Tales from Another Time

by Questioner

This story is a fantasy. It did not happen. It is my fantasy and you cannot copy it or post it elsewhere without my permission. There are scenes of sex between males and if this offends you or if you think it is illegal to read or possess this in your place of residence, then I suggest you not read it. I would like you to write to me and let me know what you think of this. My address is questioner at myway dot com. I have also an online journal I would like you to read at Questioner..Thank you!

1.

“You're a God-damned queer. I always knew there was something wrong with you. You never were right.”

“Dad, please. I was just...”

“Get the Hell outta here before I beat the shit outta ya. Go!”

Tyler Patterson stood in the center of his bedroom alone, desperately trying to cover his half-clothed body as his father stood outside in the hallway, a look of such disgust on his face that Tyler feared for his life. His friend, Pete, with whom Tyler was about to masturbate and who had not been as far along in removing his clothes as Tyler when the man opened the door, had run out of the room, zipping his jeans and frantically trying to pull his sweatshirt over his head, leaving Tyler to face his father's wrath alone.

Tyler grabbed his red-striped shirt from the bed and pulled it over his head and his slicked-back, dirty-blond hair. Without pausing to tie them, he slipped his filthy hightops on his feet and paused a moment, looking fearfully at his drunkenly enraged father.

“Go on!” the man barked. “Get out!”

Tyler closed his eyes and fought back the anger that threatened to explode from inside. After a second, he grabbed his torn and dirty coat from the doorknob of his closet and hurried past his father into the hallway.

“Get the Hell outta this house, you sick piece o' shit. If I ever see you again, I'll kill ya!”

As he ran through the small, ill-kept living room, he saw his mother sitting on the couch in an old housecoat, holding her usual glass of gin and staring numbly at the flickering picture of Red Skelton on the television. Tyler hoped that by some miracle she might intervene and stop his father from throwing him out; but, she remained motionless as he paused before the front door. He looked back at his father, but the man was standing in the doorway to the hall, his eyes red with drink and rage, his fists clenched and ready to beat his son at the first sign of rebellion. Tyler swallowed and opened the door. Without another word, he left the house, quietly closing the door behind him.

He stood for a moment in the dark on the small concrete front porch. Struggling to hold back his tears, he pulled his jacket on as a mid-November breeze brought a chill to his tall and slender body.

“Go on!” his father screamed from inside the door as he watched through the small window. “Get outta here!”

Tyler jumped off the porch and ran through the yellow and brown leaves that covered the front lawn. Up the street, past the other cheap, boxy, post-war houses along Sixty-Fourth Street, he ran, ignoring the concerned yell from a neighbor who stood watching under the yellow glow of a yard light. He didn't stop until he had run the three blocks to Southeast Boulevard. His lungs burning, his eyes moist from the chill of the air and the pain in his heart, he stood panting on the corner underneath the sign for the neighborhood Gulf station. For several minutes, as his breathing returned to normal, he stood as the evening traffic passed and the bell rang as cars entered and left the station. Finally, he seemed to awaken and looked about him. He glanced at his watch and then reached into his pocket. Three quarters, a dime, and four pennies. He pulled his wallet out and found the two dollars left over from his yard work the other day at Mrs. Finelli's.

What could he do and where could he go after eight o'clock at night with two dollars and eighty-nine cents? Aside from Pete, he had no friends. He had no relatives and he knew that if he went back later, when his father was passed out, it would even worse in the morning. No, he couldn't go home; and, he wasn't sure he even wanted to. After years of constant and unrelenting abuse, the insults, the beatings, the humiliations, he knew that it was over. At fifteen, he was on his own. This was it.

Tyler looked down the street toward the east. Several blocks away, the last bus of the evening was approaching on its final trip downtown. With a sigh, he watched as an opening in the traffic appeared; he ran across the street and waited at the stop until the giant bus rumbled to a halt in front of him. The door opened and he stepped up, dropping a dime into the machine and avoiding the look of the overweight driver. He walked down the aisle and dropped into a seat a third of the way back. There was no one between him and the driver; there was only an elderly lady several rows back and a man who might have been drunk at the very back, but no one else on board as the engine growled and the bus rocked forward.

Tyler sniffed hard as snot began to drip from his nose and gazed numbly out the window at the passing scenery. His mind was a blank as he forced himself to relax. He didn't want to think. He just wanted to sit until the next moment when circumstances would force him to do something.

