Date: Sat, 12 Jul 2003 08:12:38 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tom Borden <tombor99@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Wager Chapter 1

"Hello!  Mike Siemers here.  I'm not available to come to the phone at the
moment.  Please leave your name and number, and I'll return your call as
soon as possible."

"Hi, Mike, it's Pete Townsend.  I know you're there, but just not answering
as usual.  Give me a call.  Bye.""

Mike Siemers spent his evenings writing mystery stories, during which the
phone would invariably ring just as he was trying to formulate in his mind
a particularly meaty phrase.  Those of his friends who called in the
evenings knew that he didn't want to be disturbed while writing, but found
it a jolly good joke to ring him up anyway.

Most of Mike's mystery novels were published by a small Chicago firm known
as Portnoy Books.  By day, he was employed there as an editor, working on
novels by other authors.  On this particular evening, Mike had written and
rewritten one line more times than he could remember, and the line was
still not right.  The whole exercise was making him nervous and fidgety.
He knew why Pete had called.  It was to suggest they go out for a beer
someplace.  Why not?  He was getting nowhere with his writing.

Calling Pete back, Mike said, "Alright, Pete, where do you want to go?"

"Well, it doesn't matter to me, Mike.  I just feel like getting out of this
rat hole and getting a beer with a friend.

Pete lived in a marginal building in a marginal two-room apartment over a
pet store.  He was by trade a CPA who had recently, at the age of
forty-five, lost his job in a rather brutal and indiscriminate budget
reduction at the large company for which he had worked for some years.
Since he was Black, others tried to convince him to take the case to the
EEOC.  But he never believed discrimination was involved in his being let
go.  He was now enduring a standard of living well below that to which he
had become accustomed.  He was also slowly eating away at a small
inheritance he had received upon the death of his mother.  Pete was a
bright and insightful person, but he was not a cultured man, having never
cared for reading or viewing great art, or even listening to music.  The
Sports Channel gave him all the culture he could handle.  Jobs for CPAs
were not to be had anywhere in Chicago, it seemed, and Pete seemed to live
now only for his nightly sojourns in the bars, usually with a friend.

"How about McCoy's Tap Room down on Hubbard Street," Mike suggested as he
stared blankly at the unfinished sentence on the screen.  "Or would you
like to go to Tony's next door to McCoy's so we can look at all the
scenery?"

"Yeah, Mike.  Tony's it is.  I'll meet you there in about twenty minutes.

Mike shut down his computer and slipped on a pair of jeans and a polo
shirt.  He wanted to get out of the house, but spending an evening with
Pete and his problems was hardly his idea of relaxation.  Pete had the
disagreeable habit of pushing his upper denture in and out with his tongue
past his lips as he talked.  He grew his fingernails repulsively long and
would tap them on his beer glass endlessly.  But Mike had known Pete for
some years as a former neighbor and felt rather sorry for him in his
current life's crisis.

It was 1963, and Mike had just celebrated his forty-sixth birthday.  In his
early years, he had suffered through two turbulent affairs with other young
men, after which he had vowed to renounce the gay life altogether.  It had
been a time just before World War II when homosexual relationships were
deeply frowned upon.  Believing that marriage was the only answer, he made,
at the age of twenty-two, what he later believed was the worst God-awful
mistake he'd ever made in his life.  He married the daughter of a woman who
ran a chili and hot-dog stand down by the Illinois Central Railroad
Station.  The young woman's name was Lyla, and she seemed pretty and sweet
enough, considering that her family proudly claimed to be part of a band of
Gypsies who had been wandering parts of Eastern Europe for the last several
hundred years.

Unfortunately, marrying Lyla meant marrying her grubby family, as well.
Their house was like an unkempt gypsy camp with unwashed dishes sitting all
over the place and trash just kicked into the corners, rather than being
picked up.  The place smelled of food that had been left unrefrigerated for
too long.  Mike had had no experience with women until he met Lyla and had
never perfected the art of judging what he was getting into.  He and Lyla
lived in a small apartment several blocks from her Gypsy family, but the
mother, who called herself Hoonda, was an aggravating and ever-present
fixture in their lives.  She played a guitar with a missing string and sang
unintelligible and unearthly songs in a deep voice that had a disgusting
sounding gurgle in it.  She had once tried her hand at palm reading,
another treasured family tradition.  Her days as a Mystic, however, came to
an end after she had read in the palm of one man that his wife was cheating
on him.  The man left and promptly bought a gun, shooting his wife's head
off.  Hoonda had been implicated, but was not charged since she had done
nothing illegal and since it was determined that the man's wife had indeed
been unfaithful.

Mike and Lyla soon had a son, who Lyla insisted be named Higra, supposedly
a proud ancestral name.  Hoonda immediately took charge of the baby.  But
Mike had finally had enough.  He had walked in one day and found Hoonda
holding the naked little creature upside down by one heal and sprinkling
globs of something green onto his body, all the while chanting something
foreign-sounding.  Mike snatched the baby away from Hoonda and ordered the
disgusting woman from his house.

When Higra was only six months old, Mike received a call at his publishing
company office.  There had been an automobile accident.  Both Lyla and
Higra were killed, along with old Hoonda and her wretched husband.  After
weeks of grieving over the loss, he began to realize that the only one he
was really grieving for was his son, Higra.  Even at six months, Higra
clearly had features that favored Mike's.  There was none of that Eastern
Gypsy look in Higra's face.

Mike soon went back to college and completed both a master's and a Ph.D. in
American literature and writing.  He was also an accomplished pianist, who
had had early ambitions to be a concert pianist.  But that was not to be.
In addition to his position as an editor, he found he had a knack for
writing mystery novels, of which a number found their way onto the
best-seller list.  He also wrote poetry, some of which were odes to the
memory of his dear son, Higra.  As time went on, he composed several
children's lullabies in Higra's name and had them published in a volume
titled, "Lullabies for Higra."

