This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

 

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

 

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

 

Forty-four

(Wednesday, October 19th)

At ten thirty, we have our interview with Mr. Bidwell-Stover, a somewhat effeminate gentleman with a poorly fitted toupee and dyed fringe. As with so many men, who try to look much younger, he wouldn’t be half-bad looking, if he'd ditch the rug and stop dying the fringe. And as far as his French goes, he and Mrs. O’Casey, our French teacher at East High, probably teamed up to learn the language at the same school. Or, since they are about the same age, it could be generational.

His grammar is perfect; his pronunciation is very English; his speed of conversation has the same effect as benzodiazepine. This is something that I fail to understand. By looking at the map, anyone can tell that Paris is much closer to Brighton than Liverpool and France is even closer than Cambridge. So, why isn’t his French virtually that of a native speaker?

But having said that, he is joined by a rather gaunt, attractive woman, maybe in her early forties, who is a native speaker. Mr. Bidwell-Stover introduces Madame le Docteur de Chaumontel, who is taken aback, when she asks where we learned French and we tell her in Missouri.

The piece of French literature they want us to discuss is Molière’s Tartuffe ou l'Imposteur. The second Bidwell-Stover says this, Raph gives me a wink. Less than six months ago, he and I played Orgon and Cléante, respectively in the foreign-language Playhouse production by the French and drama departments of the University of Missouri at Kansas City. We quote and analyse fluently; Mr. Bidwell-Stover and Madame le Docteur are impressed.

About halfway through our discussion of Tartuffe, a stooped grey-haired gentleman enters the room and takes a seat to the side. He is very quiet and so grey that he seems to become invisible, sitting in front of the large gothic window, looking out onto a scene of October rain pelting down on the campus of Kemptown College. He has a stack of papers with him, which he is apparently correcting.

After about an hour, and wanting to let the interview draw to a close, Madame le Docteur asked Raph about his opinions of Albert Camus. After ten minutes of Raph’s intense narration she politely interrupts him, obviously apprehensive of his possibly continuing for hours.

After taking brief notes, she asks me my opinions of how Jean-Paul Sartre’s existentialism relates to his Leftist views, which is like asking Lenin his views on Marxism. As she is talking, Raph is just able to subdue levity. She gives him an odd look, and then I start. Again, after little more than ten minutes, with possibly permanently raised eyebrows, Madame le Docteur shuts me up, albeit very politely. She takes notes.

Gentlemen,” Mr. Bidwell-Stover clears his throat and continues speaking in English. “We’ve been at this for some time. Would you like a fifteen-minute break before we proceed with the essays?”

Is there anywhere to get something to drink?” Raph asks in his soothing tone.

My word.” Bidwell-Stover enthuses over my man. “Your English is as impeccable as your French.” Then it dawns on me that he hasn’t heard either of us speak anything but French.

Of course, Algernon feels obliged to force his way to the front. “My throat is rather parched, as well. Is there anywhere I may smoke?”

Mr. Bidwell-Stover catches himself staring with an open mouth. His mouth snaps shut. He looks at me as if to say: ‘if your throat is parched, the last thing you need is a cigarette.' Again, he clears his throat. “There’s a small cafe across Eastern Road, where you can get something to drink and, naturally, smoke. The essays start in fifteen.” He hurries back to the interview room and we hear his making remarks to the grey gentleman. Sadly, we can’t make out what he is saying.

How do you think we did?” Raph wants to know as we exit the Gothic stone building of indeterminable age. Fortunately, the rain has stopped but the paved walkway has puddles.

To be modest, with which you know I have trouble,” Raph laughs, and I click open my Zippo to light my first cigarette of the morning. “I think we impressed them. But let’s wait and see if we get in.”

Hm, sort of what I think.” Raph is in step with me as we get to Eastern Road. And luckily I can grab him, when he steps off the curb, looking the wrong way and is barely missed by an oncoming vehicle. He is visibly shaken. “I know, look right and then left.”

Not heeding Seph’s warning not to order coffee in England provides us with the vilest brew, I have yet to taste. One, it’s instant. Two, it’s much too strong, presumably prepared by a tea drinker. Three, it has milk in it. I manage to sweeten it to such an extent, that the sugar rush makes me impervious to the taste, which is not far removed from Mildred’s creamed beef and gravy. Raph lets his stand. One sip is enough.

