Date: Fri, 9 Oct 2009 19:29:31 -0400
From: perti@live.com
Subject: Dermot, Chapter 7

This story is fiction.  Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.  These stories have as their main character a sexually
active gay teenager.  If this is offensive to you, or if it is illegal in
your area, or if you are under age, please leave now.

Constructive criticism is welcome on my e-mail.

____________________________________________________________________


Dermot
Chapter 7, Marking Time


     After Lando left, time seemed to creep along.  Not much happened the
rest of Saturday, all day Sunday, and a good part of Monday.  Dermot
finished THE UNPLEASANTNESS AT THE BELLONA CLUB, and decided he liked
Dorothy Sayers.  She wrote so well, even when he did not understand some
references specific to the time or to England, that he enjoyed the read.
And, he had not figured out the mystery until the second to last chapter.

     By Sunday, therefore, he was thrown back on reading the book about the
Lords Baltimore.  Once he got into it, he found it fascinating, and forgot
to be skeptical.  The early life of George Calvert interested him, because
it seemed that even then folks were always telling kids what to do.  When
George was twelve, officials of the Church of England came along and told
him he had to conform to the established church, and his dad went along
with that in order to keep his position in society.  People are always
finding some reason to pick on other people, Dermot decided.  He had about
determined that humans were hopeless, when he remembered Mr.  Lyle and
Lando.  Maybe only some humans were hopeless.  Seems Calvert had to resign
from an important government job about the time he went back to being
Catholic, but then set out to found colonies.  Dermot was interested in the
account of an attempted colony on Newfoundland.  The Catholics complained
they weren't given enough recognition, and the Protestants complained they
were given too much.  People were such fools.  Dermot was reminded of
another Shakespeare play he had read in the public library, not one on the
high school reading list, A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, where there was a line
he really liked, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

     That afternoon, Sgt. Flaherty came by again.  He was depressed in that
none of the leads seemed to be panning out.  The man Gary had evidently not
been back to the Cardinal bar.  A check on vanity plates had turned up
nothing which seemed connected with the name Chuck on any plate issued for
a Cherokee.  At least, not in this state.  If the vehicle belonged to a
student at the University, it could be registered anywhere.

     They talked for a while, hoping that something would occur to Dermot,
but nothing seemed forthcoming.  He did remember that, after he was in the
vehicle, and they were under way, they drove around for a while.  He did
not know where.  He had been forced onto the floor on his knees, with first
one guy, then the other in the back seat stuffing his cock down his throat.
Blushing some, Dermot admitted he would have sucked all four guys with no
hesitation for the right amount of cash, but they were not so much
interested in the sex as in humiliating and hurting him.  It was only when
they pulled up in that alley that the two in front got directly involved.
He had not been aware that they were behind a church.  He had been busy
trying to avoid punches and kicks.  It was there that all four ganged up on
him, and, he believed, most of his injuries had been inflicted.  He barely
remembered being sodomized.  But he did remember a really nasty laugh one
of his tormentors had, and would certainly recognize it again, but would
not want to be in a position to elicit it.

     The four guys talked about how much they hated gays while they were
beating on him.  Dermot shared with Sgt. Flaherty the insight that
sometimes it was gays in denial who acted in this way, but sometimes in was
straight guys who just had a real hang-up about gays.  That didn't narrow
the field much.

     Seeing the sergeant's frustration, and realizing that he was genuinely
concerned to apprehend the guys who had assaulted him, Dermot decided to
give away one more piece of personal information.

     "For a while, I went to a pentecostal church.  You know the kind I
mean?"

     "Yes, I'm familiar with them."

     "The people there might hate gays, too.  I remember the preacher going
on about how homosexuality was an abomination before the Lord.  But these
guys who beat me up were different."

     "Different?  How different?"