At every one of Higra's birthdays, Mike would reflect on what the boy might
now look like and what he would be like if he had lived.  On the day when
Higra would have turned twenty-four, Mike imagined him to be a tall,
handsome and bright young man, having completed his degrees at Cambridge,
as he himself had, and becoming a famous author, a man of letters, or a
well-known musician.  He would be a man of grace and courage and possess a
strength of character unmatched among his peers.

There was never a doubt in Mike's mind that his son would have overcome the
dreadful heritage of his mother's family.  The boy would have defied the
power of genetics through the guidance and love of his father.

When Mike arrived at Tony's, Pete was already seated at the bar and had
ordered a beer for each of them.

Motioning to the bartender, Mike called out, "Bring us some peanuts, will
you please."

When the peanuts arrived, Mike said, "Well, Ernie.  Not too busy tonight.
Looks kind of slow.  Only a couple of tables occupied and just a few up
here at the bar."

"You know how it is, Mike.  Sunday and Monday nights are always slow.
These fucking hustlers in here outnumber the customers."

Mike and Pete eyed a young hustler as he tried to interest an elderly
gentleman at the end of the bar.  Pete said, "He's kinda cute.  I wonder
how much he charges."

"More than you can afford," sighed Mike.  "Don't even think about it."

Soon, the young hustler gave up and slowly walked down the length of the
bar to where Mike and Pete were sitting.  Nudging himself in between the
two of them, he said, "I saw you looking at me.  Would you like a massage?"

"Yeah, we were looking at you," said Mike.  "Didn't that old fella down
there want a massage?"

"No, ya can't win 'em all.  Hey, you didn't answer me.  Do you want a
massage?"

"How much?" said Mike.

"Two-fifty."

"You mean two hundred and fifty dollars?" gasped Pete.  "Just for a
massage?  What if we want something else besides a massage?"

"It all depends," said the young man with a smile.  "I can give you the
works.  I mean the works!  All the fuckin' and suckin' you can take.  Only
four-fifty.  How about it?"

Mike turned in his stool and said, "How old are you, son?"

"I'm old enough."

"No, really.  How old are you?"

"I'm eighteen.  I'll be nineteen next month.

Mike looked over the bar and saw Ernie nodding in agreement.  He had
checked the boy's I.D.

Pete said, "Have you got a name?"

"Yeah.  It's Jeff.  Now do you want a massage or don't you?  For you, I'll
cut it down to just two hundred even.  How about it?"

Mike said, "That's still pretty steep.  We'll have to think about it.
Okay?"

Jeff waved his hand in a gesture of impatience and moved down the bar to an
elderly customer who had just arrived.

Pete said, "Were you really serious, Mike, when you told him you'd think
about it?"

"Of course not, Pete.  I have never paid for it in my life, and I'm not
going to pay for it now.  But I was thinking about something else.  Did you
look into that boy's eyes?  He's not just a dumb flesh peddler.  He's got
an intelligent look in those eyes.  I wonder why he's doing this.  I wonder
why any of these bar hustlers do this?"

Pete laughed and said, "You're like a John with a street prostitute asking
her "What's a nice girl like you doing in a job like this?"

"I don't know if he's nice, Pete.  I don't know anything about him.  He
just has the look of a kid who could be successful at something a little
bit more . . . you know . . . honorable."

"Well, Mike, there's nothing you can do with those people.  Those guys made
the choice how they're going to live, and believe me, he's doing a Hell of
a lot better in the income department than I am.  That's for sure."

"I know he made the choice to be what he is, Pete.  But maybe he's never
had any guidance in his life.  I don't even think he enjoys what he does.
Look at that old geezer he's putting the make on.  That old man can hardly
move, he's so feeble."

Pete turned toward his beer and said, "There's nothing you can do about it,
Mike.  So you might as well not worry yourself about it."

Mike looked thoughtful for a moment and said, "I'll bet there is something
I can do about it."

"Aw, Mike, all you academic guys with your Ph.D.s think you can change the
world.  Just forget it."

"I'm not going to forget it, Pete.  I'm going to do something about him.
There's something about that boy."

"I know," said Pete.  "He's cute as Hell!  That's what's about him!"

"No, Pete.  That's not it.  I'm going to get to know him.  And I'll wager
you that I could do something with that kid to change his life.

"You're crazy, Mike!  That's impossible.  That kid's a no-good low-life.
He's what he is, and he'll never be anything else.  All I can say is you're
crazy as a loon!  Okay.  How much are you going to wager?  You'd better
make it a lot because I need the money real badly."

"I'll bet you a nickel."

"Aw, Christ, man.  Let's be a little more generous!"

"Okay.  I'll make it ten bucks.  That's about as positive as I think I'd
better be."

After finishing their third beer, Mike and Pete got up to leave.  As they
walked toward the door, they saw Jeff walking out with an eager looking
older man with a cane and, doubtlessly, with money in his pocket.

It was just after midnight when Mike finally crawled into bed.  Maybe Pete
was right, he thought.  Maybe he was crazy.  Mike had felt cheated out of
the chance to nurture and raise his own son.  Was he crazy to think that
trying to do something with this little hustler could ever replace that?
Well, he had wagered only ten bucks.  That wasn't so much to lose, and it
would give Pete a lot of satisfaction.

The next day at the publishing house, Mike's mind wandered restlessly to
thoughts of Jeff.  He would go back to Tony's Bar that night and try to
talk again with that boy.  Perhaps then he would see the uselessness of
expending any effort on him.  Or perhaps . . . .