Upon returning to the Gothic hall, I’m ripped on nicotine, sugar and caffeine and more than ready to write any essay they can throw at me. The art of bullshitting has been one of my specialties, and Raph is no less adept, since he’s had to deal with a school-teacher mother all his life.

We knock politely and Mr. Bidwell-Stover opens the door, smiling and slightly bowing. Obviously, the man in grey is his superior. He is introduced as Professor. No name, just Professor. Who knows why, and at the end of the day, who cares. Professor doesn’t greet us and basically refuses to recognise our existence. The essays are given out with a bound booklet containing four sheets of paper and one loose sheet for outline and notes, which we’ll be required to turn in, as well.

Mr. Bidwell-Stover holds up his stopwatch. “You will have exactly two hours to complete the essay.” He looks to see if we are ready and gets ready to depress the button. “You may start – NOW!”

I open the folder to find, Three Sisters, Anton Chekhov. Stanislavski's 'Magic If' as it pertains to the character Toozenbach, and think to myself: ‘Give me a fucking break.’ Hell, I could write this one after being up all night smoking dope and spaced out on gin and tonic. The first thing I do is to cross out Toozenbach and write Tuzenbach above it. After all, it is a German name despite its original Cyrillic letters. To delve into Stanislavski’s method correctly, I write the essay from Baron Tuzenbach’s point of view of what it is like to be in love with Irina and not having the love returned, politeness in abundance but nothing from the heart.

After about forty-five minutes, I raise my forefinger rather than my hand. That habit no longer exists. When Mr. Bidwell-Stover acknowledges me, I ask for some more paper.

Professor raises his eyebrows. “Part of this exercise is to see how well you can organise your thoughts in a given space. Had you attended school in England, you would know that.”

La-di-fucking-da,’ is what runs through my mind.’ But “My handwriting is rather large.” is what Algernon explains, which is then verified by Mr. Bidwell-Stover.

Very well,” Professor concedes. "one sheet, no more."

After an hour and ten minutes, I’m finished. I stand, give the file to Bidwell-Stover and self-assuredly leave the room. They want Stanislavski, I’ll give them Stanislavski. After all, had Seph not thrown it back at them, I’d be in line to become the 10th Baron Bourke of Castleconnell, and, knowing how seriously Keith takes all this self-important crap, that is a fact of which I'm sure they are aware.

Only a few moments later, I’ve just barely had time to light my cigarette, Raph emerges from Gothic academia. Summer is definitely over. It’s not particularly cold, but the wind off the sea does have a bite to it.

How’d it go?” I would like to take my man and cuddle him silly.

My topic was, The Crucible by Arthur Miller - Form and Structure.” Raph laughs, since it would have been more difficult for us to write something on Donald Duck comic books. “What was yours?”

Three Sisters, Anton Chekhov. Stanislavski's 'Magic If' as it pertains to the character Tuzenbach.” I grin mischievously and Raph gives me the tut-tut eyebrows. “And the wee fecker misspelled Tuzenbach.”

And you corrected it?” Raph erupts in raucous laughter, knowing damned well that I did. He has his arms folded for warmth against the wind. And I have to restrain from grabbing him.

Ah, here you are.” Mr. Bidwell-Stover approaches from the building waving. When he eyes my cigarette, I offer him one. “If I may.” Since the flame of a Zippo is virtually windproof, he admires the efficiency and actually manages to light the cigarette. "Well, then.” He puffs. “It is highly unusual to sit two A-levels in one day. But, be that as it may, you only have one left, which will be the easiest by far."

I beg your pardon?” Raph’s jovial tone dies, when he recognises the seriousness of what is happening. “Aren’t these the entrance exams for Kemptown College?”

Oh, good lord, no.” Now, it’s Bidwell-Stover’s turn to laugh. “We don’t have entrance exams. We aren’t as rigid as they are in the States, but we do manage to educate our young all the same.”

Oddly, his opinion of the American educational system is much higher than reality warrants. But if Keith is anyone to go by, the education here is by far superior to what we had. Raph and I are exceptions. Our upbringing is anything but typical. We both love reading and we were not exposed to television.

What will be the third exam?” Raph wants to know.