     "Most of the people at that church were not very well educated, even
the preacher.  They worked at factory jobs or construction, mostly.  They
talked with a twang, and used bad grammar.  My guys were not like that at
all.  Even though they used a lot of cuss words, and tried to talk tough,
you could tell they were better educated, and had more cultivated voices.
Not nice voices, you know, but educated ones, like announcers on
television.  And from time to time they would use a word of more than two
syllables, like appellant."

     "Thanks, Dermot," Sgt. Flaherty said.  From something in his voice,
Dermot was drawn to look up into the policeman's face.  Something
indefinable passed between them.  He knew that the sergeant appreciated him
giving away this bit of personal information.  He also knew that it would
be used as part of the effort to identify him.  Professionalism.  In a way,
Dermot admired that, even as it frightened him.

     Later on Sunday evening, the priest stuck his head in.

     "Hello, Dermot.  Anything I can do to help?"

     "Get the fuck out of here!"

     The head disappeared.

     Dermot read more of the Baltimore book.  He felt sorry for George
Calvert, who was so often frustrated in his desire to follow his own way,
and allow others to do the same.  That really appealed to Dermot.  He kind
of thought it might be relevant to his situation with Lando, too.  As he
read more, getting into the early days of the Maryland colony, he
understood what Lando had said, and it made sense.  No English king would
allow one of his subjects to set up a colony where the Catholic Church was
established.  The Catholic Church was outlawed in England, after all.  So,
the best the Calverts could do was to have no established church.  Early
Maryland was like the United States today in that respect.  The damn
Jesuits kept wanting more, though.  That's the trouble with priests.  Give
them a little leeway, and they try to take over, the bitter youth decided.

     Neither Lando nor his father came to visit on Sunday.  Dermot hoped he
had not offended Lando too badly with his comments about the Catholic
Church.  Damn it!  It wasn't his fault if their Church contained a bunch of
bigots.  That priest might not have beat him up, like the guys last
weekend, but his homophobia helped create the atmosphere in which that kind
of thing could happen.  Dermot lay back on his pillow.  All this was
disturbing and exhausting.  Why couldn't people just mind their own
business.  Sure, if someone was doing something really bad, like killing
people, then he had to be stopped, but why would anyone else care about who
someone had sex with?

     Then he began to muse about the various sexual experiences he had
endured over the past nine months.  There were the sickos who got their
jollies by hurting someone.  The guy who tied him down and beat him with a
whip.  The guy who held his head and fucked his throat so violently it tore
up the back of his mouth, so he could not work for a week.  Then there were
the scared ones.  Quick, get it done, don't let anyone see, get out of
here.  And yet, everyone seemed to be wanting sex, as much sex as they
could get.  It did not seem worth it.  Lord, what fools these mortals be!

     The only really satisfying sex Dermot could recall was that hand job
he gave himself the other day, while poor Nurse Chandravari waited outside
the restroom.  He chuckled as he recalled that, then frowned as he thought
about the harpy who monitored his activities on Saturday and Sunday
morning.  Bailey, Chandravari, and Hoffman were all nurses, presumably all
more or less equally qualified on paper, but what a difference in practice!
It made you wonder about paper credentials.  Was there a lesson here
somewhere?  Maybe all sexual experiences were not supposed to be equal
either.  No matter what some people said, some sex was good and some was
bad.  All the same on paper, but very different in reality.  The only
conclusion he could come to was that sex that hurt someone was bad, but the
kind he had experienced in the restroom was good.  That left a lot of
leeway in between.  He wondered whether this might be a topic he could
discuss with Lando, if Lando ever came back.

     Sunday ended on a low note.

     On Monday, 'his' people were back on the job.  He was awakened by
Nurse Bailey, who looked happy and refreshed after her weekend with her
husband.  She was a lot more accommodating than the weekend replacement.
Dermot was helped out of bed and into his wheel chair, not picked up and
deposited.  She did not attempt to enter the restroom.  Dermot took care of
things himself, and felt a sense of accomplishment.  Just going to the
bathroom on his own was something, especially without all the hassle.  His
breakfast was served promptly, and Nurse Bailey chattered away about her
weekend with her husband in a cheerful manner.