When Mike returned home, he showered and fortified himself with some supper
of leftovers from the refrigerator.  Then heading straight for Tony's Bar,
he began to sense the foolishness of it all.  It was Tuesday night, a
normally busy night at Tony's.  Jeff would probably be well occupied with a
good choice of willing and horny men with money to spend.

To Mike's surprise, the bar was no more crowded than it was the night
before and, as he ordered a draft beer, he looked around.  Jeff was nowhere
to be seen.  He must have already headed out on one of his massage jobs, he
thought.  Oh, well, it was probably all for the best.  As he sat staring at
the array of whiskey bottles lined up on the shelf behind the bar, he felt
a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, man.  You said you'd think about it.  Well?"

Mike whirled around to face Jeff.  "Hello, Jeff.  I didn't see you when I
came in."

"Oh, I was working a job in the can.  Picked up a quick fifty bucks.  Well?
How about it?  Have you made up your mind yet?"

Jeff wore only a tee-shirt and a pair of baggy khaki pants.  Mike could see
a ring of dirt around the collar band of the shirt as clear evidence that
his clothes were none too clean.  But those eyes.  There were those
brilliant blue eyes.  Mike felt he could see all at once anticipation,
longing, sadness and, above all, that look of intelligence he had seen in
the eyes of so many gifted students at University.

"Jeff, would you mind sitting over there at that table with me for a few
minutes?"

"Hey, man, there's nothing I can do there.  We could go into the can and do
it."

"No, no," said Mike.  "Please sit with me for a few minutes.  There's
something I'd like to ask you."

Jeff glanced about the bar to see if there might be more receptive
customers who would be more worth his time.  Looking at Mike, he said,
"You're just playing with me.  You don't intend to do nothing.  Just ask me
your question here and let me get on with my business."

Mike took hold of Jeff's arm and firmly guided him to the table.  "Come on,
Jeff.  I'm not going to keep you long."

As they sat down, Ernie brought over one bottle of beer and one plastic
bottle of water.  "Wouldn't you like a beer or something?" asked Mike.
"It's on me."

"No, water's all I drink.  I hate all that other stuff."

"Jeff, do you live around here?"

"Kinda.  But we can't go there.  We have to go to your place."

"What's wrong with your place?"

"Well, I kinda don't have a place right now."

"What do you mean?"

"I lived in a friend's basement for awhile, but his old lady didn't like me
and kicked me out.  I just kinda find places around to sleep.  Most times I
get to sleep with my customers."

"You mean, you're basically homeless.  Is that it?"

"Yeah.  You could say that.  But I do alright.

"When you're not sleeping with your . . . customers, as you call them
. . . where do you go?  Do you go home?  How about your parents?"

"I hang out behind the Kroger Store down the street.  It's not bad.  When
it's cold, there are big cardboard boxes back there that I can crawl into.
Sometimes I just get into the dumpster."

"Well, how about your parents?  Why don't you live at home?"

"That's a laugh!  My old man was drunk all the time and about two years ago
he ran his car into a tree and killed himself.  Now one of my mom's
boyfriends lives there and we don't get along.  He wanted me to leave and
my mom told me to get out."

"That's too bad."

"Naw.  I'm doing okay.  I keep busy.  Hey, why all the questions?  Have you
made up your mind yet?  I don't have all night, you know."

"I just want to get to know you a little.  Okay?  Is there anything wrong
with that?"

"Why in the Hell do you want to get to know me, for Christ's sake.  Listen,
man, I'm gonna ask you one more time.  Do you want a massage or don't you?"

Mike sat and looked into Jeff's face and then at his dirty tee-shirt.
"I've got a proposition for you, Jeff.  I'd like to invite you to come and
stay at my house for one week.  You'll have your own room, your own bed,
and we'll get those dirty clothes of yours washed, and maybe get you some
new ones."

"Hey, man, what are you talking about?  I can't do that?  I've got to work
the bars."

"Just one week, Jeff.  And if you don't like it, you can leave."

"What's to like?  Just laying around someone's house all the time.  Hey!  I
know!" said Jeff with a chuckle.  "You're looking for a massage every
night.  Yeah!  That'd be the easiest money I've ever made."

"No, Jeff.  I'm not looking for anything.  I just want you to try living in
some normal surroundings and eat normal food and have some clean clothes
and . . . ."

"Hey, what do you want me to do that for?  I'd be bored out of my fucking
mind.  That's stupid!  Have you forgotten?  I give guys what they want, and
they pay me what I want.  I don't need to sit around someone's house with
my thumb up my ass doing nothing.  What good is that?"

"Listen, Jeff, would you do it just for one week?"

Jeff stood up and said, "Aw, Christ, man!  You're crazy!"

As Jeff walked back to the bar and stood next to a particularly lonely
looking man, Mike thought to himself, "I didn't handle that right.  He's
right, I must have been crazy to think I could talk this young hustler into
anything.  Well, I guess Pete was right.  He just made himself ten dollars
richer."

Mike threw several dollars tip on the table and, as he headed for the door,
he heard Jeff running up behind him.  "Hey, mister.  Where are you going?"

"What does it matter to you?" Mike said without looking at Jeff.  "You're
not going to take me up on my offer, and that's the end of the
conversation."

"Hey, I never said I wouldn't."

"Well, Jeff, you also never said you would.  Goodnight, Jeff.  I hope you
have a lucrative night."

Jeff grabbed Mike's arm and said, "Hey, man.  We can talk about it some
more, can't we?"

"If you want to, yes," replied Mike coldly.

"If I do this, what's in it for me?"

"Jeff, I just think you ought to experience, just for one week at least,
what it's like to live in a decent home with someone who's interested in
you for what you could be someday.  You have a long life ahead of you.
There'll come a time in your life when no one is going to want to pay you a
dime for your services.  I just would like to have you see the other side
of life for just a short while, at least."

