Date: Thu, 23 Jun 2005 03:47:35 +0000
From: ThomasBranigan@comcast.net
Subject: Saving Justin - Chapter One - Gay Male - Adult Youth

The following is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to real characters or
true stories is purely coincidental.

Some of the subject matter deals with emotional and sexual connections
between males, to include cross-generational relationships.  If there is
any moral or legal reason that you feel you should not be reading such
material, please move on to another story.


CHAPTER ONE


Tom hadn't seen the boy in almost two years, and it suddenly occurred to
him how stupid it was to think that he would be able to spot him in the sea
of people who teemed throughout the cavernous Port Authority.  He hadn't
been given any specifics; nothing about whether the kid was coming into New
York or going out, nothing about a train or a bus.  He'd simply received a
cryptic message on his cell phone.

"Tom.  This is Justin.  I need to talk to you.  Meet me at the Port
Authority.  I should be there around nine tonight.  Gotta go."

Tom had stood for a moment, holding the phone out in the palm of his hand,
staring at it.  It was amazing to him that a contraption constructed of
plastic and metal could suddenly disrupt his life and his digestive system
so quickly and thoroughly.  Justin.  Tom would not have even been sure
about recognizing the boy's voice -- it wasn't necessarily any deeper than
he remembered it being, but it was somehow fuller; thicker if that was
possible -- but, the fluttering in his stomach left no doubt.  It was
Justin.

He pulled his cell phone out now to check the time.  Eight thirty.  He was
too early; he knew it.  He had been in the East Village when he'd received
the message and had hurriedly taken the subway to Grand Central.  He hated
the thought that he was being overly anxious.  It sickened him, actually.
But, a more devastating fear of his was if he should somehow miss Justin
just because he was trying to keep himself detached.  He felt foolish and
pathetic, but he never the less took the steps up to the Port Authority and
began wandering around, trying not to look furtive as he scanned the crowd
for that one face.

The last time he had seen Justin the boy had been thirteen or fourteen.  He
remembered his birthday -- October 5 -- but, he couldn't remember the
specific year that he had been born.  Funny; how he had forgotten that.  He
was the one who had filled out the paperwork on Justin and his brother
Joseph when they first arrived at the Taylor House.  Joseph was ten at the
time.  That means Justin would have been probably twelve, which would make
him . . .  sixteen, now.  Tom sighed nervously at the thought.  Sixteen was
that strange stasis between boyhood and manhood when the body had potential
to blossom into beauty or break out into gangly and pimply ugliness.  God,
how would he react if he discovered that Justin's genes had bestowed him
with the latter curse?  But, almost immediately as the image entered his
mind of a protruding Adam's apple and a chin full of acne, it began to
evaporate almost as quickly as it appeared.  In his gut, Tom knew that
Justin would not have turned out ugly.  Even if he had, he doubted that it
would change anything.

Eight thirty-five.  Tom wandered and gazed around, trying to look
controlled and casual.

He had been the one to initially greet Justin and his brother in the foyer
of the Taylor House.  They looked like they had been ripped out of the
suburbs, two blond headed, blue-eyed cherubs.  Justin stood erect, angry,
defiant, and scared.  Joseph just looked plain scared.  Their caseworker
introduced them to Tom as she handed him their folders, and although she
continued to talk, he only heard random bits of what she was saying.  He
had been on staff at the Taylor House for all of eight months, but even
with that short a span of time under his belt, he knew that these two boys
didn't belong there.  It wasn't just that they were white -- really white,
for that matter -- but, for the added fact that they looked so well put
together.  Their hair was cut fairly respectfully; their clothes were
decent.  One of Joseph's shoes had been untied; that seemed to be the only
thing out of order on either of them.

That's right.  He remembered that, now.  One of Joseph's shoes had been
untied.  While the caseworker rattled on, he had knelt down in front of
Joseph and gently grasped the laces of his shoes -- they were a nice pair
of Nikes or something like that -- and had stretched them out and tied them
in a secure knot.  He had looked up to find both of the boys still staring
at him, the younger one pleading, the older one distrustful and protective.

"It's okay," Tom had almost whispered.  "You're going to be all right."

He broke one of the house rules that night, the first time that he had done
such a thing.  Well; he had broken rules before, but none so flagrantly as
he did that particular night.  He allowed the two brothers to stay
together, rather than be split up as was normally required.  Children slept
in a different dorm from the teenagers, regardless of whether they were
siblings or not.