     "So, how many times did you get laid this weekend?" the impertinent
boy asked.

     Bailey turned bright red, slapped his good foot, and replied with a
smirk, "That is none of your business, you nasty boy."

     "What's nasty?  You're married, aren't you?"  Dermot had decided that
sex which made Nurse Baily so cheerful must be good sex.

     "Yes, of course.  But what Herb and I do in the bedroom is none of
your business," she insisted.

     "Sure it is.  When you've had a weekend like that, you're a lot nicer
to me than you were on Friday," he asserted with somewhat garbled syntax.

     "Was I not nice on Friday?" she asked, concerned.

     "Terrible.  But not nearly as terrible as I was, so don't worry."

     Shortly after this, Dr. Shipley returned, alone.

     "Where's your entourage, Doc?" Dermot asked.

     "The interns had duty all weekend.  They get time off, too.  I hear
you got along well with Dr. Rygalski."

     "Yeah.  She thinks I'm her little brother," Dermot chuckled.  Then he
added, "She told me she wants to be a psychiatrist.  What's the difference
between a psychiatrist and a psychologist?"

     "A psychiatrist is also a medical doctor, so he or she can prescribe
medication, for example.  A psychologist is more into counseling," the
physician explained.  "If your problem is physical, like a chemical
imbalance, then you need a psychiatrist, but if it's emotional, then a
psychologist will do," the physician conceded.

     "Let's see this eye, now," Dr. Shipley continued, as he removed the
bandaging and began to peer into Dermot's right eye.  "Hmmm.  I think
you're coming along nicely.  I'm going to leave the bandaging off, and let
my colleague upstairs make the final decision on that.  But do not strain
it."

     "How could I strain it, Doc?"

     "Too much reading, for one thing.  Take breaks.  Let your eyes rest.
You don't watch much television, so that's good.  And be very careful for a
while about getting anything in it.  No rubbing, even if it itches, or I'll
put the bandages back."

     "Yes, sir," Dermot said, mimicking a military salute.

     "Later this morning, you will be taken upstairs to see the
ophthalmologist, and also to have your chest x-rayed again.  We need to
monitor that lung, you know.  Right now, that seems to be the most critical
area left of all your injuries.  You've been very fortunate.  It could have
been a lot worse."

     "What other delights do you have in store for me?"

     "Well, Mrs. Harper will be back sometime today."

     "I have a bone to pick with you, Doc.  Why didn't you tell me
Mrs. Harper was your sister?"

     "I thought you might treat the poor woman worse than you did,"
Dr. Shipley said straight faced.

     "She kept asking personal questions," Dermot defended himself.

     "That's her job."

     "Well, I'm sorry I was rude to her.  I guess I'll have to apologize."

     "That would be appropriate, although I must say I've never known my
sister not able to take care of herself in an argument.  Oh, one more
thing.  We think you should begin meeting with Dr. Grissom.  He's one of
those psychologists you were asking about.  He will be working with you,
now that your physical ailments seem to be coming along satisfactorily."

     "What's with this psychologist bit, Doc?  I'm not crazy," Dermot
asserted.

     "No one thinks you're crazy.  But you have had a traumatic experience,
and you have been engaged in activities which would normally leave anyone,
and especially a boy your age, with some emotional scars.  Besides,
Mr. Lyle asked that you be afforded this service."

     "He did?"

     "Yes.  He's taken a personal interest in you, Dermot.  Moreover, you
were raped.  I know you intended to have sex as a commercial exchange, but
that is not the same thing.  Anyone who has been raped has had a traumatic
experience, and needs to work through that.  You're certainly not the first
case like this we've had in here."

     "Really?"

     "Really.  Only last month we had two prostitutes who had been raped
and beaten by men who they thought were customers.  They were not beaten as
badly as you, but still in the same category."