"Did you say I could have my own room?"

"Of course."

"Good.  That means I'll have a place to bring my customers."

"Wrong, Jeff.  You'll have no customers during that week."

"What!  What the fuck am I supposed to do?  I got to make a living!  What
do you want to do?  Keep me locked up?  No way!"

"Okay, Jeff, go back to that poor old guy sitting alone at the bar.  I
really don't care.  I'll see you around."

As Mike walked outside, Jeff was right behind him.  "Okay, mister.  One
week.  And that's all."

Mike turned to Jeff and, without expression, said, "Are you ready to come
with me now?"

"Why not.  I got to go inside and get my backpack first."

Mike and Jeff drove without speaking across the river to Mike's large,
comfortable townhouse on the Gold Coast.  It was only ten o'clock in the
evening.  When they entered the foyer, Jeff said, "Wow."  Nothing else.  He
looked through the large paneled arch into the living room where, at one
end stood a large grand piano.  Signed photographs of famous authors and
classical musicians and composers were arrayed over the piano lid.
Bookcases extending to the twelve foot ceiling covered the far wall and, in
front of them on a pedestal, stood an alabaster bust of Beethoven.  On the
hardwood floors were Turkish area rugs of varying sizes.  The room was
furnished with antique chairs from Austria, porcelain and crystal lamp
bases from France and Germany, and small tables that had once reposed in
Chatsworth, the English home of the Duke of Devonshire.

Large double walnut doors led through the back wall of the living room into
Mike Siemer's study.  Books and papers were piled on every available
surface and in somewhat disarray.  A large desk, ornamented with inlays of
Teak and Ebony and with silver pulls sat with one side pushed up to a set
of large leaded windows.

Mike led Jeff up the stairs and down a long hall to his room.  Just as Mike
was about to open the door, the door directly across the hall opened and
there stood a tall gaunt looking man with a long gray face and thinning
white hair.  He was dressed in only a long striped night shirt that came to
just below his knees.

"It's alright, Morton, we have a guest," said Mike as he touched the man's
sleeve.  "I'm just showing him to his room."

"But I haven't prepared the room," Morton said slowly, measuring and
emitting his words as though each one was a heavy rock on his tongue.

"I said it's alright, Morton.  Go on back to bed."

Jeff's room contained a queen sized bed nestled under a large canopy of
cream colored muslin suspended on tall ornate mahogany bed posts.  As Mike
stepped over to the tall windows and released the ties on the heavy green
damask drapes, he said, "Well, Jeff, this will be your room as long as you
want it."

As Jeff sat down on the edge of the bed, running his hand over the quilted
spread, Mike said, "How do you like my simple abode, Jeff?  Do you think
you can be comfortable here?"

Jeff looked as though he didn't hear as his eyes darted to and from every
corner of the room.  "Yeah," said Jeff finally.  "It's cool."

"Now Jeff, you have your own bathroom.  It's that door right there.  Before
you go to bed, I suggest you take a good hot shower and then get into
these."

"What are those?"

"They're pajamas.  I think they'll fit you.  Then I want you to throw all
those dirty, grimy clothes you have on out into the hall, and I'll have
them washed.  Then tomorrow, I'll take you to Marshall Fields and we'll get
you some decent things to wear.  Now there is a toothbrush and toothpaste
in the bathroom.  Is there anything else you might need?"

"Hell, I don't know.  You mean this is where I'm going to sleep.  I've
never seen anything like this before except in the movies."

"You'll get used to it, Jeff."

"Hey, man, I got a question."

"Please call me Mike, will you?  What's your question?"

"That man we saw.  You know, the one in the doorway across the hall.  He's
pretty scary.  Who the Hell is he?"

"That's just Morton, Jeff," Mike said as he sank into a chair by the
window.  "There's no need to be frightened of him.  Some years ago when I
was working on my doctorate at Cambridge, Morton and I struck up a sort of
an affair.  He was one of my British Literature professors, and a few years
older than me.  In short, we became lovers."

"That shriveled up old guy!" gasped Jeff.

"Well, he wasn't shriveled up in those days.  I thought he was the
handsomest man I had ever seen.  When I graduated and was ready to return
to America, he decided that he would leave his position and come back here
with me so we could stay together.  It was a good fifteen or so years we
had with each other.  But about three years ago, Morton suffered a massive,
debilitating stroke.  It left him with one arm paralyzed, but worse, it
took his mind.  He never recovered.  He's like a child now.  He remembers
very little and has the mental capacity of a pre-schooler, but with very
little ability to learn new things."

"He's creepy," Jeff said, shaking his head.  "I don't know that I want to
stay here."

"He's totally harmless, Jeff.  He does simple things around the house for
me, such as make up the beds and wash the windows and sometimes vacuums.
He's not very good at those things, but it gives him something to do.
Believe me, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Okay."

"I'll leave you now.  Have a good night's sleep.  You'll find it's a
wonderful mattress.  And remember.  Throw those dirty clothes out into the
hall before you get into bed.  Good night.  Sleep as long as you wish.
Then come downstairs and we'll have a good breakfast."