According to what your cousin, Mr. MacDonald, registered,” Mr. Bidwell-Stover looks very surprised that we have no idea. “it will be Performing Arts.”

Which entails?” Raph’s grin is back.

Uh, reading a classical or contemporary selection of your choice and performing a vocal selection, again of your choice.” Mr. Bidwell-Stover takes on a troubled air. “You do have something prepared, do you not?”

I laugh. “We do.”

I say,” He holds onto his toupee in the wind. “if it is half as brilliant as your French exam, I’m certainly looking forward to it.” He turns to get out of the wind. “Tomorrow at nine, then.”

We’ll be there.” Raph says as we turn to go home, back down Eastern Road. "Do you fucking believe this?" He starts to laugh, which turns into hiccups.

I shout at him and clap my hands, startling him out of hiccupping. "At least, we won’t have a diploma from Westport High School. And this has Seph’s fingerprints all over it.”

Do you think?” Raph is sceptical. “Are his connections that far reaching?"

How about bribery?" Of a sudden, my family takes on a new aspect. This is also a possibility that just occurred to me. The possibility that not everything is as it seems. “He proved that he isn’t above a threat or two, when he confronted old man Nixon in the principal’s office.”

"Hey, Raphaël, Daniel.” Keith is waving and rapidly approaching from the direction of school.

Who better to ask?” Raph purrs and smiles.

Hey, Keith.” I return the wave. “Wanna come up to our place and help us stay out of trouble?”

Sure. Just a tick though.” He opens the black door at the other end of our house, which I assumed to be the door to the next house. Of course, when I count the doors, it has to be to our building as well. It must be the entrance for the upper two floors, since we don’t have any access door. He checks for mail. “Nobody loves me.” he states jovially, indicating that his pigeonhole is empty. “How did it go?”

Much better than it would have, if we’d known that it was the actual examination.” Raph tells Keith with a stern voice. That's not really like Raph, more like me. Guess we do rub off on one another.

What?” Keith looks genuinely surprised. “You actually sat an exam this morning.”

No.” I add somewhat sarcastically. “Two exams. French and World Literature.”

That’s unheard of.” He pauses on the landing in front of our door. “It may even be inappropriate. They’re supposed to give you at least enough time to prepare.”

Let’s go see what Uncle Seph has to say." I lead the way back down the granite stairs to the kitchen door. I don't bother to knock. "Dad?"

At the piano, Lad.” He’s writing notes onto staff paper and humming them. Of a sudden, I feel saddened that this talented man was forced to waste his life for the well-being of his country. But then again, he didn’t defect to the Soviet Union like the disgruntle queers, Philby and Burgess, so he must have placed some value on the work he did. He looks up smiling. “What can I do for you?”

Uh,” It dawns on me that there is no need for a confrontation. “we sat two A-levels today. Did you know anything about that?”

He laughs. “Of course, I did.” He puts his pencil down on the music rest.

And you didn’t tell us.” Raph gives him a version of his own Irish look.

Of course, I did not.” He gets up and motions for us to follow. We go out through the formal kitchen and down the stairs to where it is much more comfortable. He turns on the gas ring under the kettle. “I seem to remember the state of absolute panic that would consume your very beings when the words, ‘final exams’, came up.”

He retrieves the teapot and the bag of dope. This is going to be mellow. “On the other hand, the words, ‘opening night’, would provide you with a burst of energy, which is nothing other than a final exam. the press hands out your grades, rather than a teacher.” He measures out enough marijuana for the large pot and adds a teaspoon of Queen Anne blend for flavour, I guess. He turns to face us, leaning his backside against the counter and folding his arms across his chest. “The idea was to label it ‘interview’, so you could perform with your usual brilliance.”

Brilliance?” Raph seems uncomfortable with this description.

Ah, what are ya like, Son?" He takes the kettle off the ring and pours boiling water into the teapot. "I've seen and heard you read the part of Othello at auditions. You have a degree of accuracy that would have done Billy the Bard himself proud."

But...” I try to object unsuccessfully.

There’s no fucking but, Dan.” Seph’s reprimand lessens in intensity when we all laugh. “Hm, that didn’t come out quite right, now did it?”