     The same category.  For months, Dermot had been avoiding facing that
reality, and there it was, as calmly and plainly as could be.  He was a
prostitute.  Why did hustler sound so much more acceptable?  When
Dr. Shipley left, he pondered this, and began to cry softly.  Life had not
been easy, even before, but since he got kicked out, he had really reached
rock bottom.

     These negative musings were interrupted by the orderlies come to take
him up to see the ophthalmologist.  There, he was subjected to intense
scrutiny of his right eye.  Light was shined in his eye.  Several different
machines took pictures of the interior of his eye.  He caught a glimpse in
a shiny surface, and was surprised to find that he had a really impressive
shiner.  Disgusting yellow and purple colors.  Somehow, that had not sunk
in.  It still ached, but he could see out of that eye, and was very glad of
it.  He was given the same advice as he had received from Dr.  Shipley.
Don't put any strain on it for some time.  Don't rub it.  We'll check it
again in a few days.

     From there, he was taken to the x-ray laboratory.  His leg, his wrist,
and his skull were x- rayed, but the most time was spent on his side where
his ribs and injured lung were located.  The technicians would say nothing
about the results, so he had to wait until he got back to his room.  He was
barely settled in when Dr. Shipley returned, x-rays in hand.

     "Everything seems to be healing satisfactorily.  In a week or so,
you'll be able to get around with a crutch, but only for very brief
periods.  However, such things as getting to the restroom should be
possible.  The wrist will take a little longer.  Joints are more complex
than a single bone, of course.  As to your head, there's not much we can do
for someone as stubborn as you."

     "Ha, ha!  Dr. Rygalski beat you to the punch.  She said almost the
same thing on Saturday," Dermot informed the physician.

     "Did she now?  I'll have to speak with her about stealing my best
lines.  Now here," Dr.  Shipley said, showing Dermot the x-ray, "is your
left side.  You see, the ribs are cracked, but are bonding satisfactorily.
As long as you don't put any pressure on them, they should mend nicely,
like the other bones.  Here is a close-up of the tear in your left lung.
This is your most vulnerable spot right now.  All is going well, but a
really hard knock, or even too sharp a breath, like from anything
strenuous, could cause that to open up again.  This is what we need to
monitor most carefully.  So, I'm depending on you to take decent care of
yourself, okay?"

     "Sure, Doc.  I'm not all that fond of pain, or of that oxygen mask I
had for a while back there."

     "All right.  After lunch, I will allow Mrs. Harper in to see you
again.  Now, you take it easy until then.  You've had a busy morning."

     "Doesn't seem like it.  Just more of the same old stuff.  Poke, prod,
and peer."

     "It's all important for your recovery."

     "Whatever you say, Doc.  Hey, if I have to see a shrink, could I see
Dr. Rygalski instead of this guy you talked about before?  At least I know
her."

     "Dr. Rygalski has enough to do as it is, without having to put up with
a rambunctious street kid like you."

     "Oh," Dermot said, disappointed.  Maybe he had really offended someone
with his remarks.  He thought he was getting along fine with Dr. Rygalski,
but maybe not.  Or maybe it was Dr. Shipley, mad at him because of ticking
off his sister.  Dermot sulked for the rest of the morning.

     Not long after he had completed his midday meal, Natalie Harper
appeared again.

     "Hello, Dermot.  How are you today?"

     "So so."

     "I told you I'd be back."

     "Yeah, I know.  I guess I should apologize.  I was not very nice when
you were here on Friday."

     "You seemed to get upset when I mentioned that Boys Haven was
connected to the Catholic Church."

     "Yeah," he confirmed.  "You Catholic?"

     "No, Dermot, I'm not.  But I have worked with the people out at Boys
Haven, and always found them most accommodating.  None of the boys there
are pressured into becoming Catholic, or attending Catholic services unless
they want to," Mrs. Harper stated.

     "Let's drop the Boys Haven bit for now.  Do you really think anyone
would take in a foster child who had been out selling his ass on the
streets?"

     "A lot would depend on whether he intended to continue selling his
ass," Mrs. Harper replied with a smile.

     "Shit!  Uh, sorry.  I guess I'm used to bad language.  Anyway, I told
... somebody ...."  Dermot trickled to a stop, seeing the look in
Mrs. Harper's eyes.  "Oh, all right!  I told Lando Lyle that I would not
have been out there if I thought I had a choice about it.  It sure was no
fun.  And I found out something last Friday, too.  Did you know I had
worms?"

     "Yes, Dermot, I knew that.  I was the one who told you about it,
remember?"

     "Oh, yeah."

     "You don't still have worms, do you?"

     "No.  Nurse Bailey says they got rid of them, but worms hatching
inside me!  Ugh!  Just thinking about it makes me want to puke.  When I
found out about that, I decided I had to find some way to avoid going back
on the streets.  So, that's why I asked about a foster home."

     "I see.  Well, I must say, that's a lot more accommodating than you
were last Friday.  I will definitely be looking into foster care for you.
In the meanwhile, can we talk about your schooling?"

     "I told you I wasn't going to tell you where I was in school last
year," Dermot insisted.

     "Yes, I recall.  But could you tell me what subjects you were taking,
so we can check with the school board about appropriate follow up lessons
until we can get you back in school?"

     "Um, okay.  Let's see.  English, World History, Algebra - ugh, I hate
algebra!  What else?  Oh yeah, something called General Science.  Civics.
I know there were six subjects, in addition to lunch and PE.  Oh yeah,
English was divided.  Second period was grammar and stuff, and then after
lunch we had literature.  I like literature.

     "That's a pretty strong curriculum.  You must have been in a college
prep course of studies.  Except for the missing foreign language and the
weak science," Mrs. Harper analyzed.  "Did you pass everything?"

     "Of course I did," Dermot said, as though nothing could be more
obvious.  "I kind of had the idea I'd like to be a history teacher, but I
guess that's hopeless now."

     "Don't give up, Dermot.  Nothing is completely hopeless at this
point."

     "Yeah.  That priest said something like that last week," Dermot mused.

     Mrs. Harper left, on a considerably better footing with Dermot than
after her last visit.

     The orderlies appeared again to help Dermot into his wheel chair for
the trip to visit Dr.  Grissom, the psychologist.

     Dermot did not like Grissom from the very outset.  He looked like
someone from a bad movie, with thick glasses and a small Van Dyke beard and
mustache, just like a cartoon character.  What was he trying to prove?  If
he has to dress up to play the part, he can't be all that good, Dermot
decided in his infallible fifteen year old wisdom.  However, this negative
first impression, and what he thought of as a smarmy voice and clammy
handshake, meant that Dermot was not going to cooperate.  He gave one word
answers, and was even more parsimonious of information than he had been
with Sgt. Flaherty or Mrs. Harper.

     After about twenty minutes, Dr. Grissom gave up.  "You are not
cooperating at all, Dermot.  Do you mind telling me why?"

     "You're not real, Doc."

     "Not real?  What do you mean?"

     "You're a cartoon character.  Why should I waste my time talking to a
cartoon character?"

     "That's harsh, young man."

     "So?  I've become used to harsh."

     "Tell me about it."

     Dermot laughed.  "Too eager, Doc.  Can I go back to my room now?"

     Dr. Grissom sighed, and called for the orderlies to escort the boy
back.

     When he got there, Lando was waiting.  That certainly improved the
situation.

     "Wow, what happened to you?" Lando asked.

     "Huh?  What?"

     "The shiner.  That's a beaut.  They been beating on you here?"

     "Naw.  That's the left over from last week.  You might not believe it,
but this is an improvement."

     Lando leaned close, and inspected the eye in some detail.  Dermot
decided he liked having the other boy close, but he dared not actually do
anything.  Instead, they spent a good half hour reviewing his condition,
and complaining about Dr. Grissom.  He concluded, "I'm really glad to see
you.  I thought maybe I had ticked you off too much on Saturday."

     "No, I just thought I needed some time to think about things," Lando
responded.

     "Yeah, well, don't scare me like that, friend," Dermot said, stressing
the last word.

     "Mea culpa," Lando replied with a wide grin.

     "You're impossible.  But I'm glad you're here anyway," Dermot
confessed.

     "Actually, I can't stay long.  I've got a ton of homework.  For some
reason all my teachers got together over the weekend and conspired against
me.  And on top of all that, I've got to take my sister to her girl scout
meeting at seven o'clock and wait for her until the meeting is over.  I can
do some studying then, I guess."

     "I just noticed, this is the second time you've said something about
taking your sister somewhere."

     "Yeah," Lando sighed, "my folks really impose on me these days."

     "Right," Dermot said, in a voice indicating he did not believe it at
all.  "But what I was getting at, how is it that you are taking your sister
places?  Do you have your drivers license?"

     "Oh, sure.  I got it the day after my sixteenth birthday.  Here, see."
Lando handed Dermot his wallet, with the license showing, from which Dermot
learned that Roland Cartwright Lyle was born on 5 February 1993."

     "Cool.  So the parents let you drive?"

     "Um, ah, yeah," Lando mumbled.

     "Come on.  Out with it.  You're holding something back."

     "They gave me a car," he mumbled even less audibly.

     "What's that?  Speak up!" Dermot insisted.

     "My folks gave me a car for my birthday!" Lando almost shouted.

     "God almighty!  You get embarrassed by the strangest things.  Most
kids would want the entire world to know that."

     "I feel like I'm showing off," Lando said, "especially when you have
so little."

     "Wrong again!  I don't have little.  I have nothing.  But that's no
reason for you to feel guilty.  It's not like I would have gotten a car if
you didn't.  I'll bet it's a bitching set of wheels.  So spill, what is
it?"

     "Mustang GT Premium," Lando responded enthusiastically, his
hesitations overcome.  "Sunset gold, with a black double stripe down the
center from bumper to bumper, and all the extras.  The folks went all out.
Leather seats.  Fucking great stereo system.  I've been driving to school,
here, all over town, as much as I can, for the past month.  So, the folks
said since I like to drive so much, I can take Emily to her scouts
meeting."

     "Cool," Dermot shared in his friend's enthusiasm.  "When I get out of
here, you can give me a ride, too."

     "You bet!  But hey, I really do need to get back to study.  But I
brought you some books.  Dad says they're good standards for parts of
American history you should have been studying this year."
     Lando reached into his backpack, and retrieved copies of THE BOLD AND
MAGNIFICENT DREAM by Bruce and William Catton, THE OXFORD HISTORY OF THE
AMERICAN PEOPLE by Samuel Eliot Morison, FOUNDING BROTHERS by Joseph
J. Ellis, and UNDAUNTED COURAGE by Stephen E. Ambrose.

     "Gosh, Lando, this is great!" Dermot responded with obvious
appreciation, fondling the books as they appeared.  "Be sure to tell your
dad that I really appreciate it."

     "I will.  You said the right thing when you told me you wanted to be a
history teacher.  I think that's what Dad really wanted to do, but he had
to follow Grandad into the firm.  I remember he told me once Granddad said,
'history's fine for a hobby, but you can't make a decent living from it.'
Now, I really must go."

     "I hope this doesn't mean you won't be back until I finish all these,"
Dermot said, a little apprehensive.

     "No way," Lando relieved his worries.  "Soon as I get my head around
these bitching homework assignments, I'll be right back.  See you."

     "See you."

     Monday evening, Dermot finished the book about the Lords Baltimore,
and dipped into his new treasure trove.