The only time Jeff had ever taken a shower was in the high school locker
room after Gym class.  At his parents' home, baths were taken in a large
tub.  After his shower and after tossing his clothes into the hall, he fell
onto the bed.  As he lay there in the dark, he began to feel enclosed, as
though he was locked in a cell.  His breathing began to get faster and he
felt as though he might suffocate.  Jumping up, he threw open the drapes on
one of the windows.  Light from the street lamp just outside flooded the
room.  He saw a few people walking down the sidewalk and several cars
passing by.  To see the outside world from his window calmed him, and he
went back to bed.  Never had he slept in a bed that felt as though it was a
cloud.  He had left the drape open, and with the light coming in, he stared
at the elaborate chandelier suspended over him.  It seemed strange that
this was the first night for a very long time when he didn't have his penis
up some old fart's ass or having it gummed by some toothless, horny toad.
It was strange, he thought, that Mike made no move to sleep with him.
What's this guy up to?  And that crazy weirdo just across the hall.  Jeff
jumped up again and turned the lock on his door.  As he lay down again, he
took hold of his penis.  It must have been over a year since he had
masturbated, he thought.  His penis remained flacid in his hand, and he was
soon asleep.

When Jeff awoke the next morning with the sun streaming in upon him, it
took him a moment to realize where he was.  He felt that he had never slept
so soundly and so long in his life.  He didn't even remember dreaming.  He
had never slept in pajamas before.  Getting up, he didn't quite know what
to make of it as he stood and looked at himself in the full-length mirror
on the door of the armoire.  He thought he looked silly and was glad that
none of his customers could see him.

As Jeff walked into the kitchen, he found Mike preparing breakfast.  "How
did you sleep, young man?" said Mike cheerily.

"Okay."

"Have a seat there at the table, Jeff.  I'm going to give you a good
old-fashioned breakfast of eggs and ham and biscuits."

Jeff looked down at the table and felt uneasy.  Mike said, "What's the
matter, Jeff?  You look unhappy."

"I don't know.  I just don't feel very comfortable.  I'm out of place here
with all this stuff," Jeff said, waving his arm through the air.

"Give it time, Jeff.  You'll get used to it."

"I just don't belong here."

Mike sat down across from Jeff and said, "Jeff, tell me what's bothering
you about all this?"

Without touching his food, Jeff looked up and said, "Why didn't you want to
be with me last night?  I thought you wanted a massage.  Remember, I
lowered the price for you?"

"Jeff, I told you before I brought you here that I didn't want anything."

"Well, you must want something.  Living with all this stuff around me isn't
what I want."

"Jeff, all I want is to give you a chance to see another side of life.
It's a side you've never seen.  I just want you to give it a week.  And
then if you don't like what you see, you can go back to what you were
doing, and I'll never bother you again.  Please, Jeff.  It's only one short
week out of the long life you have ahead of you."

Jeff said nothing and picked up his fork and began to pick at his food,
taking a few bites.

"Jeff?  A week?  Okay?

"I'll try."

When they were finished eating, Mike handed over Jeff's clothes, now
freshly laundered.  "I have to go to work today, Jeff.  And I'm going to
leave you alone here.  Just entertain yourself with anything you find.  The
TV is in my study, and you can look through any books or magazines you can
find.  And for lunch, make yourself a sandwich."

When Mike arrived at his office, he called Pete.  "Pete, I just wanted to
tell you that I have Jeff, that hustler, at my house.  He agreed to staying
with me for a week."

"Where are you, Mike?  Are you taking time off from work?"

"No, I'm at the office.  I left Jeff at the house."

After a shocked silence, Pete gasped, "You're even crazier than I thought!
You left some kid you don't know anything about alone in your house?
You're out of your mind.  He'll steal you blind, Mike!"

"I know it seems crazy.  But there's really nothing there that he would
want.  He doesn't know the value of any of it.  And small things of any
value I have locked up in a safe.  I just want to trust him, Pete.  I want
him to know I trust him."

"Mike, you're nuttier than a fruitcake.  Just wanting to trust him doesn't
mean you can.  Well, when you go home and find he's not there, give me a
call so I can come over and collect my ten dollars."

Jeff put on his clean clothes and wandered into the living room.
Collapsing into a velvet upholstered chair, he looked around.  He thought
this would be the time to just get out of there.  What a stupid thing it
was, he thought, to agree to this.  Soon he got up and went over to the
bust of Beethoven.  Moving his fingers over the features on the face, he
wondered how anyone could make such a lifelike figure out of a block of
stone.  Stepping to the bookcase, his eye was caught by two volumes bound
in red and gold.  It was a two-volume set of "The Last Days of Pompeii."
He had taken Latin in high school, and the students had been shown pictures
of the ruins of Pompeii.  Looking inside, there were lithograph drawings of
the ruins.  Looking on the first page, he read:

Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere; et Quem Fors dierum cumque dabit,
lucro Adpone; nec dulces amores Sperne, puer, neque tu choreas

Jeff had been a good student in his Latin classes.  As he translated the
passage in his mind, he smiled that his memory had been so good.

The future in the morrow shun to seek; Each day that Fate shall give thee,
count as gain; Nor spurn, O youth, sweet loves, Nor choral dance and song.

With his curiosity whetted, Jeff ran his finger along the spines of the
books on each shelf, seeing authors' names he recognized, as well those he
didn't.  Here were volumes by Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling, Robert Louis
Stevenson.  He was familiar with these names from his literature classes in
high school.  And there in front of him was Kipling's "Kim of Rishti," a
book he had been required to read in Eleventh Grade.  Jeff felt a sort of
thrill or pride that here was a book that both he and Mike Siemers had
read.  He had the feeling that it put them both on the same ground, the
same plane.  Something in common.

Jeff suddenly felt a presence in the room.  Turning abruptly, he saw Morton
standing as still as a statue in the archway to the foyer.  Jeff was afraid
of the man and felt a chill run up his spine.

"I . . . made . . . your . . . bed," said Morton thickly.

"Thanks," Jeff said with a trembling voice.  Morton turned and went on up
the stairs, slowly taking each step one at a time.  Jeff's uneasiness
returned.  It was now mid-afternoon.  He had been preoccupied with Mike's
books and had not thought about lunch.  He went to the window and looked up
and down the street, hoping to see Mike return.  He sat down and stared
into the stern face of Beethoven and thought about getting out of there
before Mike returned.  Evening would soon come, and his desire to get back
to the bars and do what he felt he was meant to do became stronger.  But
somehow, old Beethoven stared back at him grimly, as though he were defying
Jeff to stir from his chair.