He pours the round of tea. “You know, Lads, examinations are intimidating bureaucratic obstacles, which do not serve your interests whatsoever, but are solely for promoting the reputation of the educational institution. You’ll frequently hear that such-and-such a school has the highest A-level results in the country or is among the top ten in the country, judged by their test results. But you’ll never hear that student X benefited by sitting his A-levels.”

Facial expressions all round tell us that we are stunned. I know, I’ve never thought of it that way, and from the looks of it, neither have Keith and Raph. But, giving it some thought though, yeah, he’s right.

So,” He takes a sip of his tea and smiles approvingly. “my point of not telling you is that I know that both of you can ace the exams better than or just as well as anyone has ever aced them.” He takes another sip, “As long as no one says: ‘final exams’.” and his face relaxes more than I’ve ever seen it. Maybe it is the tea, or maybe it’s just being home, at last. “So, here’s what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

We? I inquire rather timidly for me.

Yeah, I’m going to accompany you on the piano. Except with A Change is Gonna Come, which you’ll sing a capella.”

When I look as if I could object, he lays into me: “God damn it, Daniel. I am not taking over. I’m not that wee fecker, Busby. And there are no car privileges involved. You are an adult; I appreciate and respect that. All I’m doing is getting the last bits of bureaucratic bollocks connected to childhood out of the way as quickly as possible, so you and Raph can get on with your lives.”

Both Raph and Keith are giving me a shut-the-fuck-up look. I concede. "You're right. I'm sorry."

The look he flashes me tells me that he doesn’t believe it, but he does continue. “So, we’re going to give them a show, they’ll remember, and which requires virtually no rehearsal on our part.”

Heads are nodding agreement, including mine. He's right. He knows it; I know it. "So, we'll start off with A Change is Gonna Come.” He pours us more tea. “Then we go for a straight-forward duet of Autumn Leaves, not to overtax their school French.” Keith giggles; Seph ruffles his hair. “Then, Raph, you’ll do a solo of Newley’s Once in a Lifetime, since you have the strongest voice and the widest range. And Dan, you’ll sing Gonna Build a Mountain.” He sees Keith’s inquiring look. “It’s also from Stop the World.” Keith still looks confused, and Seph chuckles. “You’ll see, because you and I are going to be the chorus.”

Good idea. But where are we going to get the score of Stop the World at such a short notice?” He takes this as an insult.

Sorry, Dan.” He gives me his glare. “Just how stupid to you think I am?”

I’m sorry.” It’s my turn to glare at him. “I’m rather stressed right now, having had a two-hour impromptu discussion with an Englishman who thinks that he should be a member of the Académie Française about a play from Molère, which no one ever reads outside of French class, not to mention that Miss Dr. Whatsherass had me express my opinions about how Jean-Paul Sartre’s existentialism relates to his Leftist views. Then after a fifteen minute break, during which my partner was almost run down by a motorist, and again unprepared, I had to write a two-hour essay on Stanislavski's 'Magic If' as it pertains to the character Tuzenbach in Chekhov’s Three Sisters.” I drain my tea and continue, managing not to raise my voice. “So, instead of posing a redundant question to provoke me, you could just tell me where you got the score."

Had it sent down from London yesterday along with the scripts and readings for you and Raph.”

I stand up and go to him and kiss the top of his head. “You’re the best. Don’t know how we’d have got through all this without you.” I chuckle. “But then again, if it hadn’t been for you...”

Fuck you.” He laughs.

Later, Dad.” He blushes, Keith gasps, and I kiss the top of Seph’s head again. “Come on, let’s go rehearse.”

Upstairs, in what Seph optimistically calls the conservatory, the grand piano has a stack of books and music, which I hadn't noticed when we came in. Seph hands us each our respective sheet music from Stop the World. Raph hums the first several bars of Once in a Lifetime. And Seph was right again, Raph’s voice is the stronger one. I’m quite content to listen to his rendition rather than to sing along.

For Christ’s sake, Son,” Seph becomes enthusiastic. “you do have perfect pitch, just like your mum.”

Raph blushes. “Guess so.”

Thought that you and Dan had practised A Change is Gonna Come long enough that it just sounded like you did when we were at Bob’s parents’ house.” The enthusiasm continues. "This gives us a totally new dimension to work with. Now, we can arrange this differently. We can give those feckin’ stuffed shirts something to talk about." Dad starts to improvise and finds his groove in the theme. Raph takes this up. Yip, he’s Geneviève’s son, all right.