They continued on toward the west, stopping only for an occasional traffic light, until the bus turned north on Thirty-sixth Street. After a few blocks, the bell rang and, when the bus stopped, the elderly lady left from the door in the middle. When they began to move again, Tyler leaned to the side and, resting his arm against the window, rested his head on his arm. It was not until the bus reached City Boulevard and turned west again that his eyes focused on the scenery passing outside and he realized that the bus would soon reach the end of its route. Once he was there, he would have to decide what to do then. A decision. He sighed.

They passed the campus of the university and a thought occurred to him. On the other side of the university was a neighborhood of apartment buildings, rooming houses, and businesses catering to the ten thousand or so college students attending Roslyn University. Beyond that was the Arts District, an area of shops and boutiques that catered to the artistic crowd. Tyler had heard rumors about the Arts District from kids at school and his father had even made a comment once about the “queers” in the area. Was it possible that perhaps he might be able to find a place to stay, either near the campus or in “The Arts District?” There might be a better chance there than downtown.

He looked out in front of the bus and could see the skyline ahead, brightly lit skyscrapers rising from above the surroundings. They had passed the university and were coming up on Fifteenth Street. He reached up and pulled the chord, ringing the buzzer. Immediately, the bus slowed and then stopped at the corner. Tyler stood and turned toward the middle door behind him. He pushed it open and stepped down to the sidewalk below. As the bus rumbled on in a cloud of thick, brown diesel fumes, he looked about him. Behind him was a Texaco station, across Fifteenth Street an all-night diner. Opposite, on the south side of City Boulevard, were a row of small shops selling shoes, jewelry, and other things, all closed. He wasn't hungry, so he walked past the diner and on to the west.

At Thirteenth Street, he saw a store with its lights on across the street, “Herod's.” It looked like a bookstore, though there was art on the walls and nick-knacks of some kind in the windows. As he watched, the windows suddenly went dark, though a lamp burned somewhere inside, reminding him that the hour was getting late and that he might need to find a place to stay pretty fast.

He turned north and walked on past a few old, brick apartment buildings. A couple of younger men, probably in their twenties, with Ivy League haircuts and flashy slacks under their coats, trotted down the steps. Tyler looked them in the eyes and started to say something before one of them looked at him and grinned.

“Well, Mary! Aren't you forward!” he said in what sounded to Tyler like the queerest voice he had ever heard. The other giggled as they turned away and “pranced,” (that was the only word Tyler could think of to describe the way they walked), on up the street. Tyler sighed and stood still for a moment watching them move on, his hopes sinking as he wondered if these guys were typical of what he would find in the area.

After a moment, he saw them cross the next street. The next block up had a number of businesses with lit signs. He slowly started walking toward them. At the corner, he saw the first sign, “Gallery 13.” OK, it must be an art store. The next sign read “Michael's Fine Antiques.” Well, that was obvious. The next one, however, wasn't.

There were several men standing outside “The Unicorn's Horn,” under a light above a door painted purple. Slowly, Tyler approached, though he stopped in front of the antique shop. He wasn't sure what to do, or even what he was seeking. Did he want a job, a place to live, a place to spend the night? Or, was he looking for someone who might want to...

One of the men, a man with graying hair and a dark overcoat and even darker businessman's hat, looked past the man in front of him at Tyler and watched the boy for a moment. Another man, possibly in his forties, saw him looking up the street and turned to see what had caught his attention. He smiled slightly at Tyler and the teenager took a breath. He stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” he said tentatively. “I'm, ah, I'm looking for some work and maybe a place to stay. Do you know anyone who's hiring or where I can find a room or something?”

The first man chuckled while the second said, with a grin, “Son, you're gonna have to work on your pick-up lines.”

However, no sooner had he said that than his face darkened and he added to the men standing with him, “Uh, oh. We've got company.”

Tyler looked behind him and saw a police car slowly approaching up the street. Turning back, he saw the men immediately enter The Unicorn's Horn. Tyler started to follow them, but the one who had spoken to him before looked at him and said, “Son, you can't come in here. You'd better walk on and pray they don't stop you. Go on home before you get in trouble.”

Tyler felt afraid as the man quickly closed the door behind him. He took a nervous breath and started walking on. The police car came up beside him and slowed. Tyler looked over and the two officers gave him a quick look before they drove on. With relief, he stopped at the next corner and sat down on the curb.

It was then that he realized he had no idea what he was doing or what he was going to do; and, at that moment, despair greater than any he had known, swept over him. Resting his arms on his knees, he wept.

Thank you for reading Chapter 1 of Tales from Another Time. Write to me at questioner at myway dot com. Also, check out my online journal: Questioner.. Thanks.