Looking away, Jeff noticed a book lying on the table next to him.  The dust
cover caught his eye.  It was a picture of a man, cloaked in black with a
red and gold snake around his neck and a bloody dagger in his hand.  He
read, "Night of the Viper" by Michael Siemers.  Opening it, he read the
first lines of Chapter 1.  "Dark clouds swirled overhead. A cold, vicious
wind blew across the plane, menacing and attacking the old abandoned frame
house that stood in its path.  There it stood, it's timbers creaking and
its windows rattling, defying the violent storm that seemed bent upon
destroying it, just as its former occupant, known as Reginald Swift, had
been destroyed by unknown forces.  His dismembered body lay . . . ."

Jeff suddenly found himself in another world.  He had always been known in
school as an unusually fast reader, and his eyes darted across the page,
then to the next, and the next, losing himself in this world that Mike had
created.

He was unaware of the time as he reached the mid-point of the book.  He was
oblivious to Mike who had come home and was standing in the archway
watching him.  Mike cleared his throat quietly, but Jeff continued reading.
As he cleared it a little more loudly, Jeff was startled and looked up at
him.

"Do you like it?" said Mike as he walked into the room and sat in a chair
across from Jeff."

"It's okay," said Jeff nonchalantly.

"Go on.  Keep reading as long as you wish.  I'm going to put on some music.
Would you mind?"

"It's your house.  Do what you want."

Mike put on a LP record and with the volume turned low, the strains of
"Visi d'arte" from Puccini's TOSCA, sung by Maria Callas, began to fill the
room with a warm sound, like rich velvet.  Then came the beautiful
"Meditation" from Massenet's THAIS.  Mike had left the room to prepare
supper for the two of them.  When he returned, he found Jeff with his head
back against the chair and his eyes closed.  The book lay open on his lap.
Jeff had fallen asleep.

Mike sat and looked into the face of this young lad for a long time.  Such
a sweet, innocent face, he thought.  There is nothing more lovely than the
face of a sleeping boy.  Nothing.  As he watched, the boy's nose twitched
slightly and his eyelids fluttered a bit.  Is he dreaming?  How can a young
beauty like this give himself over to the lecherous yearnings of strangers?
He needs to be loved, not used.

After a long while, Jeff's eyes opened, and he looked at Mike.

"Were you dreaming, Jeff."

"I guess so."

"What were you dreaming about?"

"About who killed old man Swift."

"Do you know who killed him?"

"No.  And don't tell me."

Mike got up and, stepping over to Jeff, touched him on the arm.  "Come on.
Let's go in and get something to eat.  I'm afraid all it is is some
macaroni and cheese I thawed from the freezer.  We'll also have a salad."

As they ate, Mike said, "I see you've gotten through half of that thick
book already.  You must be a fast reader."

"I am.  I always found reading easy."

"Did you finish high school, Jeff?"

"Sure I did.  But the last year was really a bummer because of that
son-of-a-bitch boyfriend of my mom's.  He kept yelling at me and I had to
go sit in the railroad station waiting room to study."

"How were your grades?"

"School was really easy.  I got good grades.  Made the honor roll almost
every semester.  You know, I liked going to school.  It was the only place
I could go to get away from the shit that went on at home."

"Did you have a girlfriend, Jeff?"

"No.  I didn't have any friends, really.  Nobody liked me much because I
was more interested in doing my schoolwork and reading instead of just
fooling around."

"How did you happen to get involved with being a bar hustler, Jeff?  Didn't
you have anything else you wanted to do?"

"Well, when I got kicked out of the house after I graduated, my Phys Ed
coach said I could live in a room in their basement.  He was married, but
he was gay.  He'd come down to my room in the middle of the night and he
taught me all about having sex with another guy.  And he took me to a
couple of gay bars.  In one of them, I got friendly with one of the
hustlers there, and he told me about how much money he made.  I didn't have
any other way to make money, so I started hustling, too.  He told me with
my looks I could make a bundle.  So that's what I did."

"Did you ever consider going to college?"

"No.  Why should I?  I'm making more money than a lot of college guys make.
A Hell of a lot more."

"I'm curious, Jeff.  Do you really enjoy hustling old guys like that?"

"Sure, I do.  I told you, the money's great."

"I know, but do you enjoy what you have to do to earn it?"

Jeff looked at Mike with a little smile beginning to curl on his lips.
"What do you think?  It's a job.  Does anybody like their job?  You've seen
some of those guys who leave with hustlers.  They're pitiful.  They're
pathetic.  What's to like about them?"

"Well, Jeff, I recall you went after me.  Am I just one of those pitiful,
pathetic old men you hoped would have money to spend?"

"No!  I mean . . . no.

"Well, why did you come after me then?  And it wasn't just once.  It was
several times."

"I don't know.  I guess I saw you looking at me, and I thought maybe you
might have some money you wanted to spend, and . . . ."

"And?"

"Well, I thought you were kind of good looking . . . I mean . . . ."

"I thought that didn't matter."

"Well, shit man!  Sure it matters.  You don't know what it's like having
some of those people with their bloated, sagging bodies all over you and
pressing their drooling lips all over your face.  I try to keep my eyes
closed when I'm in bed with them, and I have to hold my breath as much as I
can to keep from smelling all that stinking cigar and alcohol breath being
blown into my face.  A couple of times I even threw up when I was done with
them.  But as I said, who the fuck likes their job.  It's the money that
counts."

