Date: Thu, 10 Sep 1998 23:17:23 PDT
From: Bobnickeri I am <bobnickeri@hotmail.com>
Subject: Confusion Part 9

	 I groaned inwardly when the taxi pulled up in front of my
house. The long ride from central Illinois wasn't long enough for me. The
trip down Interstate 55 to the western suburb where I lived was quiet
enough though. The cabbie, fluent in English, remained decidedly silent the
entire time which I heavily appreciated. I spent the majority of the two
hours looking out the window, half napping, half watching the rolling
cornfields pass by. I would smile to myself whenever I thought of the
reason behind my sleepiness.
	But, I was home now and would have to do my best to be patient. A
weekend of unpacking and resting after a grueling last week of school was
all I would need before I'd be ready to pursue whatever happiness I was
afforded in this life. I laughed to myself. During the next four months of
summer, all I'd have to worry about was me and him. The thought wasn't
entirely unpleasant.
	I flipped the cabbie some cash and started walking up the driveway
towards the front door. The door opened and out came Kim, the housekeeper.
	"Michael, you're home!" Kim was an Asian immigrant that my parents
had hired when I had started school. I suspected that they also hired her
to double as a nanny of sorts. Whenever my parents were at their respective
hospitals, which was quite a lot, Kim would take care of me. To the outside
observer, my parents seemed ideal. They took me on vacation, we did things
together, they were always involved with school projects. But, that didn't
seem to be enough for me. Kim was there for the day to day things.
	I bent over and gave the middle aged woman a peck on the cheek.
"Hey, Kim, how's it going?"
	"Michael, your boxes came this morning. Your father had the moving
men pick them up." Though she had been in the states for about 14 years,
her accent was still thick making it difficult for people to understand
what she was saying sometimes. I never had a problem with it though since I
was raised around it.
	"Did they put them in my room?" I put my arm around her, though she
was a full foot shorter than me, and it was a little awkward walking like
that. I was used to it though. Kim was kind of like an aunt to me. We
chatted back and forth about our lives during the past weeks as we made our
way into the house.
	Once I entered my home, I immediately went up to my room to unpack
a few things. Even though I could have easily taken a cab to school and
picked up the boxes myself, my parents insisted I be home as soon as
possible. Apparently, there was a charity function that evening that I was
expected to attend. It wouldn't look right if I showed up late for the
infinite hours of boring conversation that would ensue. The tuxedo hanging
behind my bedroom door only confirmed my fears.
	I looked at my watch. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. I had
just enough time to grab a bite to eat, shower, shave, and put the tuxedo
on. By then, I'd be in the car and on my way to whatever damn country club
hell my parents chose for me this week.
	"Michael, do you want a turkey sandwich?" I heard Kim's voice down
below call to me.
	"Sure, Kim. That'd be great. Thanks." I walked into the bathroom
with a towel over my shoulder, dreading the fact that I didn't have the
time to even nap.
	A hot shower woke me up though. For long moments, I stared in the
mirror inspecting my face. To shave or not to shave? I was beginning to
grow some stubble around my chin. It wasn't much, but it was noticeable.
Had I not spent so much time in the sun, the short blonde hairs would have
disappeared against my skin. Now, my darker complexion only made them stand
out more.
	After the quick shave, I began putting on the tux. I never
understood them really. They were hardly practical. Most of the time, they
felt constraining, preventing any kind of natural posture. Wearing a tuxedo
only made a person even more self conscious of what they looked like. The
emphasis wasn't on comfort though. It was all about appearance.
	Still, it was a necessity of my parents, I thought as I parted and
combed my hair. That was the irony that crushed me too. I never really
understood how important appearances were until I came out to my parents. I
don't think they were dismayed so much by my homosexuality, as much as they
were by the thought of how that would appear to their "friends" in the
medical community. My nouveau riche parents were social climbing, and my
sexuality threatened to cut the rungs out from under them.
	I had just about finished dressing for the evening when I heard my
mother's voice calling me from the foyer. Somehow, I had managed to avoid
them by staying in my room. They were too busy getting ready themselves to
check up on me. We'd have time to catch up with each other the next day.
	I finished up and walked down the stairs. I was greeted with my
mother's warm smile. That smile always caused mixed feelings in me. Part of
that smile was genuine motherly love which always comforted me. The other
part was the knowledge that her son was playing his role flawlessly. I
often wondered what was going through her mind. Did she really hate the
parties as much as I did and was only going through the motions to achieve
some sort of status?
	Contrary to popular belief, the medical community really was an
aristocracy all its own. The majority of the rich men and women that
dominated their fields cared little about their patients. They may have at
one time, but the wealthy ones generally set out to become wealthy from the
beginning.
	I knew my parents were different though, and for that I was
thankful. Whenever I skinned a knee or sprained an ankle, my mom would
always check on it a million times to make sure it was all right. When I
was a kid, my mom was warm and affectionate. I couldn't have asked for
more. As I grew older though, it seemed as though her career goals changed.
I was expected to change with them. Ambition is horrible thing. Especially
when it's someone else's. Still, underneath, I felt that the mother I knew
when I was younger was still there.
	"Michael, look how handsome you are!" She hugged me, careful not to
mess my tux up too badly, and kissed me on the cheek.
	I had to chuckle inwardly when she said that. Every time she said
that, it was followed with "the girls will go wild." Of course, she didn't
say that anymore. But, what was I expecting? I didn't expect that she'd be
telling me how eager a guy would be to bend me over the kitchen table.
	"Where are we going tonight, mom?"
	She stood behind me, looking over my shoulder, as she straightened
out my bow tie in the reflection of the windows. "We're going to
Dr. Elliot's house. He's having a cancer benefit in honor of his father who
died of prostate cancer last year. $500 a plate."
	I snickered. "And what else is the good doctor hoping to accomplish
this evening?"
	Mom laughed and gave me another look over. "Dr. Wallace will be
attending."
	"Chief of Staff?"
	"Yes. You better keep your distance from them, son. I know how
sickened you are by the concept of brown nosing."
	We both laughed. "Nah, it depends. Sometimes it's fun to watch."
	"How do I look?" Even though she was approaching 50, my mom seemed
strangely youthful. A couple of laugh lines etched around her face and eyes
were the only signs of aging. Her blonde hair, once the same color as mine,
was a little darker now though. She wore a simple black evening dress with
a silver necklace around her neck. I knew she'd get more of her fair share
of looks that night.
	"You look good" That was no lie on my part. "Where's dad?" I asked,
feeling slightly uncomfortable. The relationship between me and my father
was still strained since my coming out. Hell, the relationship between me
and my mother was strained. It was difficult to understand. I never spoke
to my parents much since coming out. We had a knack for avoiding each
other. When we were together, we still talked a great deal and acted as if
life was perfect. However, underneath, there was something unspoken. At
night, when the house was quiet, I could almost feel the underlying
tension.
	No one entering the house felt the invisible anxiety though. Only
one person had noticed it. He had noticed it almost right away. As I sat
there in the foyer with my mom, my thoughts starting drifting back to
Erik. What was he doing? Probably reuniting with friends. It was Saturday.
He was probably going to go out with people he knew in high school and go
drinking.
	"Your father had to put gas in the car. He should be back any
moment. Then we'll be leaving."  I looked out the window and saw that the
driveway was empty. I had a few minutes before plunging into an evening of
mindless, shallow people. "I'll be right back. I want to make a quick phone
call."
	I went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. Looking off a
crumpled piece of paper, I dialed Erik's number. It rang a few times before
someone answered.
	"Hallo?" The voice sounded like Erik's.
	"Erik?"
	"Um, no. This is his brother, Kyle. Erik's not here right now. Can
I take a message?" He really did sound like Erik. I could have sworn it was
him.
	"Yeah, could you tell him Mike called?"
	"Will do, captain."
	I hung up the phone, still thinking about the voice on the other
end. The sound, even the words were Erik's. The smallest things amazed me.
	I walked back to the foyer to find my father standing next to my
mother with the car keys in his hand. "Are we ready?" he asked gruffly. I
knew that edgy, irritated voice too well. We were running late, and he was
growing impatient.
	I knew for a fact that my father didn't like going to the parties.
He was more down to earth, more like me. He would have been happier
spending the evening watching baseball on TV and downing a few beers.
Despite the fact that he was a highly skilled cardiologist, he was still
laid back and informal when not at the hospital. When he'd come home after
long hours of surgery, he'd throw on a t shirt and a pair of jeans and
plant himself in front of ESPN, usually dozing off before too long.
	On weekends, he'd play tennis to relax. But, he didn't play it the
way doctors on TV did with the white outfits and little head bands. He
played hard, and he played to win. My mom told me that he had been a good
athlete in college, and I didn't doubt that. He was a little taller than me
and more muscular. When I was a kid, I'd always imagine that I'd grow up to
be just like him.
	When I wandered into my teen aged years, I started growing and
looking more like him. Now, I was still shorter and thinner, but there was
no doubt I was my father's son. I always played some kind of sport in high
school, mostly baseball and soccer. My extended family, especially my
grandmother always mentioned the similarities as I grew into an adult.
	As soon as we got into the car, we talked on and off. Most of the
time, my parents inquired about my school work. They were always worried
about my school work. If I told them I got an A in a class, they would be
telling their rich friends ten minutes later. It was all another form of
competition in the race to the top. When a family is social climbing, it
touches every aspect of their lives.
	It still made no sense to me, the more I thought about it. How
could people as human as my parents participate in this mad quest for
social standing? When comparing their personalities against what they were
doing socially, it made absolutely no sense. Sometimes, I'd get the feeling
that they really didn't want to do what they do, but they felt they had
little choice in the matter. Would they stop trying so hard to be respected
if they knew how much I disliked it and how much it hurt me?
	The trip to Dr. Elliot's only took about an hour. I lived in the
western suburbs, whereas Dr. Elliot lived in the coveted North Side. My
parents had often talked of getting a house in that area. The northern
suburbs were the place to be if you wanted to be on the up and up.
	As we drove up, I realized that this Elliot guy must have been
either a highly successful physician or a crook. It would have been more
accurate to call his house a mansion. It was perched upon the hill of a
golf course, a tall iron wrought fence encircling the property. There were
at least four floors to the place as far as I could tell. Two were above
ground when looking at it from the front. If you walked around to the side
where the hill dipped, you could see another lower floor and the basement
window below.
	A valet relieved my father of the car once we got close to the
front door. I could hear orchestra music flowing from the open windows, so
I assumed Elliot had gotten at least a 16 piece one. The landscaping was
freshly done. The various evergreens and rocks were sculpted and placed
neatly along the drive and home. It was fairly pompous.
	"Ready for hell?" my father asked me which caught me off guard. I
had never heard him actually say anything against the functions they
attended. He must have been in a really bad mood about something.
	"Rick, that isn't nice," my mother chided. But, she understood. As
we walked up to the front door and entered, the three of us tensed up for a
split second before assuming what I called "socialize mode." Basically that
meant my mother would immediately dash for a group of women and immerse
herself in the latest gossip. My father would walk over to the open bar and
secure a stiff drink before walking over to the other men. He would just
stand there with a bunch of guys dressed just like him and say very little.
All the men watched their wives the entire night and let them do all the
work.
	I, on the other hand, had to go talk with the other rich kids. This
was worse than a chore. This was torture. When you grow up and get
everything you want, you tend to be incredibly self involved. Somehow, they
equated that their parents money made them the greatest things to walk the
earth. I was thankful that my parents had kept me grounded in reality.
	I chatted with them just to be polite. There were about six of us
standing there next to the staircase. We couldn't sit down though, or
appear to be lounging. We were dressed formally and were expected to act
formally, even if we were trading crude jokes back and forth.
	There was a girl there, Melissa. She was dressed in a tight-fitted
purple dress that seemed to be more suited for the prom than a dinner
party. Now there was a person that was full of herself. She talked
endlessly about getting her hair done, what Versaci clothes she wanted to
buy, the countless number of shoes she owned. Unless you were another girl,
it got old real quick.
	Unfortunately, my mom and her mom had practically planned our
marriage since our birth. They were always trying to get us to go out,
leaving broad clues as to what they expected of us. It didn't quite catch
on with me for the obvious reasons. Melissa was her mother though. She was
biding her time, waiting for just the right moment to trap me.
	I had managed to avoid her at the party for a good three hours. No
small miracle all things considered. It was inevitable that I deal with her
though.
	"Hello, Michael," she greeted me smiling. She had a tall,
twenty-something guy standing next to her. Her flavor of the month. "Have
you met Mitch?"
	The guy was a jock type, most likely a football player at a college
somewhere. "No I haven't," I said as I shook his hand. "Mike Anderson."
	"Mitch Roberts," he returned giving me an icy stare.
	It was a pretty uncomfortable situation. Melissa kept looking at me
strangely, and I knew what she was thinking. I think her boyfriend knew
what she was thinking too. You'd have to be blind not to notice what her
eyes were saying. Ah, to be young and a bitch.
	I walked outside to the patio where the trees and bushes were
wrapped in white Christmas lights and lawn chairs were set up. There were
only a few people out here sharing a private conversation. Doctors
generally only came outside when they wanted to talk about something that
was best kept a secret from everyone else. When I thought soap operas were
bad.
	I sat down in a chair and fished a cigarette from the inner pocket
of the tux. Melissa came over and sat next to me. "You shouldn't smoke, you
know."
	I lit the cigarette and took a long drag for emphasis. "I know.
That's why I do." Actually, I liked smoking at the parties. It was frowned
upon by most of the people there. It was my own little way of rebelling.
	"Mitch, I'm thirsty. Could you go get me a glass of fruit juice?"
She used that soft, pleading voice that is basically French for "Do what I
want or you're not getting laid tonight."
	Mitch didn't look happy about having to leave her alone with me. I
figured he highly valued a roll in the sack since he left pretty fast.
	"Are you home for the summer?" she asked, moving closer to me.
	"I just happen to be," I replied, trying to veil my utter contempt
for her. She's the type of person I physically recoil from when she's near
me.
	"You know your father is in there drinking like a fish?" she asked
deviously. She was a born gossip, but first and foremost a bitch. She
wanted to push some buttons. She thought I actually cared about what other
people thought of my family.
	"Is he?" I admit though, I was a little disturbed by the idea. My
father isn't a heavy drinker as a rule. A few beers here and there were
usually the limit. Being a cardiologist, he was on call a lot. He couldn't
show up for surgery in a drunken stupor, so he was always very careful.
Something really must have been bothering him.
	"Isn't in scandalous?" she asked enthusiastically. She always tried
to make nothing into something. "Already a few people have noticed."
	"I don't really care, Lissa. If he wants to drink, I say let him
drink. It's not any of your business anyway. Find something better to do
with your time."
	I might as well have slapped her. It was like against the law to
criticize her. It wasn't the greatest of ideas. It just made her even more
of a bitch. "Shut up, Michael," she pouted. Christ, she was pouting. I
really don't want to imagine what would happen if something really major
didn't go her way. Our marriage, for example.
	Mitch made his way back to us with the requested drink in hand. He
handed it to her while training his eyes on me.
	"Mitch, come sit by me," she ordered, patting her hand on the chair
next to her. Not surprisingly, he did exactly as he was told. She must have
been a great fuck. He was better trained than most pets I've owned.
	I finished my cigarette and flicked it out onto the lawn. I laughed
to myself because I knew the doctor would see it one day and be disgusted.
I envisioned the look on his face just to amuse myself.
	When Melissa realized I had nothing to say to her, she grew bored.
"Well, Mitch, let's go inside. It's getting cold out." She rose and started
walking back inside. He hesitated. "Mitch?"
	"Give me a minute. I want to talk to Mike about something." His
voice told me that the approaching conversation wasn't going to be at all
friendly.
	"Whatever," she said, entering the house.
	Mitch stood over me as I sat there. I looked at him with a knowing
expression on my face. "That's right, you're girlfriend wants to sleep with
me," I thought. "Yes?" I asked, using my best macho bullshit voice. When
you talk to these types, you gotta be "manly."
	"You've know Melissa for a long time?" Uh oh. I knew where this was
going.
	"Yeah, we grew up together. Our moms are good friends."  I stood
and put my hands in my pockets. If I had to suddenly leave the
conversation, I wanted a quick escape.
	"Have you ever done anything?" He really wanted to know. He knew
what she was thinking about me. You didn't even have to look at her to
know. You just had to listen to her mother talk.
	"No, we've never done anything together. I don't think about her in
that way."
	"I bet you don't. You couldn't if you wanted to."
	Shit, now I really knew where this was going. "What the hell is
that supposed to mean?"
	"You're a fucking queer. She told me. But wouldn't she like to fuck
you." He looked pretty pissed even though I had done nothing to him.
	"Fuck off, dude. It ain't my fault your girlfriend is a fucking
slut." I started walking way, but he clamped his hand on my shoulder and
turned me around.
	"What did you say, faggot?"
	"She's a slut. I know it, and you know it. This time next month
she'll be hopping around on the next cock that presents itself." By this
time, my hormones and adrenaline had kicked in simultaneously. The hair on
the back of my next was standing up, and my heart was pumping in my throat.
	"Fuck you, you cock sucking fuck!" I think I knew he was going to
throw a punch before he did. I dodged to the side and brought my knee to
his groin. From then on, I was running on pure instinct.
	He fell to his knees, but recovered pretty quick. He jumped up and
tackled me. We landed on top of a table sending glasses and chairs
everywhere. He reared back and punched me in the face. I ignored the
growing pain and took my own shot at him, connecting squarely with his
jaw. He reeled, shocked that someone my size could hit with that amount of
force. I was surprised myself.
	I was ready to pounce on him again when I felt two sets of arms
grab me from behind. I struggled, knowing only that I had to get to him and
kick his ass. Someone was shouting at me, but I barely heard. Mitch was
held back by two men as well.
	"Boys, stop it!" someone yelled.
	"Let go of me," I heard myself shout. "Fucking let go of me!"
	"Michael calm down." I knew that voice. It was my father's. I came
out of the haze and stopped seeing red. My father was standing in front of
me, holding my face in his hands.
	"I'm fine," I said, still incredibly pissed. The two other doctors
had led Mitch into the house. I felt the restraining arms let go of me.
	"What the fuck's wrong with you?" my father asked, looking at me
with eyes that matched my own.
	"Fuck off," I said, pulling his hands off my face and walking down
the lawn away from the house. I didn't care what those fucks thought of me.
I'm sure they now had enough material for weeks of gossip.
	My father caught up with me and started walking slightly behind me.
"Mike, what the hell is your problem? You know better than that. Especially
at a party."
	I turned to him, my eyes glowing with anger. "Fuck you and fuck
your parties. I don't need this shit." I marched off in a different
direction, hoping he'd get the idea that I wanted him nowhere near me.
	I felt his hand on my shoulder, pulling me back. I don't know what
possessed me, but I whirled around and hit him. My knuckles connected just
beneath his eye striking the cheekbone.
	My heart completely stopped as if it were holding its breath. I
became more conscious in that one moment than I had ever been in my entire
life. I felt the cold, stale air on my face. My fingers tingled where they
had struck my own father's flesh. The silent, ever-watching stars seemed
remote and meaningless. My breathing was heavy and unsure in my ears. The
dull chorus of crickets accented the painful silence that surrounded me.
	I looked at my father wordlessly. He was kneeling on the ground,
his pale blue eyes staring blankly at my face. A tear fell down the cheek I
had punched. He was in complete shock. I could see it in a face that had
grown deathly pale.
	I didn't know what to say. How could I say anything? I had just
struck a man that had never raised a hand against me his entire life.
Underneath the pain I felt emanating from him, my own anger and resentment
crawled into a small place within my stomach.
	"I'm--I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that." I kneeled down next to
him and touched his face. He winced but made no move to push me away like I
might have done under similar circumstances.
	He looked at me as if he were grieving. There was a profound sense
of loss behind the expressionless face. "Why--why did you do that?"
	It was a simple question without a simple answer. I wasn't even
sure myself why I lashed out, something that was completely
uncharacteristic of me.
	I shook my head. "I don't know. I don't know what was going through
my head. I really sorry. I didn't mean to do it."
	He stood, leaving me kneeling on the ground. Suddenly he seemed to
be a lot bigger than he was. He seemed to look the way I remembered him as
a kid. He shielded out everything, the thin light of the rising moon, the
lawn torches from the party, the sound spilling out of the doors and
windows behind him. Everything.
	"Michael, I think it's time we had a talk." He used his best
authoritative tone, trying to reestablish the boundaries of a father-son
relationship. With one blow to his face, I had briefly brought him down to
my level or brought myself up to his. We were on equal footing, no matter
how terrible the method of doing so was.
	I stood up, struggling to keep my own edge, trying to make him see
that I was no longer a child. As my eyes neared his level, he shrunk down
to a regular man again. "Dad, we're not going to do this now. This isn't
the place or the time."
	He looked at me calmly, something obviously running through his
mind. I looked at my shoes, now smudged with dirt and grass. "You're
right," he finally announced. "This isn't the place." He reached into his
pocket and handed me his valet ticket. "Take the car. Go home and get some
sleep."
	I was so ashamed of myself. I couldn't even look at him. I turned
to leave, but he stopped me.
	"We're going to have a talk tomorrow, son. A real talk." He wrapped
his arms around me and hugged me. I gripped him tightly, holding on for
dear life. I nearly broke down, but somehow managed to maintain my
composure. I always hated the fact that me and my parents had grown
distant, but it seemed to be unavoidable. Now, there was a glimmer of hope
that things might go back to the way they used to be.
	As me and my dad walked towards the impossibly large house, I
couldn't keep myself from grinning stupidly.

				    ***

	I heard the phone ringing as I walked up towards the house. I
turned the key in the lock and punched in the security code. The phone was
still ringing. The caller was persistent. I figured it must have been
someone at the hospital trying to get a hold of my parents. They should
have just tried their beepers.
	I walked into the kitchen and kicked my shoes off. I loosened my
collar as I picked up the phone. "Hello?"
	"Is this Mike?"
	"Erik?" I wondered what would make him call so late.
	"No, this isn't Erik. This is his brother, Kyle. Are you one of my
brother's friends from school?" The voice on the other end was shaky. He
seemed urgent.
	"Yeah, I'm one of Erik's friends." My heart lurched into my throat.
If his little brother was calling me, something was wrong.
	"Dude, I need to ask you a huge favor."
	"Sure, anything. What is it?" I was really starting to get worried.
	"I need you to come here. There's been an accident."
	I jotted down the directions with a quaking hand and bolted out the
door. I didn't even realize that I had left the phone off the hook....

tbc