legs while they watched the second half of the movie with Scott's
right arm draped lazily across Greg's chest.  As Claude Raines and Humphrey
Bogart strolled slowly into the fog that shrouded the airport's runway,
Greg glanced up.  "Cool ending."
      "So, tell me about your meeting with the coach yesterday.  You said
there was some major league talent guy there?"
      Greg sat up and cleared his throat.  "Well this dude, John Maleck,
was there along with me, Coach Bidwell and another guy on the team, Billy
Spivak.  Malek works as an agent for college talent in the June draft each
year.  He has arrangements with two western franchises, L.A. and Colorado.
He'll scout the talent and do some of their other legwork to help them make
the draft easier.  Then he'll represent the guys they want to bring into
one of their farm teams.  The thing is, they're all on the west coast, most
likely in California, but maybe up in Washington.
      "You mean like in Bull Durham?"
      "Well, the Durham Bulls are a real team, but they're triple A.  If I
got a call, I'd probably start at A.  Maybe double A if I have a hell of a
season."
      "And from there it's onto the `bigs'?"
      "Slow down, cowboy.  That's a hard one to pull off in one year, and
there's a hell of a lot of talent out there."
      "But right now, it looks like your future is out west?"
      Greg shrugged and sighed.  "Bidwell tells me that my name will be in
the hopper for the spring pro draft.  He also said that to have a guy like
Maleck in my corner could improve my chances.  Of course, a great season
next spring would make it all even better."
      Scott buried his chin in Greg's neck.  "You'll have another
ass-kicking season, Greg.  You won't need this Maleck guy, he'll need you."
Greg rubbed Scott's arm that was draped across his chest and sighed.  Scott
licked him behind the ear.  "But right now I've got you.  How about I let
the dog out to pee and we continue our snuggling in the other room?"
      Greg yawned.  "Sounds like a good idea."


      At nine the next morning, Greg was propped up, leaning against the
headboard with the fattest cat in the world lying across his thighs.  He
raised his brows when Scott came back in with two glasses of ice water.
"You're right.  You let this bastard lay here long enough and he can cut
off the circulation."  He wiggled his toes beneath the sheets.  "My feet
are starting to go numb."
      Scott slid back beneath the sheets and snuggled as close as he could
before handing Greg a tall glass.  "You sure that's not because your feet
have been in the air so much the past couple hours?"
      Greg sniffed as he swallowed a long gulp of water.  "Nah, that only
makes my blood rush faster.  It's good for the pulse and circulation."
      "So, I have to finally ask this, Greg, flat-out.  Did you come down
here this weekend to say goodbye?  Was this some final wild fling before we
head our separate ways?"
      Greg's lips scrunched crooked and his brows knitted.  "I came down
here mostly because I missed you and wanted to celebrate your new start in
a new career.  You thought that?"
      "Well, let's see...in the past two years, the only time I could ever
come to Mankato was when Nick was going to be gone.  The only times you
ever came here since you moved, this weekend included, but with the
exception of my graduation, was when Nick was going to be gone.  Three
times in the past couple weeks, including twice last night, you referred to
your bedroom as `our room...'
      "I did?"
      "You did."
      "And the guy who was almost always just `Nick' a couple years ago has
been nothing but `Nicky' for about a year.  Come on, Greg.  This is the guy
you got to know at first through a high school hand job at baseball camp,
and then messed around with until you both went your separate ways.  Now,
I'm not always the sharpest blade in the drawer, but, how shall I put
this..."  He smiled to take any sting out of the volume of his voice.  "YOU
THINK I'M A FUCKING MORON?!"
      Greg's mouth fell open and Scott leaned back and chuckled.  "Do I
love you?  Yeah.  Will I always love you?  Unless you really do something
to piss me off.  Am I IN LOVE with you the way I once was?  I'd have to say
I don't think I am.  Do I still treasure the time we have been able to
spend together...when we could make it work?  Hell, yeah!  Do I hope you
and Nicky can make a go of it?  Absolutely.  Do I wish you'd have just said
something over the phone rather than come all this way to tell me to my
face?"  He leaned over and kissed him gently.  "Not on your ever loving
life!"