Jeff went back to eating his macaroni.  Mike felt nothing more needed to be
said at that point and, changing the subject, said, "Jeff, I went out this
noon and picked up a couple of new shirts for you.  I think they'll fit you
and look nice on you.  I put them in your room.  I hope you'll like them.
But if you don't, that's okay.  I can take them back."

"Thanks."

As Mike rinsed and put the dishes in the dishwasher, Jeff went upstairs to
his room.  Mike went to the living room and sat at the piano, as he often
did for an hour or more just after dinner.  He began to play Beethoven's
"Sonata quasi una Fantasia" (the Moonlight Sonata.)  Then he played Liszt's
piano transcription of Wagner's "Isoldens liebes-tod."  He always ended his
few moments at the piano each day with Maurice Ravel's haunting and
beautiful Pavane, "Pour une infante defunte" (On the death of an Infanta.)
As he played by memory, he kept his tear-filled eyes on the small framed
photograph of Higra that had been placed on the piano just beyond the music
rack.

Jeff had heard the music and had come downstairs.  Wearing one of his new
shirts, he stood in the archway leading from the foyer and listened
quietly.  When Mike had finished the piece, he took out his handkerchief
and held it over his face, soaking up the tears as they rolled from his
eyes. As he turned to get up, he saw Jeff.

"Oh, Jeff, I'm sorry."

"What was that you were playing?"

"It was a piece I love so much.  It helps me when I think about my son."

"Your son?"

"Yes.  His name was Higra.  He was only six months old when he died.
Killed in a car crash."

"Oh, wow," said Jeff softly.

"See, Jeff.  This is his picture."

Jeff stared at the picture a long time.  "He was only six months?"

"He would have been twenty-four now if he'd lived.  He would have been a
musician, a writer, an historian.  He would have changed the world."

Mike walked to the bookcase and took out the volume of lullabies he had
written in Higra's name.  "Here, Jeff.  I wrote these for Higra, if you'd
like to read them.  And here also are several poems I wrote as Odes to my
son."

Jeff took them gently, knowing how precious they were to Mike.  "I'll read
them in my room, if that's okay."  As Jeff turned to leave, he said, "Look,
Mike.  I have on one of my new shirts."

"You look very handsome, my boy."

Jeff went up to his room and closed the door, throwing the lullabies and
poems on the bed.  Going to his window, he watched pedestrians scurrying
about through a light rain.  It was hard for him to realize he was not free
to go out again to the bars and earn for himself perhaps another five
hundred dollars.  He had come to hate the men he went home with, but it had
become an addiction, and he knew it.  Throwing himself on the bed, he began
to leaf through the lullabies and Odes to Higra.  As he again heard the
sounds of music wafting up faintly from the living room, he looked at the
first Ode. he read.

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, Would that this little boy were
born to live, Conscious of half the pleasure that he could give;

Jeff read each Ode through and read them again.  Finally, on his back,
staring at the Chandelier above him, he wondered how a father could love
his son so much.  How could Fate give to some and not to others.  Why was
it, he thought, that he was selected to be born of a father who cared
nothing for him.  Poor Higra!" he said aloud.  "You've missed so much!"

After breakfast the following day, Mike rushed off to work, leaving Jeff to
spend another day alone in the house.  Jeff immediately went back to "The
Night of the Viper," finishing it just as Morton silently appeared.  Morton
shuffled slowly toward him, muttering something unintelligible.

Jeff jumped up from his chair and shouted, "Don't come near me!"

Then as Morton reached out toward Jeff, he could clearly be heard saying,
"Kiss, kiss."

Jeff ran around Morton toward the Foyer.  Stopping at the archway, he
looked back and watched Morton sinking heavily into a chair, sobbing.

Jeff suddenly felt badly.  The poor wretched old man had been attracted to
him and wanted to kiss him.  One part of Jeff told him to go back and tell
the man he was sorry.  But he was afraid to go near him.  Jeff went up to
his room and locked his door.  At length, he heard Morton's footsteps as he
went into his own room and closed the door.  Soon, Jeff left his room and
spent the remainder of the day looking over more of the books in the
massive living room bookcase.

As Mike returned home and entered the house shortly before suppertime, he
thought he heard music coming faintly from the living room.  Standing
unnoticed in the archway, he watched Jeff sitting at the piano playing with
one finger the melody of Ravel's Pavane On the Death of an Infanta.  He
played the theme over and over again with just his right index finger, and
each time sounding more beautiful, more full of sorrow.

Jeff stopped playing and reached up, taking the picture of Higra off of the
piano lid.  As he looked at it intently, Mike stepped in and said, "That
was lovely.  Where did you learn to play that?"

Jeff was startled and almost dropped the picture.  "Oh, Mike.  I'm sorry.
I didn't actually learn it.  I remembered the melody from when you played
it last night."

"You have an extraordinary memory, Jeff.  Every note was perfect.  The only
other person I have ever heard of who could do that after hearing it only
once was Mozart."

As Mike settled into a chair, Jeff rose up from the piano bench and sat
across from him.  As he looked down at his hands, Jeff said quietly, "I'm
sorry about Higra.  I've been thinking about him.  I read the things you
wrote for him.  He deserved to live.  He deserved to know his dad."

"Thank you, Jeff.  And thank you for playing that piece."  Mike knew
instinctively what was going through Jeff's mind about his own father.  It
was the softer side of Jeff's soul that he was seeing, and it was all he
could do to keep himself from jumping up and taking Jeff in his arms.  But
that wasn't part of the plan . . . not yet, anyway.