Tom involuntarily slapped his hand to his forehead as he suddenly
remembered that decision.  Justin wasn't twelve at the time; he was
thirteen.  How could he have forgotten that?  All hell had broken loose the
next morning when the assistant director had learned of the situation and
forcibly split the boys up.  No amount of reasoning or argument on Tom's
part could dissuade Barry.  Joseph cried and screamed, Justin shouted
obscenities at him, but Barry remained rigid.  It was Tom's first taste of
Barry's malicious obsession with control, and the beginning of a long,
downward slide in his ability to cope with his brooding authority.

Eight forty-five.  So many faces.  So much noise.  Tom always thought it
strange that the din was so overwhelming in places like the Port Authority,
and yet, when he scanned the mobs of people he saw very little real
talking.  There were random shouts of "Hurry!" here and there, and perhaps
a name called out in distress as a call for boarding was announced.  The
noise was like a million voices all talking at once, but Tom could never
see the hard evidence to convince him that it wasn't all some weird
illusion.

How would he ever spot Justin in this place?  Two years!  It had been two
years since the boy had disappeared.  There was no way to know what kind of
changes had transpired, because no one knew for sure where he'd been.
Would he have that strung out look of a kid who had been surviving on the
streets, gaunt and hollow eyed?  Tom pushed the thought out of his mind.
He'd spent two years roaming the streets looking for Justin.  Even a random
walk to the corner grocer involved looking in every doorway and alley, his
heart stopping every time he caught a glimpse of blond hair.  The simple
fact that he now knew that Justin was still alive was enough to send his
spirit souring high enough to dispel all those months of anguish.  The kid
had somehow survived.  That's all that mattered to him at this point.

Tom saw a restroom sign on the wall next to one of the stairs going down to
the subway, and he suddenly realized how badly he needed take a piss.
Casting another long glance around the crowded concourse, he headed to the
men's room.  He hated using the public restrooms in the Port Authority --
or, for that matter, any public restrooms -- but, the closer he got to the
door, the more urgent his need became.  He pushed through the entrance and
quickly bypassed the urinals where a couple of men bounced on the balls of
their feet as they relieved themselves.  He found an open stall and he
entered hurriedly, bolting the door behind him.  He distracted himself by
looking at some of the graffiti on the wall, and within a short moment he
was able to release a thick stream of urine into the toilet bowl.

He heard two men enter the restroom, chatting about a basketball game.  He
could tell by the sound of their footsteps and the proximity of their
voices that they had stepped up to the wall of urinals.  Tom was struck
with awe and envy as he heard them continue their conversation.  How he
wished he could do that; prattle on with a bud at the urinal, nonchalantly
going about the business of emptying his bladder without a bit of anxiety.
He'd only recently learned that his malady had actually been given a name.
Shy Bladder, it was called, denoted to men who had trouble "performing the
act of urinating in public places."  With bemused horror, Tom imagined that
there were probably support groups and therapy seminars already popping up
all over the place.

Guaranteed!  We'll have you pissing with the rest of the boys, or your
money back!

Tom waited until the room was quiet before he emerged from his stall.  He
stepped up to one of the sinks to wash his hands.  Looking up into the
mirror, he paused.  It hadn't occurred to him, in the midst of his worry
over spotting Justin in the crowd, that the boy might not immediately
recognize him.  He'd cut off all of his hair since the last time Justin had
seen him.  Down almost to his belt line, dark to the point of almost being
black and with a gleaming shine to it in certain lighting, Tom had prized
his hair, thinking that it was the only attribute he had that bordered on
being beautiful.  He came to the realization one day that his lustrous hair
did nothing to enhance his attractiveness.  In fact, it only magnified the
plainness of the rest of him.  The very next day, he walked into the Ibis
Salon without an appointment and he told Kenny that he wanted him to cut it
all off.  Kenny stared back at him with shock and sadness on his face.  He
had been maintaining Tom's hair for three or four years by that time.

"I want to donate it to Locks of Love," Tom shrugged.  "It'll grow back,"
he added, before Kenny had opportunity to argue.

It was a lie.  He had kept it short ever since, with just a hint of bangs
to cover the top of his forehead.  He hated his forehead.  He hated his
face.  Pale brown eyes with long lashes stared back at him from the mirror,
and he thought that they wouldn't be half bad looking if the rest of his
face weren't so unremarkable.

He turned away.  He'd spent literally most of his life trying to change the
way he felt about the person who looked back at him when he looked in that
mirror.  He had failed, and nothing he could do was going to change things
in the future.

Eighty fifty-five.

He reentered the teeming din of the Port Authority and resumed his search
for a boy that he wasn't even sure of what he looked like anymore.

As it turns out, Justin found him first.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .