Date: Fri, 2 May 2008 05:25:20 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: "FORK IN THE ROAD"  Chapter 21

FORK IN THE ROAD
By Scott Turner
Chapter 21


      "If you come to a fork in the road, take it."
      -Yogi Berra


Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that occasionally contains rather
graphic depictions of sexual activity between consenting adult men.  If
that's not your cup of tea, or if it is illegal for you to possess or read
such material, then please go elsewhere.  This story is copyrighted, 2008,
and may not be reproduced, reposted or published without the expressed
permission of the author.




      Scott grabbed the kettle just as it started to whistle.  "You take
milk, right?"  He was standing at the kitchen counter and Suzanne was
sitting at the table, both of them in their robes.  Each one looked almost
as tired as they felt.  It seemed nobody had slept well after their brief
family conversation the previous evening.

      His mom nodded, "Yes, Scotty, please."

      Scott poured the steaming water over a bag of orange pekoe and then
turned to reach into the fridge for the milk.  He poured himself a cup of
coffee and then dunked the teabag up and down several times.  "So Dad's not
freaking out?"  He reached over her shoulder and put down the mug and a
spoon.

      "Thank you honey."  Suzanne smiled and bobbed the tea bag a few more
times before squeezing it against the spoon.  As she stirred the milk into
her tea she reflected for a moment and finally shrugged.  "Freaking out?
No.  I don't think he slept much last night, but I don't believe he's angry
or anything like that.  Honestly, honey, he and I didn't discuss it at any
length after you went to bed last night.  I think we both just needed some
time to process and digest this on our own and then we'll discuss it."

      Scott sat down, took her free hand in his and looked directly into
her eyes, searching.  "He didn't say a hell of a lot before I went upstairs
either.  I was kind of surprised at how brief our little talk was last
night.  I'm guessing it'll be an on-going conversation for awhile."  He
paused and watched her nod, smiling ruefully.  "And what about you, Mom?
You're not bothered by the fact that I'm gay?"

      She squeezed his hand and held it to her cheek.  "Of course I am.
But not in the way you might be afraid of."  A subtle smile crossed her
lips.  "Actually, Scotty, I've been wondering for a while when, or even if,
you'd ever tell us."

      Scott coughed on his coffee.  "Huh?  What?  You knew?"

      She stirred the tea again and sipped it, and then met his stare as
she put down the cup.  "I can't say I knew for sure, but I've suspected it
for some time."  She smiled a smile that beamed a mother's love.  "You
know, they that say that moms just know these things."  She paused and
smirked at her son.  "Plus, it was pretty obvious that the guest bed hadn't
been used for anything other than holding Greg's suitcase during Easter
weekend."  She gently kicked him under the table.  "Honestly, Scotty, in
your parents' house?"

      Scott's blushing ranged over four different shades of red, but he
didn't speak.  He thought of Greg and a pang of loneliness suddenly shot
through him.  He bowed his head half way and looked down into his mug.  `I
wish he was here with me,' he thought.

      His mother leaned over to try to look him in the eyes.  "It is Greg,
isn't it Scotty?"

      Scott shook his head and shrugged.  "Don't know, Mom.  Right now, I
just don't know.  Things have been pretty rough on that front lately.  We
were doing real good for a while there, but the whole baseball thing with
The Regents has kind of thrown a monkey wrench into everything."

      She reached over and patted his hand.  "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.
But if it's meant to be, then it'll all work out.  It might not be easy,
but nothing worthwhile really is."

      There was a long silence that made it pretty obvious that Scott
didn't want to talk about Greg.  Finally, Suzanne pointed into the dining
room where they'd had their conversation the night before.  "Like the fact
that you stepped up and told us all of this last night.  That couldn't have
been easy for you.  But it means a great deal to me and, I'm sure, to your
father as well."  Her lower lids welled with tears.  "I love you, son.  I
love you for all that you are.  You are so much more than your sexual
orientation.  Your being gay doesn't add or take away from all that you
are, all that really matters, not one little bit."

      Scott reached out and took her hand.  "But you said you were
bothered?"

      She gently squeezed his hand and shook her head.  "I guess `bothered'
is the wrong word.  I'm concerned. I'm worried about the sort of grief
you'll have to face as you go on.  There are a lot of mean, ignorant people
out there who will pollute your life if they have the chance.  And some of
them will be in a position to do just that."

      Scott let go of her hand and took another gulp of coffee.  He nodded
at the truth of her observation, but said, "Mom.  I'm a big boy.  It's not
like I'm going to throw on a wig and a dress, grab a rainbow flag and storm
around in parades shouting `I'm here, I'm queer!'  Suzanne shut her eyes
and shook her head, grinning.  "My plan is to be an educated, professional,
responsible, well-adjusted adult man who also happens to be gay.  And it's
not like I'm going to start introducing myself, `Hi!  I'm Scott Turner, not
the lawyer or the senator, but the fag."

      Suzanne gasped and then giggled.  Hoping to keep the lighter tone of
their talk going, Scott chuckled lightly through his nose.  "I figured
you'd be better equipped for this news than Dad would."  Then he laughed
again.  "I damn near spit out my coffee last night when he asked, now
impersonating Big Scott, `So...uhm...how...I mean...er, when did this
happen?'"  Suzanne laughed along with him and he continued with a grin.
"Happen...happen...when did this happen?  Like I hit my head or got shot
with a gay dart or joined a club or something."

      His mother nodded with a sympathetic gaze.  "Give him some time,
Scotty.  Your dad has known several gay men, and he knew they were gay.  I
dare say he's known a few and he didn't know they were gay.  But I doubt
he's had much experience actually discussing it with them.  Remember, I'm
in the interior decorating business and have a wider experience than he
does in such things."

      Scott teased her.  "Chattin it up with the gay boys in the business a
lot, are you?  Who's doing whom, swapping fashion tips, raving about
Madonna and all that?"

      She rolled her eyes and blushed a little.  "Heavens no!  But you
know...I have some clients, some contractors and some competitors who are
definitely...uhm...'playing for your team,' is it?"  She blushed again,
even more so, at her effort to use the jargon.  Then she smiled with wide
eyes.  "I remember a client I had last year who'd just bought an old
brownstone down in Holmen.  I'll never forget visiting him and his partner
at the house, standing in the middle of a bare living room and trying to
get a handle on what they were looking for.  William finally just waved his
limp hands around the room and beamed his excitement.  `You know,
Suzanne...we just want you to gay the place up a bit.'"  She giggled at her
memory.  Scott guffawed at her lispy, limp-wristed impersonation.

      She sighed again and went back to being serious.  "But, you know your
father hasn't had those kind of experiences.  I doubt anyone has ever asked
him to `gay up' their trial or their will or their contract or anything."

      Scott leaned back and nodded.  "I know, Mom.  Really, I do.  But I'm
worried that you're concerned."

      Suzanne wiped her lips with a napkin and nodded.  "Well, like I said,
I've known more than a few gay men in my day, and I do know of some of the
trials and tribulations they've been forced to wrestle with.  I'm told that
the couple in Holmen had a ridiculous time with their new neighbors for a
while, until the neighbors finally moved."

      Scott shook his head and frowned.  "I'm sure there'll be some of that
in front of me, but I don't plan to let that part of my life become anybody
else's fu...er, damned business."

      As she nodded and chuckled softly at his correction, they heard the
bedroom door open and close.  Silence reigned as Big Scott made his way
into the kitchen.  He took a mug out of the cupboard, filled it and then
leaned against the kitchen counter.

      After nearly a full minute of complete quiet, Scotty finally spoke
up.  "Hey, ya' old fart.  I got a penny here.  Any thoughts for sale?"

      His dad took a sip and his eyes shifted right.  "You're wearing
boxers, a grubby old t-shirt and a robe.  You don't have a penny."

      Scott reached into the old sugar dish where Suzanne always dumped her
spare change and pulled out a copper coin.  He stood and took four steps,
holding it up between his thumb and forefinger.  "Any thoughts for sale?"

      Big Scott pursed his lips and stared at the coin.  "Just one."  His
eyes met his son's.  "Just one that matters."

      Scott dropped the coin into the pocket of his dad's robe.  "Okay.
Spill it."

      Big Scott choked and then he blurted out one long, rambling sentence.
"I...I...I love you... you're my son and I'm proud of you and I admire you
and...and I love you and I always have and I always will and I don't care
who you're spending your quality private time with as long as they're
treating you right...you're a sensible, intelligent young man of integrity
and I know you'll always do what's best...for yourself and for those around
you."  He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily.  "You are my pride and
joy and I love you."

      Scott's vision went fuzzy and he felt the tears spilling onto his
upper cheeks.  "Better put that mug down, or one of us is gonna be wearing
that hot coffee."  The father set the mug on the counter and opened his
arms.  The son fell into his embrace.  Scotty finally broke, and he sobbed.
"I knew it.  Deep down, I guess I knew it.  But still, I was so afraid.
I'm sorry."

      The two held their embrace and Scotty sighed.  "You know?  I've met
more guys these past two years who come from totally screwed up families,
and most of the screwing up has come from their fathers.  You two need to
know that I realize how lucky I am.  Marty's dad is an asshole, Kip's dad
is an asshole, Greg's dad is a raging asshole.  And here I am with a
complete pair of perfect parents.  How'd I get so lucky?"

      Suzanne removed her glasses and wiped her eyes with the napkin.

      Big Scott nudged him back and looked into his eyes again.  He
snorted.  "I wanted to be an asshole, but your Gran' woulda kicked my ass."
All three laughed, relieved that he'd managed to lighten the moment.
"We're all very lucky, Scotty.  But a minute ago you said you're sorry.
For what?"

      Scott sniffed while he wiped his cheeks and eyes with the back of
both hands.  "Sorry for doubting you, I guess.  It's just
that...I...I...only came to terms with all of this myself recently.  I
tried to deny it for the longest time.  Part of me figured that if I wasn't
willing to face facts and accept them for such a long time, it'd be too
much to expect that you folks would."

      Big Scott put both hands on his son's cheeks and he kissed his
forehead.  "You are my son, my one and only son, and I am so
fucking...sorry dear, but it's my house too...so fucking proud of you in a
hundred different ways, every single day.  That has not changed one bit,
and I can't imagine that it ever will."

      Suzanne stood up.  "Well," she kissed her son's cheek, "I'm going to
start the laundry and give you boys a little man time together.  Do you
have anything for the washer?"

      Scotty shook his head.  "I have a couple half loads waiting for me
when I get back to Madison.  You've dealt with enough of my `dirty laundry'
the past twelve hours."

      She hugged him again.  "Nothing dirty about you, Scotty.  Nothing at
all.  Your father's right.  We are both really fucking proud of you!"  They
all shared another enormous laugh as she descended the stairs to the
basement and the men sat down at the kitchen table.

      Scott leaned on the table.  "So anyway, Dad, this is what Randy Oakes
was coming up here to raise a stink about at your senate campaign
announcement."

      "I wondered about that after we talked last night."  Big Scott rubbed
his chin and shifted his eyes.  "So if Randy knew, does that mean that,
uhm...you and Randy...that is, you two...uhm...I mean, you and him...?"

      Scott interrupted his dad to ease his obvious discomfort.  "Twice.
We messed around twice, but that's all it was.  Messing around.  Nothing
more, and there wasn't going to be any more.  Randy, God rest his soul, was
a wreck.  Those were a couple instances of weakness on my part."  His dad's
eyes squinted and he bit his lower lip.  Scotty shrugged.  "Sorry, Dad, but
you did ask.  It was stupid and it meant nothing, really.  Randy wanted
more, but he wasn't what I was looking for.  I mean...I was, and I am,
really sorry he died, but he wasn't in my future in that way."

      Scotty paused as his dad continued to consider it all.
"So...ah...how do you see this playing out in your campaign, Dad?  I mean,
like I just told Mom, I'm not going to be up here this summer lisping and
limp-wristing my way through the campaign, but what if it comes up
somehow?"

      Big Scott shrugged and sighed.  "I'll simply, and very directly, tell
anybody who raises it or asks about it that my son isn't running for
office.  I'll tell them he's going to be a junior at the UW next fall, that
he's a LaFollette Scholar, he's the two-term President of the Wisconsin
Student Association and that the governor saw fit to appoint him to the UW
Board of Regents where he has served with courage and integrity.  And, I'll
tell them that my son's private life is about as irrelevant as it gets in
this campaign and that it's none of their damned business.  And if it's
somebody I don't like, I'll probably ridicule and roast them for even
bringing it up.  Simple as that."

      Scott laughed.  "Thanks, Dad.  But don't forget the `fucking proud'
part."  His father laughed and nodded as Scotty continued, "I kind of hope
I can be on hand if somebody makes that mistake."

      After another pause for thinking, his dad shifted his weight and
cleared his throat.  "So, uhm, anybody special in your life right now?"

      Scotty held a mouthful of coffee and thought about it before
swallowing.  He shrugged and shook his head.  "Not sure, Dad.  I'm just not
sure.  Me and Greg have spent a lot of time together this past year, and
have become very close, but it looks like the whole baseball thing has kind
of shit-canned that."

      His dad nodded and then sighed.  "I'm sorry to hear that.  It had to
be a tough call, all things considered, but I don't see how you could have
handled thatt any other way.  I like Greg.  It was obvious that you two
are...or were...pretty close."

      Scott just nodded and swirled his index finger around the rim of his
mug, but he said nothing.

      Big Scott changed the subject to something he'd been thinking about
since late the previous night.  "Son, pardon me for asking, but I couldn't
live with myself if I didn't at least bring it up.  You are being safe,
aren't you?  I mean things are different from when your mom and I were
chasing each other around campus."

      Scott rolled his eyes and blushed a little.  "Dad!"  He got up and
grabbed the coffee decanter and refilled both mugs.  "I only play safe,
only and always.  And other than Randy, there've really only been two other
guys in my life, uhm, in that way."  He neglected the romps with Frank and
Jesse, and then with Danny up in Minneapolis the previous year, but those
had all been safe sex too.

      Big Scott shrugged.  "Well, sorry, but what the hell do I know about
such things?  You and I had the `birds and the bees' conversations when you
were a kid.  But I'm out of my league when it comes to the birds and the
birds or the bees and the bees, or whatever the hell it is."

      Scotty returned the coffee pot to the machine and sat down with a sly
grin.  "It's the bees and the bees, Dad.  It's the stinger that makes all
the difference."  Then he winked.

      The father stood and picked up his mug.  "Okay!  Enough!  Too much
information.  Or, how do you say it?  TMI, TMI!" and he walked toward the
bathroom.  "The bees and the bees," he muttered with a chuckle.
"Stingers!"  He chuckled again.  "Jesus!"




      The following Saturday evening, Craig and Brett returned from a
pickup game of basketball at the Red Gym.  The aroma hit them as soon as
Craig opened the door.  They scampered up the stairs.  Brett opened the
oven door and blurted out, "Jesus Christ!" just as Scott was returning from
the bathroom.

      "Yes?"  Scott asked.  "What can I do for you my son?"

      "You're roasting a whole fucking chicken?"  Brett was stunned, but
smiling.

      Scott turned the burner under the pot of potatoes on high.  "I was
hungry for some comfort food.  Chicken and stuffing, that good ol' green
bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy and biscuits.  A real Sunday
dinner.  I knew Angie was gone this weekend and Craig didn't have any
sad-ass wanna-be band to cover, so I thought, `what the hell?'  They had
these big, fat roasters on sale at Sentry, so I got the biggest one."

      Craig grabbed three beers from the fridge and shook his head.  "But
it's not Sunday.  It's Saturday."

      Scott shrugged.  "So, we'll eat enough tonight to tide us over to
tomorrow and call it a Sunday dinner."

      Brett grabbed a fork and scooped a bit of stuffing from the bowlful
that wasn't already inside the bird.  "Can't happen.  I can't eat enough on
one day that'll tide me over to the next.  It's impossible."  He shoved the
fork in his mouth.

      Scott salted the water that the potatoes were immersed in.  "Then
tomorrow you can have leftover chicken and gravy on either potatoes or
toast."

      Craig handed out the beers.  "Make it buttermilk biscuits and you
have a deal.  But I like it with some veggies in the gravy.  Peas, carrots,
celery."

      Scott swallowed a gulp of brew and nodded.  "And then, I'll boil the
poor bird's carcass down with some veggies and herbs to make a stock and
we'll have a kick-ass chicken soup in a day or so."

      Brett grinned.  "You know I want to kiss you right now."

      "Don't.  Please don't.  Just say `thanks' to my mom for teaching me
how to do this.  Then go let the dog out to pee and take a dump and we'll
call it even."

      "Okay, it's a deal."

      They feasted like kings and then worked together to clear the table
and soak the pots and pans that would be scrubbed in the morning.  "Your
turn on the dishes, sad sack," Scott happily reminded Craig.  Craig flipped
him off.

      Scott looked at his other roommate who was grinning as he wiped down
the table.  "When you're done there, why don't you make three drinks and
we'll play some cards in the living room."

      Scott walked down the hall and picked the fattest cat in the world
off the couch.  He cradled him in his left arm, scratching his head with
his right hand.  The cat looked up and blinked.  `You woke me up, dummy,
but the head scratch is long overdue,' he said with his eyes.

      "It's gonna be okay, fat ass."  Scott hugged the cat to his cheek.
"Ya' just gotta believe that it's all gonna be just fine."

      The cat squirmed a bit.  `It was okay before you picked me up and I
was sleeping, but the chicken on your breath smells pretty good.'

      Scott reached over to turn on the local classic rock station and then
scratched the cat's chin.  "I might have some treats for you in the morning
when I strip the rest of that carcass, like you need them you tub of lard.
Chicken.  Real chicken!"

      The cat squirmed again.  `If you really loved me, you'd dish it up
now.  Put me down and call me when breakfast is ready.'

      Scott set the fattest cat in the world on the floor and watched him
waddle out of the room.

      Brett came in carrying two drinks and Craig followed with his own.
Brett asked, "So what's the game tonight, chef?"  He handed a bourbon and
water to Scott.

      "Hearts sound good?" Scott asked, picking up the box of cards.  "But
I wanted to talk to you guys first."

      Brett looked at Craig and pointed.  "See?  I knew something was up!
He's moving out, or he's joined a cult, or he's having a sex-change
operation, or he's committed some heinous crime and has been hiding out
with us, or he needs some money."

      Craig laughed.  "He doesn't need any money.  He has a scholarship and
a job, a dad who's an attorney and a mom with her own successful business.
So, it must be one of the others."  He sat down in the recliner and looked
at Brett.  "It's gotta be the sex change, the cult or the crime."  They
talked as if Scott wasn't even in the room.

      Brett sat on the couch and sipped his bourbon.  "Maybe he's gonna run
away and join the circus?"

      Craig sipped his own and moved the coffee table between the chair and
the couch.  "Or sell Amway out of our apartment?"

      Scott took a big drink, grinned a little and took a deep breath.
"Okay.  Enough with the smart ass remarks."  His eyes darted back and forth
and then finally settled in the middle of the living room floor.  "I'm
gay."

      There was a long pause.  Finally Craig spoke, his face showing no
emotion at all.  "No shit, Sherlock."

      Brett smiled.  "Duuuuuuuhhhhhh!  Glad you can finally say it.  Now
shuffle the cards and deal.  Dollar a game and nickel a point."  He shook
his head.  "What, you thought we were fucking blind?  Now that you got that
off your chest, just deal the fucking cards."

      Craig held up his glass.  "To good food, good drink and good friends.
All of life's great staples."  He paused and looked at Scott.  "Especially
the great friends."

      Scott raised his glass and all three clinked.  He swallowed hard and
blinked several times before honoring the toast with a sip of his drink.




      The LaFollett Scholarship luncheon was later on the calendar this
year for some reason.  As last year's honoree, Scott was invited to sit at
the head table and make a "few brief remarks."  He read a certain emphasis
on the words "few" and "brief."  He made sure he could get the notes for
his first afternoon class from one of his classmates so that he could
attend the ceremony.  He'd decided to walk to the Capitol that morning and,
after clocking out, he casually strolled down State Street with his sport
coat slung over his shoulder.  It was a beautiful early afternoon in early
May and everything was turning so green.  Despite the misery he'd suffered
after the last Regents' meeting, and the absolute silence between he and
Greg since then, it had been a really good couple of weeks.  Penny had met
with Grant about the caucus crap.  He didn't know where it would go, but he
didn't really care at the moment.  His folks had been outstanding.  His
roommates had equaled Big Scott's and Suzanne's compassion, but without the
overt expressions of love.  So this day Scott was whistling nothing in
particular as he casually strolled and scanned a few of the shops' window
fronts.

      And now he was looking forward to meeting the luncheon's keynote
speaker, Doris Kearns-Goodwin.  She was a renowned historian who focused
almost exclusively on political history, especially presidential politics.
Years earlier, she had written what was to considered by many to be the
seminal biography of Lyndon Johnson.  She had worked in his White House and
literally lived on the Johnson ranch in Texas for a time during his
retirement years.  Scott had read that book when he was in high school, and
he'd eagerly devoured everything else she'd written since then.  He'd
picked up her latest work on Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, but hadn't had
time to do anything other than scan through the photographs and read the
captions.  It was on his summer reading list, after he survived the current
school year.  `If I survive it,' he thought.  As he approached the entrance
to Memorial Union, he reminded himself that he was not the guest of honor
this year.  He'd have to try to keep his exuberance over the noted author
in check out of deference to this year's named scholar.

      At the reception prior to the luncheon, Dr. Ellison Cushing welcomed
him warmly.  "Scott, you've been such a stranger!"

      "I know, professor.  Burning the candle at three or four ends."

      Cushing ticked them off on his fingers.  "Let's see, State Senate
Caucus, Board of Regents, WSA president and full time student."  He
chuckled, "What do you do in all your spare time?"

      Scott grinned sheepishly and shrugged.  "Well, the WSA and the
Regents only meet once a month, and I kicked it back to nine credits per
semester this year, just enough to maintain full-time status."

      Cushing raised a hand and waved.  "Doris, there's someone here I'd
like you to meet."  Scott felt his stomach quiver a bit as the author
arrived with an expectant smile.  "Doris Kearns-Goodwin, I'd like you to
meet Scott Turner, Jr., last year's LaFollette honoree."

      She smiled warmly and met his grasp.  "Very nice to meet you, Scott.
It's quite an honor."

      Scott nearly bowed in her presence.  "Thank you ma'am, but the honor
today is all mine!  I've been a big fan of yours since I read your
outstanding work on LBJ."

      She chuckled and rolled her eyes.  "Wow!  Well, that was some time
ago and I've covered a lot of ground since then."

      Scott nodded.  "I know!  And I've read everything except `No Ordinary
Time.'  I have it, but won't get to tackle it until the summer.  But I
can't wait."  He glanced at Cushing.  "Jeez, Professor.  Last year Stephen
Ambrose, this year Doris Kearns-Goodwin.  How long do I get to keep coming
back for these things?"

      Cushing laughed.  "As long as you're still here, Scott."

      Kearns-Goodwin cocked her head.  "Stephen was here last year?"

      "Yes ma'am.  He's a Badger too!  I know you're a big baseball fan,
but he was the last guy on our football team to play both offense and
defense."

      The historian rolled her eyes and giggled.  "I know, I know.  Stephen
and I are good friends.  I can't tell you how many times he's mentioned
that."

      Scott went on.  "And he's a former LaFollette Scholar himself.  I
found it interesting that he changed majors from Poli-Sci to History."  He
glanced at Cushing.  "And he was able to hang onto the scholarship, right?"

      Cushing nodded.  "He set the precedent, though it's rarely been
repeated.  As long as the student earned the award through work in our
department, and he or she remains a full-time student in good standing,
then the fund remains intact.  Doris is a great example of the overlap in
the two disciplines.  She's an historian without peer, but she writes some
of the best political analysis I've ever read.  So we're not all that
territorial and we respect the historians too.  Like Dr. Ambrose, they just
need to get their start in Poli-Sci.  It gets them into the habit of
thinking original thoughts and doing the contemporary research of the
political scientist.  Then they just might be truly useful by digging
around in old stuff and the established facts.  They just repackage the
crap we already know, give it a new twist, and get rich in the process."
He winked at Kearns-Goodwin and she laughed again.

      Her smile didn't wane.  "You're too kind, Ellison, and as
broad-minded as ever."

      The professor smiled, checked his watch and said, "Well, we'd better
take our seats.  He led them to the head table and quickly introduced Scott
to this year's scholar.  Jessica Kayon was a smallish young woman who
looked intense and quickly gave the impression of a serious academic
lacking a sense of humor.  As they enjoyed their lunch, Kearns-Goodwin gave
up on trying to sustain a conversation with Jessica and she turned instead
to Scott, who was sitting on her other side.  He was on cloud nine and
could have spent the rest of the day and all the next right where he was.
The speeches were nice and not too long.  Scott's was a perfunctory thank
you to the department and the foundation that funded the award, and a brief
word of congratulations to Jessica for having earned this great
opportunity.  Jessica's was very little more than "thank you very much."
They ended within the time indicated on the invitation.  Scott thanked
Dr. Cushing again, asked Kearns-Goodwin to autograph his copy of the
Roosevelt book he'd packed before leaving the apartment, and headed for the
door.




      Scott woke up a little after eight on Saturday morning with a bit of
a hangover.  Brett's birthday had been that Thursday, but they'd waited
until Friday to take him out for dinner at Smokey's.  Then the three
returned to an apartment mostly full of marching band members that Scott
and Craig had invited over.  Angie had a key to the place that she'd never
used, and she had been there to let the partygoers in with all the
necessary supplies.  The next four hours were full of typically stupid
college revelry, complete with the obscene songs championed by all band
members and one or two losers puking off the front porch into the bushes
below.  Brett had ended the night on the floor, his upper torso just inside
his bedroom doorway, and his butt and legs laying sprawled out into the
hallway.  Scott couldn't recall if he, or anyone for that matter, had been
considerate enough to toss a blanket over the grinning, drooling and
snoring birthday boy.

      At least Brett was no longer on the floor when Scott went to the
kitchen for a bottle of water and a couple of aspirin.  He started the
coffee and ambled back to his room to boot up the computer.  Then he put on
his robe and went out to the porch.  It was going to be a beautiful day
with blue skies and a soft breeze coming off the lake.  He breathed in the
cool spring air and felt a little slow relief from physical price he was
paying the proverbial piper.

      After pouring a cup of coffee he returned to the porch.  Reclining in
a chair, he propped his slippered feet on the rail and put his head back.
For a half hour, he just stared at the lake, occasionally sipping the
`nectar of the gods' to which he was so terribly addicted.  After refilling
his mug, he trampled into his room and called up his e-mail.  Greg's
message jumped off the screen.  "Saturday" was the only word in the subject
heading, dated two days earlier.

      "Scott,

      "First farmers' market of the season this Saturday.  Care to join me
for a tall coffee and a stroll around the square?  I'd really like to talk.
I'll be at the coffee stand on the State Street corner of the square at
10:00.  Hope you can and will join me.

      G."

      Scott showered quickly, fed the animals and brought the dog
downstairs for his morning constitutional.  He sat down on the back steps
with a third cup of coffee as the dog lifted his leg and marked the corner
of the back porch for about the millionth time.  Scott let him off the
chain and he sniffed around the greening lawn for a spot he hadn't yet
properly soiled.  He hunched his back, lifted his tail and dropped his rear
end a few inches to take a good dump.  He looked around as if he was
embarrassed to be seen.  Scott chuckled quietly and sipped his coffee.  Now
that he was at peace with nature, the dog romped back and gave Scott the
customary `I'm happy now' crotch dive.  Scott propped his elbows on the
step behind him and scratched the dog's neck and ears.  "What do you think
is on Greg's mind this morning?" he asked.  The dog licked his hand and put
one paw on his thigh.  Scott shook his head. "No, I don't think that's it.
I could be wrong, but I doubt it."  He checked his watch, stood up, opened
the door and said, "Come on!"  The dog bounded up the stairs, finally
sliding on the linoleum and hitting the kitchen wall.  Again.  Scott shook
his head.  `He's never gonna learn.'  Obviously refreshed and frisky after
his morning relief, the dog chased the fattest cat in the world into the
living room and under the couch.  It was a good thing the sofa had pretty
tall legs or that cat never would have made it.  Scott grabbed his wallet
and keys, put on a cap and stuck his head back into the living room.  The
cat's paw was swatting at the dog's snout from under the couch.  "You boys
be good."

      Greg had reached the top of State Street about fifteen minutes early.
He ordered a tall coffee with milk and dropped a couple sugar cubes into
it.  After checking his watch, he strolled twenty feet to an artist's table
and fingered through the stack of watercolors.  They were mostly
five-by-seven and eight-by-ten views of various local sights and landmarks.
He noted the prices and thought it probably worth stopping back the
following weekend.  He glanced up the street and spied Scott's familiar
Hard Rock Cafe cap bobbing this way and that amidst the slow moving crowd.
He walked back to the coffee stand and ordered a tall coffee, black.

      "Hey!" Greg heard from behind.

      He turned and smiled demurely.  He offered the coffee.  "Got you one
for the road.  I'm glad you could come."

      Scott wanted to hug him, but he took the paper cup instead.  "Thanks
a lot.  I'm very glad you asked.  What, no game this weekend?"  He paused
and looked a little embarrassed.  "I, uhm, I stopped looking at the
schedule a couple weeks ago.  I've been tempted to show up at a home game,
but didn't want to rattle your cage."

      Greg nodded, seeming to appreciate Scott's judgment.  Then he
explained.  "No, we're in playoffs now, and we got a `bye' this weekend
because we clinched the conference title."

      Scott sipped gingerly from the small opening of the plastic lid.
"Yeah!  I saw that.  Congratulations."

      Greg shrugged.  "Thanks.  It's been a fun season."  They crossed the
street and stepped onto the curb to join the throng of other market goers
in the leisurely counter-clockwise stroll around the square.

      Scott spied a bakery stand ahead and pointed.  "You got the coffee.
Let me get breakfast.  These folks have great baked goods."  He pointed to
the lawn.  "Then we can go pull up a piece of turf and sit and people watch
for a while.

      Greg shrugged.  "Okay by me."

      Scott asked for two apple Danishes and picked up a couple extra
napkins.  These treats were notoriously sticky.  The two guys found a spot
that was dotted with shade from the large maple tree nearby.  Greg sat and
crossed his legs facing the trunk of the tree as Scott lowered himself and
leaned back against it.  Simultaneously, they bit into their pastries.

      After he'd swallowed the sweets and sipped his coffee again, Greg
looked into Scott's eyes. "I don't blame you, Scott.  Not anymore anyway."

      Scott looked surprised.  "But you did.  You tore me a new one outside
the dorm that night."

      "I was very emotional, not thinking straight.  I mean you'd had
plenty of time to think about the situation and what it might mean to me.
On my end, it hit me like a ton of bricks, and the fact that you were part
of the final decision really hurt at the time.  I won't kid you, Scott.  It
hurt bad."

      "I'm sure it did.  You made that pretty clear.  And like I said, I
always wanted to tell you this might be coming."

      "I know.  I really do...now.  And, I appreciate that you tried to
take some of the sting off by letting me know before hand."

      Scott pursed his lips in a slight grin and then said, "You can thank
Marty for that.  He kicked my ass about the whole thing when we were at
home over Easter."  Greg mirrored his subtle grin and Scott raised his
brows.  "So, why the sudden change?"

      "Coach Bidwell helped us all put it together."

      "How so?"

      "Well, turns out he's seen this coming for several months.  Somebody
who knows somebody who knows somebody gave him a `heads up' mid-year.  He
came clean and told us all this about a week ago, and he explained that he
couldn't say anything until the decision was final.  And he used pretty
much the same reasons you gave me.  He said he didn't want us all, in his
words, `distracted and shit, wandering around pissing our pants,' over
something that might not happen.  It made sense.  I finally realized that
if the guy whose program was getting shit-canned couldn't do or say
anything, then neither could you.  I mean, he was only tuned into the local
grapevine or rumor mill or whatever.  You've been in the real shit at the
top."

      Scott nodded, looking thankful.  "And I hope you know it was killing
me, not being able to say anything.  Those board meetings, and just
thinking about the whole thing afterward made me sick.  But like I said,
I'd taken a stand on a good principle, and I couldn't just back away from
it because of what it meant to me or you personally.  I tested the waters
once with a phone call to that dickwad Pennington, and he practically tore
my head off over the phone.  I knew it was practically futile and just
crossed my fingers and held my breath, hoping the money would be there in
the end."  He sighed and shook his head.  "But, it wasn't.  I brought a
proposal to that last meeting and was handed my ass a second time."  He
scoffed lightly and then sighed.  "Thinking about it since then, I guess I
kind of had it coming.  I was trying to use my position for our personal
benefit.  I tried to wrap it all up in a `for the good of the school'
argument, but I deserved to get shot down."

      Greg looked down.  "I know you tried, Scott.  Really, I do, and I
appreciate it."

      Scott smiled warmly.  "Thanks.  I needed to hear that."

      Greg stared at the crowd passing by.  "And the picture's gotten a
little brighter.  It looks like I might be able to stay here next year
after all."

      Scott dropped half of his Danish onto the grass and did a double
take.  "What?  Are you kidding me?!  I thought for sure that..."

      Greg interrupted with a small smile and a nod.  "So did I, but the
coach has done a great job, a really stand-up job going to bat for all of
us.  He's on the phone practically around the clock."  He inhaled and
looked back at Scott.  "So far he's hooked me up with a great financial aid
counselor.  Coach knows my situation as far as the family's concerned.  He
doesn't know why it is what it is, but he knows my old man is useless to me
as far as college goes."

      Scott's eyes got wide and he leaned forward, prodding Greg with
animated hand waves.  "And...?"

      "And Jerry, that's the counselor, said that he thinks we can piece
together a package of student loans, maybe a small grant and then some
work-study on campus.  I'd probably need to get a job on top of that, but I
think it could be done.  We just need to move fast.  It's getting late, but
he's making my case a top priority."

      Scott was giddy.  "Greg!  That'd be great!"

      Greg shrugged.  "Well, I'd kill to be able to keep playing ball, and
it's too soon for me to say for sure what's next for sure, but yeah, things
are looking a bit brighter.  I just needed to adjust my thinking and make
staying in school priority number one."  They gazed at each other, sitting
there on the lawn.  Slowly, two blazing smiles crawled across both guys'
lips.  Finally, Greg broke the silence.  "So, what's on your schedule for
the rest of the day?"

      Scott was still smiling.  "Well, I have to do some work on Dad's
campaign calendar, answer some e-mails and wrap up a year-end report for
the WSA, I want to kiss you right now, then I'm gonna walk the dog `cuz the
guys are gonna be gone, I mean I really want to kiss you, then do some
editing on a final paper in my psych. class and finish some prep work for
final exams, and I'm about ready to lunge over there, pin you down on the
lawn and suck on your face."

      Greg pulled up a handful of grass and threw it at him.  "No lunging!
There will be no lunging and certainly no kissing here in front of
thousands of these decent, upstanding patrons of the market."

      Scott faked a pout.  "So, what's on your schedule?"

      "We have a team meeting and practice at one o'clock, but I should be
out of there by four."

      Scott pointed to a stand on the corner with enormous stainless
cooling units.  "That guy over there has some of the best, freshest steaks
in the world.  What say I pick up two rib eyes, whip up a pair of twice
baked spuds and you come over after practice."

      Greg's grin was suggestive and he blushed a little.  "Why do I get a
feeling there will be lunging involved at some point?"

      Scott stood up and extended a hand to help lift his buddy off the
lawn.  "Oh, my good man, if you'll have it there will be much lunging."
They both snickered, but then Scott looked at Greg a bit more seriously.
"Besides, there are a couple other things I want to fill you in on."

      Greg's face registered his curiosity.

      Scott shook his head.  "Later.  I gotta get back.  The dog's probably
peed on Brett's bed by now, and I'm pretty sure Brett's still in it.  See
ya' this afternoon."

      "It'll be around five."  They parted, each strolling in a different
direction, each one giddy with anticipation of what might be on their near
horizons.




      The dirty plates and silverware were still littering the kitchen
table, even though the room itself had been hastily vacated.  The dog had
grown too big to hop up onto one of the chairs.  Nevertheless, seeing the
opportunity with no humans in the room, he managed to hoist his front paws
onto the table so that his snout and huge tongue could at least begin
cleaning the dishes.  He was doing a fantastic job.  The juices on the
plates were delightful, as were the scraps of fat from the steaks, and the
potato skin Greg had left behind was a wonderful bonus, all buttery and
cheesy.  `Could use a little more salt, but beggars can't be choosers' the
dog thought to himself.

      In the bedroom, Greg wiped his oily hands on the towel he'd grabbed
as they left the kitchen.  Then he slid his right hand under Scott's right
upper arm and pulled.  "Here ends the massage of the day, now roll over."
He raised his butt off of Scott's hamstrings and Scott did a horizontal
one-eighty degree flip without leaving the mattress.  Their eyes had a
contest over which pair could gaze with greater determination and lust.

      It was a tie.

      Greg's face dove downward and their lips and tongues exploded in and
on each other.  Greg's left hand grabbed a handful of Scott's hair and
jerked his head back over the top hem of the pillow.  He devoured Scott's
neck with licks, kisses and nibbles.  Scott writhed and whimpered,
encouraging Greg with his hand on the back of his head and grinding their
hot, hard tools together.

      The ferocity of Greg's happy assault abated and Scott's fingers
slowly danced and stroked up and down the defined muscles of Greg's strong
back.  They just kissed and slowly ground their torsos and groins together,
Scott's legs wrapped around his lover's thighs, pulling Greg as close and
tight as he could.

      Greg's eyes squinted and his hand slid between their bodies.  "Relax
the legs, babe.  I want to get on top of you the right way."  Scott eased
his grip and Greg sat up straddling the fully erect and dripping pole
beneath him.  He slid back and forth, grinding and flexing his cheeks up
and down over Scott's rigid member.  Greg leaned down and kissed Scott
again, then whispered.  "What do you want?"

      The pressure and slow movement of Greg's glutes on his cock made
Scott whine.  "Oh God!  I want to be inside you.  I NEED to be inside you!"

      Greg giggled and lightly bit Scott's earlobe.  "Say please."

      Scott reached down and swatted his ass.  "You think you're in charge
now, huh?"

      Greg flexed his cheeks again and slid up and down over most of the
length of Scott's cock.  "You tell me."  He pinned Scott's arms down by the
wrist above the pillow and kissed him again hard.  He broke the lip lock
and bit Scott's lip, then his chin.  "So tell me again, stud, what is it
you really want?"

      Scott nearly whimpered.  "I want you to wrap my aching cock, lube it
up and sit on it.  I want you to ride it and beg me to pound it up into
you.  I want you to lay down on me while we're joined and I want to lick
you as far as I can reach...your neck, your pecs, your pits.  I want to
taste you.  I want your hot, tight chute swallowing me and not letting go
and driving me crazy.  I want to bury it in you and explode while your
tongue is in my ear and you cum all over my chest and abs.  Please.
Please!"

      Greg giggled into Scott's neck.  "You sure that's all you want?
That's quite a list there."

      Scott laughed back and swatted Greg's left thigh.  "I said
pleeeeeease!"

      "That you did."  He ran his tongue from Scott's chin to his forehead
and then reached over onto the nightstand for a rubber and some lube.

      After a wild ride and a hot shower, they climbed back under the
covers.  Greg laid his head on Scott's chest and he traced abstract
patterns across Scott's abs with his index finger.  "I still can't believe
you told your folks."

      Scott gently rubbed Greg's back.  "Why is that?"

      "Well, the politics mostly.  There's yours and your dad's situations
to consider."

      Scott pursed his lips and thought about it.  Then he shrugged a
little shrug.  "Well, Dad made it clear that he's ready to handle the topic
if it should come up.  So it's all good there.  As far as I'm concerned, my
work in the caucus or on campus won't be affected one bit.  It's not like
I'm going to issue a general press release.  I'm just coming out to those
who are nearest and dearest to me.  Anybody else asks me about my personal
life, I'll probably handle it the way I did with that jackass when we were
on the radio: `How many times a day do you jack off?  What position do you
like to `do it' in?'  I'll just throw it back at them with a sharp `None of
your fucking business.'  I'm sure I'll be tempted to answer the question
directly, but that'd be like saying it's an okay thing to ask in the first
place.  You know my take on that shit."

      Greg licked and then kissed Scott's right nipple, then grinned.
"Scott Turner Jr.  Man of steel."  Scott lightly swatted the top of his
head.  Greg looked up.  "And Craig and Brett were totally cool with it too,
huh?"

      Scott chuckled through his nose.  "It was kinda funny, actually.  I'm
sitting there practically sweating bullets, afraid one or both of them is
going to go ape shit.  But they were just totally deadpan about the whole
thing.  It's like I was telling them the day of the week or what time it
was.  They were, like, `Yeah...and...?'"

      Greg shook his head.  "You're a lucky guy."

      Scott reached under the covers and grabbed Greg's ass.  "Don't I know
it."

      Greg squirmed and lifted himself off of Scott, rearranged a couple
pillows and sat up next to him.  "So what made you do it?"

      Scott sighed and reached for Greg's hand, linking their fingers
together.  "Well, I've been thinking about it for a long time.  And
whenever I did, I'd think of Kip Monmouth and Sonja Weiss and Abby Svendsen
and Peter Andreassen...and you.  I know that you went to Hell and back with
your family, but you all seem so comfortable in your skin, generally so
content.  And sometimes I'd remember what a miserable sop Randy Oakes was,
and the way that his obviously pained soul took its leave.  So much
promise, so much potential there, all ended in an instant.  At the same
time, I've had this growing unhappiness and anxiety building up inside,
gnawing at me.  I hit that clichéd `fork in the road.'  I could go down one
lane, living a lie and worrying all the time about somebody finding out.
Or, I could go the other way and become immune from much of the misery
somebody might want to throw my way."  He sighed again but smiled.  "And,
on top of all of that, I remembered a conversation I had with Gran' not
long before she died.  She hinted, very strongly, that she knew the
score...with me and Marty, that is.  But her love for me remained so
completely unconditional.  She just wanted me to live a life of honesty and
integrity, and for me to be happy."

      Greg rubbed Scott's thigh and nodded.  "Jeez.  I wish I could've met
that old girl."

      Scott's smile was subtle, but it screamed his loving memories of
Evelyn.  "Me too.  Me too."  After a long moment of silence he finally
said, "There was one other thing that really nudged me though, as I stood
there at that fork in the road.  Oddly enough, one of the biggest pricks
I've ever met kinda helped me."

      Greg turned his head.  "Huh?"

      "Remember me talking about that asshole in the WSA, Elliot Lyman?"

      Greg rolled his eyes and snorted, and then he sarcastically recalled
"Oooooh, you might have mentioned him once or twice."

      Scott squeezed Greg's hand.  "Don't be a smart ass.  Anyway, that
prick actually followed me back to your dorm after the Regents
meeting...long story...and he was crouching out of sight at the top of the
footbridge when we had our big `to-do' that night.  He heard all of it."

      Greg's jaw dropped open and his eyes grew wide.  "What a fucker.
That man needs to get a life."

      "Like you don't know.  Anyway, after you went back in he stopped me
and threatened to out me when he thought the time was right."

      "What'd you do?"

      "First I told him to fuck off.  Then I told him to give it his best
shot."

      Greg gasped.  "Aren't you worried?"

      Scott's upper lip curled and he shook his head.  "Not in the least.
He can't hurt me now.  Those folks who are most important to me already
know who I am.  If he tries to make it a political issue, I'll publicly
bitch slap him into the next week."  He paused.  "Besides, I think I can
take the wind out of his sails."

      "What do you mean?"

      "Not a hundred percent sure yet, Greg.  I'm still mulling it all
over, but I have more than one fork in the road to consider before too
long, I do believe.  I'm just taking stock of everything right now and want
to get my bearings straight on what's most important to me.  You have
enough to worry about on your own right now, so don't sweat it."  Scott
turned on his side to face Greg and gently stroked his forearm.  "But, just
so you know, Lyman is trying to figure out which member of the baseball
team I was having it out with that night.  He couldn't really see you and
the dipshit probably doesn't know baseball from dodge ball.  But he's crazy
enough to try and target you too.  He knows your first name, and that
you're on the team with a scholarship.  That's it.  But I checked, and
there's only one Greg on the team with a scholarship."

      Greg's brows scrunched together.  "Why the hell would he set his
sights on me?"

      "Because he's a mean-spirited, vindictive, destructive head case."

      Greg scoffed.  "Doesn't he know there won't be a team next year?  So
if his aim is to discredit me with the other players or fans, he'd be
pissing up a rope."

      "I'm just saying he's a mean son of a bitch on his own imagined
`mission from God.'  There's no telling what he might try to pull."

      Greg laughed.  "Awww, fuck'im."

      Scott leaned over for a kiss.  "Good for you."  They pecked at each
other's lips for a few more seconds, and then Scott rolled over on his back
again.  He locked his fingers behind his head.  "Tomorrow morning.  Let's
go to The Avenue for breakfast.  I haven't been there in ages and have a
hankering for their corned beef hash."

      Greg turned and laid his right arm across Scott's chest.  He traced
Scott's jaw line and chin with a couple of fingers.  "No can do, stud.
Can't spend the night."

      Scott's face showed his surprise and disappointment.  "What?"

      Greg kissed him on the chin.  "Told Darrin I'd go fishing with him
tomorrow morning up near Tomah.  We're leaving at the crack of dark.  The
man takes his fishing seriously.  I have to be out of here in a couple
hours so I can bag a few hours of sleep before we head out."

      Scott sighed, and then raised his eyebrows in a most suggestive gaze.
"Couple of hours, huh?"  He lifted Greg's arm and rolled his lover onto his
back.  He leaned over and sucked Greg's left nipple between his lips, and
then looked up and leered.  "Wonder what we can do for the next couple of
hours."  He pushed Greg's left arm up against the headboard and roamed with
his tongue from the nipple, across his left pec, and then danced a little
tongue dance in Greg's armpit and enjoyed the sound and feel of Greg's
squeal and a squirm.  He moved up and kissed his way across Greg's
shoulder, and then nibbled and licked his neck, finally making his way to
Greg's left ear.  With his tongue flicking in and around it, Greg giggled
and sighed some more.  Then Scott felt Greg grip his hardening cock.  They
kissed long and slow.

      Finally, Greg pulled back.  "What could we do?  How about something
that would really piss off The Reverend Elliot Lyman.  Something that would
truly disgust the psycho."  He giggled again as Scott rolled over on top of
him.

      Scott ground their firm tools together and buried his face again in
the crook of Greg's neck, and he offered a muffled, "Great idea."  He
rubbed his hard cock against Greg's three or four times.  "Here's to
Elliot!"




      At seven in the morning Scott was slumbering soundly and snoring
lightly, much to the annoyance of the fattest cat.  On the third ring, he
wrestled himself out of the fog and realized it was the phone that was
being so rude.

      "Hello!  Scott Turner!" he mumbled.

      "Scott, my man.  I know it's early but you always said you're a
morning person."  It was Grant Cornell.  "Did you read it?"

      Scott coughed and propped himself up on one elbow.  "Shit, Corny, I
haven't even read the back of the Wheaties box yet.  It's Sunday, damn it!
The day of rest.  You know...`And on the seventh day, He rested?'"  Scott
yawned and wiped his face.  Then he coughed again, turned and sat up half
way.  "Uhm...read what?"

      "Do you get the Sunday `State Journal' delivered?"

      "Of course.  It's probably sitting on the porch downstairs right
now."

      "Go down and get it.  Go to the second section, the `State' section,
and check out page one.  You're not going to fucking believe it!  Well,
wait.  Yes you are, but you're gonna love it.  Read it and call me back
later."  He laughed again.  "But I'll tell you my man, the next sound you
hear under the dome is going to be the sound of shit hitting the fan.  I
hate to say this, but I might owe you one."

      Scott sniffed.  "If you leave me alone the rest of the day, I'll just
put it on your tab, whatever it is."

      Grant laughed.  "I'll buy you lunch this week.  Go check it out and
I'll talk to you later.  Gotta run."  And he was gone.

      Scott rolled out of bed and grabbed his robe.  "Oh what the fuck.  I
can take a nap later."  He started a pot of coffee and then slowly plodded
down the stairs and picked up the paper.  His thighs were tired and hips
were sore from the wonderful strains of the previous night.

      Hearing movement in the apartment, the dog was waiting anxiously by
the back door when Scott returned.  He tossed the paper on the couch and
then brought the dog down the back stairs and hooked him onto the chain.
He came back up, poured a tall glass of water and drank it, and then went
to the bathroom for a healthy and enjoyable morning pee.  The pot was only
half done, but he poured half a cup anyway and went to the living room.

      He pulled away the top section of the paper, all the national and
international news, and he tugged the second section out.  He just stared,
slack-jawed and blinking, for several seconds.  Finally he inhaled.  "Jesus
Fucking Christ!"

      "D.A. TO LAUNCH PROBE INTO SENATE CAUCUS ACTIVITIES" blared the
headline.  Scott sat down and stared at the headline for the better part of
a minute.  The byline read `Bruce Weeden.'  "Worm," Scott muttered.

      The article trumpeted the paper's accomplishment.  "Based on
information unearthed by `The Wisconsin State Journal,' the Dane County
District Attorney's office is looking into the possibility of several
violations of state law at the direction of Assistant Senate Majority
Leader and Party Caucus Chairman, Jeremy Frick.  At the center of the probe
is the alleged use of state employees in support of electioneering by the
party's candidates for seats in the State Senate.  In addition, questions
of fundraising activities by the senate election committee led by Frick are
being raised."

      The dog barked outside and Scott put down the paper.  As he scurried
down the stairs he grinned.  "Way to go, Corny!"  Back upstairs, he quickly
fed both pets and filled his mug the rest of the way before returning to
the paper.  The next several paragraphs of the story detailed the
information that Penny had provided, citing `unnamed sources within the
caucus staff.'  Scott grinned again.  "The prosecutor's office would not
specify the number of subpoenas being drafted in order to obtain sworn
statements from members of the caucus staff.  Calls to Frick's office and
his home on Friday and Saturday went unanswered."

      The story was continued on page six.  "Senator Maureen McCarthy,
Majority Leader and candidate for Attorney General in next November's
elections was reached at her home over the weekend.  McCarthy says she was
unaware of the allegations and is unable to shed any light on them.
`Personally, I have very little to do with the political operations of the
caucus or its staff.  So, naturally, I am not familiar with these
accusations.  All I know is what you've told me so far, and it appears that
these things are only allegations.  Moreover, it sounds like a very capable
and reliable prosecutor's office is investigating them.  I trust that
District Attorney Kachelski and his staff will do a fair and thorough job
investigating and answering these questions.'"

      Scott coughed and then used his sleeve to wipe the coffee off his
chin and lips.  "Not familiar with these accusations?  Awww, Maureen!  For
God's sake!"  The dog scampered in wondering what all the noise was about.

      Maureen continued.  "As a candidate for Attorney General, I can
promise that, if elected, the D.A. and his staff would have the complete
and vigilant support of my office as the state's ultimate prosecutor.  If
these charges are true, the people of Wisconsin need to know that such
practices will be promptly snuffed out, and that anyone and everyone
responsible will be held completely accountable to the fullest extent of
the law, regardless of their position or their party affiliation."

      The dog ran back out of the room when Scott balled up the newspaper
and threw it across the room.  "Awww fuck!"  He stood up and ran his
fingers through his hair.  He pointed at the crumpled paper on the floor.
"For the past...how many months...you've been telling me `it's part of
doing business...it's all part of the game...I'm not going to intervene in
Senator Frick's management of the caucus.'  God damn it, Maureen!  You
basically tell me to mind my own fucking business and now you get on a
fucking soapbox and preach about the evils that have been going on right
under your nose, but that you've been conveniently ignoring!  What a crock
of undiluted shit!"

      He sat back down and recalled the line in the story about subpoenas.
`Wonder if my name is on one of them,' he mused.  `What if it is?  Do I
tell `em that she's had reason to believe this shit has been going on for a
long time?'  He stood up again and thrust his hands into the pockets on the
front of his robe.  He walked to the front window of the living room and
looked across the street at the park and the lake, then pinched his lower
lip.  `Well, she didn't play an active part in Frick's shenanigans.  And I
told her I wouldn't name names when I talked with her.  I also basically
agreed that my ranting was more suspicion than it was actual knowledge.  So
if there are sins here on her part, they're sins of omission.'  He picked
up the strewn pages and went to his room to change clothes.  He needed a
good, long run.



      Scott had stewed and moped all day long.  He'd come back from his run
that morning more frustrated than when he had left.  He shouldn't have
jogged past the dome.  Craig was back from his weekend job for the paper,
but was mostly asleep on the couch.  Scott looked at most of the rest of
the Sunday paper, but hadn't really read much.  He went across the street
to James Madison Park and strolled around amidst the touch football games
and Frisbee throwers.  He came back in and tried to nap, but sleep wouldn't
visit.  He got off the bed and e-mailed a couple of high school friends
he'd been keeping in touch with, mostly vapid `things are going good'
messages that felt like lies.  He put the dog in his car and drove to the
Arboretum to take him for a hike.  Twice he feared his shoulder would be
dislocated by the frisky pooch who desperately wanted to have at it with
the smaller animals scurrying about.  "Not again, boy.  Remember the last
time that a squirrel beat the hell out of you?"

      In the middle of the evening, as Scott was trying to finish the
Sunday crossword, Brett came into the living room, leash in hand.  "I'm
taking Nigger for a walk and then gonna run up to the store.  Need
anything?"

      Scott put down the pen and looked up.  "I'd like you to rename the
dog, but otherwise I'm good."

      "Not gonna happen."

      "Going to the park?"

      "Yep.  It's just across the street and he loves to run there."

      "You know that it's illegal to let your dog loose in a city park
these days, right?"

      Brett shrugged.  "It's dark."

      Scott smirked "Oh, in that case I'm sure it's just fine.  My mistake.
I guess it's only illegal when you and the dog can actually be seen.  Go
for it."  He paused.  "Now that I think about it, bring back a six-pack.
We're almost out of beer."

      There are a few absolute truths about Madison in the springtime.
First, it can go from fifty or sixty degrees to zero with the celebrated
`wind-chill effect' in less than 24 hours, even in April or May.  It might
be sunny and breezy one day, with perennials fighting their way up through
the topsoil, followed by six inches of fresh snow the next.  Second, you're
going to step in some gray slush or some mud a minimum of five or six times
as you get out of your car or off the bus.  Third, some dopes will dress
according to the calendar and not the day's weather forecast, as if they
can force the arrival of warmer temps by putting on shorts and taking off
their shirts when it's thirty degrees; not always a bad thing as far as
Scott was concerned.  Fourth, with four lakes in and around the city of
Madison, the fish that have suffocated under their frozen surfaces during
the winter will rise from their icy graves and wash up on shore.  And most
of them will be big, bloated, stinky and slimy carp.

      Brett crossed the street with the dog's flapping tongue leading the
way.  After they crossed the sidewalk and made it onto the lawn he looked
down and said, "Sit!"  The dog did as he was told because he knew the
routine.  If he sat, then the damn leather strap would be unhooked.  Then
the skinny dope would walk out front a few dozen yards and finally give him
the go-ahead.  "Okay!" Brett shouted and the dog bolted into the darkness.
`Damn, he can run!' Brett thought with a grin.

      Brett jogged in the same direction and looked toward the lakeshore,
about a hundred yards away.  Just below the turf line, down on the beach,
he could barely make out the dog's legs and paws flailing skyward, his head
rising and falling behind the little knoll of grass above the sand at the
lake's edge.  `Fuck.' Brett thought, `He's in a goddamned fight!"  He ran
over and jumped down onto the beach.  "Awww... for Christ's fucking sake!"

      Scott and Craig heard the front door slam open against the wall
downstairs.  "Get your god damned sorry ass up there you fucking moron!"
was all they heard, followed by the thundering stomps of a chocolate lab on
the steps.  Then they inhaled.

      "What the fuck is that?" Craig moaned.

      "Fucking A!" Scott closed his eyes.  "That is rank! What the fuck did
you do?"

      The dog scampered around the living room as Brett just shrugged and
shook his head.  "I didn't do squat!  I let him off the leash and he was a
bullet heading for the beach and the shore.  Next thing I know I caught up
with him and he's rolling all over a dead, fat, rotten fucking carp!"

      Craig started to gag and swatted the dog away.  "Get him into the
fucking tub and clean him off, or he's living outside until that smell is
gone!  I mean it!  He's gonna make me puke!"

      Brett grabbed the collar. "C'mon, dummy.  Bath time."

      Normally, Labrador retrievers really like the water, but not in a tub
and not on the so-called master's terms.  Scott and Craig giggled through
the sounds of much whining, shouting, splashing and thrashing before the
newly coiffed lab pranced into the living room, still damp.  He set his
wide paws solidly in the middle of the floor, locked his legs tight and
shook his head and torso with a vengeance, splattering droplets on the TV
screen, the coffee table and bits of the morning paper that lay here and
there.  Then he looked back and forth between Scott and Craig, his tongue
hanging and his tail wagging.  He seemed to be very proud and appeared to
be looking for their approval.  Brett's sweatshirt was soaked, along with
the top half of his jeans, and the lenses of his glasses still showed spots
of water.  He was still scowling when he looked at Scott.  "I used your
shampoo `cuz it smells the best.  It won't make him gay, will it?"

      Scott flipped him off, but managed a grin.  "I think he's gay already
`cuz I've seen him hump your leg.  Problem is he has the same taste in guys
that he has in fish."

      Brett was peeling off the sweatshirt before leaving the living room.
"What a stupid fucker, rolling around on a slimy, dead carp!"

      Craig leaned back and shouted down the hallway, "He's a dog, doing
what dogs do!  You're a dumb shit, doing what dumb shits do!"

      Scott chuckled and scratched the pooch's ears.  He also shouted at
Brett, "Does this mean you didn't go to the store and get any beer?"

      "Hell no!  I mean Hell Yes!  That is exactly what this means."

      Scott stood up.  "Okay.  I still need a drink.  I'm having a bourbon
then."  He looked at Craig.  "Join me?"  Craig glanced over the morning's
sports page, gave a thumbs up and nodded.

      Scott came back in and handed Craig a drink.  His roommate looked up
and nodded his thanks.  He put down the paper, sipped and then looked at
Scott.  "So, what's been gnawing at you all day?"

      Scott sipped his own and sat back down.  "Huh?  What do you mean?"

      Craig blinked.  "Scott.  You've been mulling around here, in and out
of the apartment, in and out of your room all day with this cloud hanging
around you.  You haven't said shit to anybody.  You'd think somebody died
or something."  He paused, waiting for an answer, but none came.  "I mean,
Scott, check it out!  You went home and squared things away with your
parents about who you are and where you think your personal life is headed,
and that was all good.  You did the same with me and Brett, although that
was already all good.  You said that Greg's cool with the way things are
going, even if he's unhappy about a lot of it, and you two are obviously
back in each other's company.  I saw the used condoms in the bathroom waste
basket."  He wiggled his eyebrows and smirked.  "Shit, man!  You ought to
be walking on air."

      Scott sucked another mouthful of his stiff drink and then sighed.  "I
was."  He mulled it over for several seconds, and then leaned forward with
his forearms on his thighs.  "But, remember how we both reacted when the
dog came in?  He seemed happy as hell to wallow around in the muck and the
slime, and he wound up smelling all putrid and shit.  And reeking like that
was just hunky-dory as far as he was concerned."  He shook his head.
"Well, I've just been dealing with way too much of that kind of kind of
bullshit lately."





Author's Note: Many thanks to all of you who've been so kind with your
e-mails, especially all you first-time correspondents.  Please write to the
other authors whose work you enjoy, and contribute to Nifty if you are
able.  Hats off to Matthew and Jeremie for catching the incorrect spelling
of "modus operandi" in Chapter 20 (I used "motus" Duh!).  Well done!  Many
thanks again to Kory for his eagle eye, (but work on your Latin buddy!
What do you think I don't pay you for?)  Please feel free to send any and
all comments to scotty.13411@hotmail.com