When they’re through, there is a knock at the door and Clive peeks around the corner, pushing his specs back to the bridge of his nose. “May I come in?” Seph waves him in. As he approaches, "I just wanted to pop by to find out what album that....” he stops abruptly. “It wasn’t a recording, was it?”

Not yet.” Keith is beaming at his secret love.

Mind if I watch?” Clive is in awe. Seph gestures toward Raph and me.

Dan?” Raph gives me the option to voice an objection, and naturally I have none. “Then, be welcome, Brother Clive. Wait till you hear our next one.” He gives me A 440. I harmonise. Raph improvises a new second theme. I motion to Seph, who takes it up. I join in with the original theme. Seph goes off into his own world, and it fits. Raph sings the lyrics to his new, improvised theme and I continue with the one Sam Cooke wrote.

After the first stanza, Seph inserts a blues interlude and hands it back to Raph and me. We now sing a capella.

It's been too hard living
But I'm afraid to die
I don't know what's up there beyond the sky
It's been a long, long time coming

But I know a change gonna come
Oh yes it will.”

When we’re finished, Clive and Keith applaud energetically. Clive wants to know where we’ll be performing.

Seph laughs more freely than I’ve heard in a very long while. “They’re practising for an A-level in Performing Arts.” He turns the pages in his libretto and hands Keith the score for the chorus of Gonna Build a Mountain. For a second or two, he studies Clive. “Going to be doing anything special tomorrow?”

No.” Clive is quick to make the correct deduction. “And, yes, I’d love to join in, if that’s what you mean.”

It is.” Seph plays a few bars. “You and Keith can share the score, and the three of us will be the chorus." He plays more of the introduction. The man is sight-playing, and the results are remarkable. “Let me have a run through, and then we can start.”

He plays the piece, and I hum along, following on the sheet. Basically, I still remember the lyrics from when Richard played Littlechap, since I was his understudy. I wait for Seph’s signal and his intro is Gospel. This is going to be fun.

We finish. It isn’t perfect but well above average. “Not bad for a white kid.” Raph teases.

When I tell Brown Bear you call me a white boy, he’ll have yo ass.” My ghettoese is no longer believable for somebody in the know. At some point, I’ll have to let it go, given that it has no cultural context in our new life. But Raph laughs anyway, since he can't talk trash at all, and since he is extremely considerate.

Okay.” Seph gets our attention. “Let’s go through this again in full Gospel and see how appropriate that is. Raph, get over there and lead the chorus. Okay? One, two, three”

Seph leads in: “Whadya say yer gonna do?"

Gonna build a mountain.”

Outta what, Danny?”

From a little hill."

Tell us again.”

Gonna build a mountain.
Least I hope I will.” And so the evening progresses.

For our dramatic and humorous readings, Seph has selected Othello and Extract from Adam’s Diary for Raph and The Picture of Dorian Grey and Death of a Salesman for me. He says because we can credibly play with different accents and moods, it’ll play with the heads of the examiners. As it should. And somewhere around midnight we’re performance ready.

Raph and I climb the front stairs to our apartment. I’m wound up with nervous energy, Raph not so much. We snuggle up together on the white leather couch in the sitting room, and before I can ask him if he wants to go to bed, he’s asleep.

I squat, as if lifting barbells, to pick him up and carry him to bed. I set and wind our small travel alarm and cuddle him. I drift. Before I’m really asleep, I feel his hand caress my back, starting at the small of the back and progressing slowly to my cheeks. It’s when the fingers get to my hole, I realise that the hand does not belong to Raphaël.

It’s not that the fingers did anything particularly uncommon at my entrance, but hearing heavy breathing and sleepy breathing at the same time, means that there is more than one person in bed with me. My cock is almost painfully stiff at that thought. So, pretending to be asleep, I slowly roll onto my back.

And predictably, a hand strokes my cock. So, I relax and enjoy it. A tongue is tentatively touching it, moistening it, licking it, and I assume that Keith is trying things out, again.

Raph snuggles in close to me and discovers an extra head, giving me head. He switches on the nightlight. “Clive?”