      Greg smiled shyly.  "Thanks for that, Scott. I guess we ought to face
facts, huh?  We already have gone our separate ways.  Your heart and brain
are firmly planted in New Allsted.  Mine are anchored for the time being in
Mankato, Minnesota."
      "With an exit sign ahead...all points west."
      "Odds are the next stop for me is California.  Could be Washington,
but maybe Nevada or Arizona too.  But..."
      "But you're here to tell me officially that this is it."
      Greg shrugged.  Scott had hit the fast-forward button on his plans
for this discussion, but here it was.  He sighed.  "Didn't you see the day
this would come?  You and me?  I mean, c'mon Scott.  You knew I'd probably
be leaving Madison even before I did.  You know that if the baseball team
here hadn't been cut..."
      Scott looked at the ceiling.  "We've been over and over that, Greg.
You ought to know by now that I wanted..."
      "No!  No!  Scotty, you know I don't blame you for that.  I know you
tried to avoid it, but that prick of a board president shut you down and
the votes just weren't going to be there anyway!  I'm not blaming you at
all.  Never have!"  Scott smirked at him.  "Okay, okay...I did at first,
but only `cuz I was really hurt and wasn't thinking straight."
      Scott just shrugged and stared at the door across the room.
      "But let's face it.  The last two years haven't been exactly a piece
of cake in the relationship department."
      "I came up to Mankato whenever I could and, apparently, whenever it
was safe for me to drive up there.  This is exactly your third trip to
visit down here in Madison."
      "Working every weekend kind of put a travel restriction in my path,
even after I bought the truck."
      There were several seconds silence before Greg turned on his side and
gently grabbed Scott's chin.  "Look, Scotty, this isn't about who's to
blame.  Or at least it doesn't have to be.  It just is what it is.  We both
tried to make the distance thing work, and it just didn't, really.  And
pretty soon the distance is only gonna multiply many times over.  Like I
said, it doesn't have to be anybody's fault.  It just is what it is."  Greg
started to giggle.
      "What?"
      "It's kinda funny."
      "What is?"
      Greg reached over and pulled Scott's face to his.  He kissed Scott
and was glad to find Scott quickly matching his effort.  He pulled away and
then pecked Scott's lips again quickly and smiled.  "For about three years,
you've always been the one to make sure that my head was screwed on
straight.  You helped me in school here.  You helped me get a grip on who I
am.  You pushed to get into counseling and figure out my fucked up family."
He ran the tip of his index finger from Scott's bottom lip down to the tip
of his chin.  He prodded the chin upward an inch and smiled.  "And now I'm
the one talking common sense to you."  He kissed Scott's nose.  "I love
it."
      Scott smiled and slid his butt down the mattress about a foot,
bringing his head and shoulders down with them.  He quickly pulled Greg
down onto the mattress and the pillows.  As they both descended, he swooped
his face forward and nibbled the nape of Greg's neck.  "Bastard!  I've
created a monster."  He ran his tongue up Greg's jaw line and nuzzled his
lips in Greg's left ear.
      Greg's head turned and he bent his neck, giggling at the light
tickling.  "A monster, you say?"
      Scott's chest was planted firmly on top of Greg's now, pinning him to
the bed.  He pulled back his face, shook his head gently and looked into
Greg's eyes.  "I have to admit it.  I liked it when it felt like you needed
me sometimes.  My ego, among other things, got a rise when I thought I was
giving you a boost in the game of life.  And here you are, telling me like
it is."  He lowered his face and kissed Greg with passion.  "Like you said,
it is what it is babe."
      "Proud of me, are you?"
      Scott's face disappeared again and Greg gasped when the warmth of
Scott's mouth encased his left nipple.  Scott mumbled, "Thomething like
that, I gueth."
      Greg put his hand on the back of Scott's head.  "Shut up and get back
to work, Mr. Turner."


      Showered and freshly dressed, they were getting ready to go out and
get some breakfast.  Scott was still in the bathroom brushing his teeth
when Craig came out of his room.  He whispered, "Hey Greg!  Great to see
you again!"  The two shared a handshake and manly sort of half hug in the
hallway.
      Greg stepped back and matched Craig's hushed tone.  "Scott says
you're writing for `The State Journal.'  That's outstanding!"
      Craig nodded toward the kitchen and headed for the coffee cups.  He
set two on the counter and smiled.  "Thanks.  I like it there.  It's only
been a couple of months, doing the local beat.  Scott's buddy Grant Cornell
greased the skids for me and got me on board."  He nodded back toward the
bedroom.  "My girlfriend got a job here with Marriott, and we're looking
for a new place to live."  Scott joined the guys and Craig gestured toward
him.  "Since young Mr. Turner here is going off to change the world through
teaching and leave me by myself, Stephanie has agreed to come to Madison
and take care of me."
      Scott put his hand on the small of Greg's back.  "Trust me, bud.
Somebody has to."  He looked over Greg's shoulder.  "We're gonna run up to
the Inn on the Park for breakfast, then probably hang here for the day.  I
want to start filling boxes.  Three years worth of shit around here to
move."
      Craig sipped from his mug.  "Looks like we'll be out most of the day.
Steph has a list of about eight places she wants to look at, and she won't
be moving until ten at the earliest."
      Scott snickered.  "D'you wear her out last night, stud?"
      Craig picked up the other mug.  "You should talk.  You don't want to
go there, Scotty.  It's a good thing I'm used to the sounds you two can
make."  Scott and Greg blushed in tandem.  Craig slid past them.  "Let's
plan on the four of us meeting at The Avenue around six or seven.  We'll
grab a good meal and then do...whatever."
      The couple exchanged glances and both nodded.  Scott said, "call my
cell when you have a better handle on what time, and we'll be there."
      Craig raised a mug and nodded, then backed his way back into his
bedroom.
      Scott held the door open and muttered through barely open lips.  "Get
ready."
      Greg walked past him into the hotel's lobby.  "Huh?"
      They were three steps inside the Inn on the Park when Scott rolled
his eyes at the sound of the now familiar squeal.  "With God as my
witness...my heart be still...it's my dear old friend, Scott!"  Bradley
Manning had one hand over his grinning mouth and was completely ignoring a
couple waiting to pay their breakfast tab.  Bradley looked at the gentleman
and waved at a waitress.  "Cheryl will take care of you, sir."  He scurried
from behind the desk and met them a few feet from the restaurant's entrance
with open arms.  Scott obliged the aging host with a hug.
      "Bradley, I don't think you've met my friend, Greg Page."
      Bradley eyed the young jock appreciatively.  "Oh, no I most certainly
have not!  I'd remember meeting this one!  Where have you been hiding him,
Mr. Turner?"  He grabbed Greg in a hug, a bit too close and too long for
Greg's comfort zone.  Bradley released him and tapped Scott's arm. "Or,
where have you been hiding yourself for that matter.  It's been ages!"
      As Bradley led the two to their best table, Scott gave him an update
since graduation.  Bradley eagerly took it all in with gushing glee.  "I
see!  Well, then you're forgiven for being such a stranger, then."  He
seated the two guys and handed them menus.  "And I know all the kids of New
Allston, or New Albright or New Angus or wherever are lucky to have you."
Scott didn't correct him, but merely thanked him.  "I'll have Sheila right
over to take your orders."
      Greg grinned.  "He's a piece of work, isn't he?"
      Scott sipped from a glass of water and shrugged.  "Aw, he's a `dear
old queen,' as I used to tease Maureen.  That's how I met him.  I met
Maureen here for breakfast one morning back when I was a freshman.  And any
friend of Maureen's is a friend of Bradley's."
      "So is any friend of yours apparently."
      As they finished their omelets and Sheila cleared their plates, the
host returned with a fresh pot of coffee and an envelope.  He refreshed
their coffee and handed the envelope to Scott.  "I'll give you this now.
It'll save me the trouble of having to track you down."
      Scott eyed the square envelope curiously and slid out a single sheet
of embossed heavy stock.  "Retiring?!  No!  Not you Bradley.  The place
will never be the same without you."
      Bradley waved him away.  "Oh, Scott, as always you're too kind."  He
looked at Greg and winked.  "And, as usual, he's absolutely right."  He
sighed and put his fingertips to his right cheek.  "But yes, it's time.  I
don't think you ever met my Phillip, but he's not well you know."
      Scott frowned.  "No.  Nothing too serious, I hope."
      Bradley shook his head.  "Oh, no.  Nothing deadly or anything like
that. He and I are both going to leave this world of old age when the time
comes.  But he's ten years my senior, he doesn't quite have my
constitution, and he really does require more and more of my attention.  We
just both want to enjoy as much time together as we can until that day
comes."
      Scott smiled softly.  "Then good for you, Bradley.  You've earned
it."  He glanced back at the invitation.  "Retirement party here on New
Years Eve, huh?  Sounds like a blast."
      "You wouldn't expect me to leave here quietly, would you?"
      Scott laughed.  "Not on your life.  Tell you what, if it looks like I
can be in the neighborhood over the holidays, I'd love to come."
      "That'd be lovely.  I just know that Phillip would love to meet you.
And bring Greg along."
      Both guys smiled and nodded without saying anything.
      They spent another ten minutes chatting about Maureen's rise in the
ranks and how much Scott reminded Bradley of Senator Turner, now that he'd
gotten to know the man a bit.  True to form, Bradley saw to it that the
bill had been taken care of, and then presented Scott with a square bakery
box.  "Oh, Bradley, picking up the tab...again...that's more than enough.
You don't have to..."
      "I know it's your favorite, and you said you were too full for any
kind of dessert.  You boys will be ready for some turtle cheesecake later
in the day.  It's my pleasure."
      Scott knew the protest was wasted breath, so he just looked at Greg
and smiled.  "Wait'll you try this stuff!  It's their signature dessert
here."  Scott handed the box to Greg and pulled Bradley Manning into a big
hug.  "You're the best, my friend.  Phillip is one lucky guy."
      Bradley kissed him on the cheek, then stood back and wiped small tear
from the corner of his eye.  Greg handed the cake back and happily accepted
his second hug of the day with grace.
      Craig and Stephanie met the guys at the bar of The Avenue a little
before seven.  After introducing Greg and Steph, they ordered a round of
drinks and waited for their name to be called.  "So, any luck finding a
place?" Scott asked.
      Craig and Stephanie exchanged glances.  Craig spoke. "Uhm, two
actually. Now we just need to decide which is the best: the small house on
the East Side with the lawn to mow and the sidewalk and driveway to shovel,
or the two bedroom apartment on the near west."  He paused.  "The one with
underground parking, the health club included, right next to the golf
course."
      Scott looked at Steph.  "I take it it's going to be the house on the
east side?"
      She popped an olive into her mouth and grinned as she chewed.  "Yep."
      Craig shook his head and rolled his eyes while the others laughed.
      They ate and laughed the evening away.  When the waitress asked about
dessert, Scott interrupted his roommate.  "Nope, but thanks.  We're all
good.  Just the check."  Craig looked pissed until Scott grinned across the
table.  "How `bout turtle cheesecake and a cup of strong coffee back at the
apartment?"
      Craig grinned and groaned.  "You dog!  You guys went up and saw
Bradley this morning!  You scored."
      Scott shrugged.  "I even objected and tried to pay for it, but the
guy loves me."
      Greg was wiping the barbecue sauce from his fingers, and grinned.
"Me too."
      Craig looked at Stephanie.  "Steph, this cheesecake is the best.
Let's get the hell out of here."
      The four of them enjoyed dessert and a cup of coffee over a rousing
game of Scrabble with another lame edition of "SNL" showing over Scott's
shoulder.  They followed that with a round of nightcaps and then a friendly
round of "goodnights."
      The lovemaking between Scott and Greg that night was slow, erotic,
deliberate.  They both slept soundly, Greg nestled back into Scott's firm
embrace for the last time.



Author's Note: * That poem has always been important to me.  It is
excerpted from "Within My Power," by Forest Witcraft.

Huge shouts of thanks to all the readers and friends who have contacted me
since the first chapter of this story appeared.  As I said, it's great to
be back.  If you would like to comment on anything you've read here, please
feel encouraged to write to me at: scotty.13411@hotmail.com.  Happy
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