After supper, both Mike and Jeff sat and listened to music on LPs that Mike
had carefully selected.  Mike wondered how much of the music Jeff would
remember and be able to pick out on the piano.  The evening ended with the
playing of Beethoven's Emperor Concerto for piano.  It was with pianist
Rudolf Serkin on a re-mastered 1944 recording.  It seemed to Mike that Jeff
stared at the bust of Beethoven during the whole performance as though he
were hearing the music pouring directly out of the great composer's head.

"How would you like to play like that, Jeff?"

"I would."

"Would you like me to give you piano lessons, Jeff?" said Mike rather
tentatively.

"I don't know.  Maybe."

"You hear and feel the music in your head and in your heart, Jeff, as all
great musicians do.  When I heard you playing earlier, even with only one
finger, I don't think I've ever heard it played with such poignancy.  It
was as though it came from the depths of your soul."

Jeff chuckled and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Leave it to others to judge your talent, my boy.  Someday, you may
discover it yourself.  How about it?  Would you let me give you some
lessons on the piano?  Wouldn't you like to be able to play the "Infanta"
with both hands and all of your fingers, as I did?"

Jeff grinned and nodded, but said nothing.

"Well, then!  Tomorrow evening, we'll have our first lesson.  That's
settled.  Oh, I almost forgot.  I have a meeting tomorrow evening with my
publisher and won't be home until late.  We'll make it the next evening.
Okay?"

The following day passed as the day before had.  Jeff continued examining
the books in Mike's vast library and spent the entire afternoon reading
Anthony Hope's "The Prisoner of Zenda."

Mike had made a chicken casserole for Jeff's dinner and put it in the
refrigerator.  He left instructions for Jeff to take as much of it as he
wanted and warm it up on the stove.  As the chicken was warming, Jeff sat
at the piano and picked out one of the melodies he had heard the night
before in Beethoven's Emperor Concerto.

After finishing his supper, Jeff stepped out on the high flight of front
steps leading to the sidewalk.  The fresh air felt relaxing as he sat down
on the top step.  Several pedestrians were walking by on the sidewalk, and
a few cars rolled by.

Soon a well-dressed man with gray hair stopped at the bottom of the steps
and looked up at Jeff.

"Hello there!"

"Hello."

"So we meet again.  Perhaps you don't remember me.  Or perhaps you do."

"I don't think I do."

"Well, it's been awhile.  At Tony's.  We exchanged . . . shall we say
. . . our services.  Remember?  In the restroom?"

Jeff didn't remember the man, but said politely, "I don't remember, but
I'll take your word for it."

"Is this where you live?  It's a lovely old home."

"Yes, I do.  For awhile, anyway."

"I don't remember seeing you in shorts like that.  You have very nice
legs."

"Thank you."

"I wanted to say to you that I have some time, and along with that, I have
a pocket full of cold cash that is burning to be spent.  Do you think that
we could . . . you know?"

Jeff looked at the man as he took out his wallet and brandished it,
flipping through the visible bills with his thumb.  Jeff said, "How much do
you have?"

"Oh, as much as it takes."

"I don't know.  I . . ."

As the man walked up the steps and came closer, he said, "Oh, come, come!
You're playing coy with me, you know, my love.  You people aren't supposed
to play coy with your customers!  I've been thinking about you after you
gave me that little teaser in the restroom that time.  I rather feel
tonight that I am interested in the works this time.  How about it?"

"I'm not sure that I . . . ."

"The works, I said.  What will it take?  Four hundred?  Five hundred?  Six
hundred?  I'm being very generous, you know."

"Six hundred?  Did you say six hundred?"

"Of course.  Am I low?  Do I need to go to seven hundred?"

Jeff bit his lip as he looked into the man's wallet, which he had spread
open, showing the heavy wad of bills.  "I'm not living here alone," Jeff
said, looking up into the man's eyes."

"Well, does whoever else live here know what you do?"

"Uh, no.  Actually he's not here right now.  Did you say you wanted the
works?"

"Of course.  That's what I said."  The man reached over and caressed Jeff's
cheek.

"I can take you to my room, but we have to be very quiet.

"Oh, I understand."

Jeff got up and walked back into the house with the man following close
behind.  Jeff peered up the stairway to be sure Morton was not out of his
room.  As soon as they entered Jeff's room and closed the door, the man
began removing his clothes.  "My name's Henry, by the way.  We might as
well be on a first name basis."

Jeff stared at the emerging nakedness of this man.  It was so much like all
the others.  Great drooping breasts, resting on an enormous protruding
stomach, on which were several long black hairs.  The pubic hair was scant
and white, the penis was tiny, and the balls almost non-existent.  Dangling
from this mass of flesh were two bowed and very thin legs of very white
skin laced with various protruding knots and cords intermingled with purple
varicose veins.  His toenails were misshapen and yellow.  His lips were
large, dark red and wet.

Jeff closed his eyes and said over and over to himself, "Seven hundred
dollars, Seven hundred dollars."

"Well, get out of those clothes, love.  Let's get at it!"

Jeff removed his clothing and lay on the bed.  Henry flung himself down
beside Jeff and took him in his arms, kissing his face and mouth wildly.
Jeff had long ago mastered the art of bringing himself out of these
situations mentally so that he was hardly aware of what was happening.

"I want to fuck the shit out of you, boy.  But first, I want you to eat out
my ass.  I love to have my asshole sucked on!"

Jeff did as he was told after putting himself into his mental trance.

After several minutes, Henry said, "That's enough, boy.  Let me eat your
little sweet pussy out and get it good and wet before I ram this cock into
you."

Jeff could see that Henry's penis was still soft, and wondered how this was
going to work.

"Shit, boy.  Get down here and suck on this cock of mine and get it hard."

Just as Jeff leaned over and took the shriveled piece of meat into his
mouth, the door flew open.  Standing in the doorway was Mike, and right
behind him was Morton.  Morton leaned into Mike's ear and said, "See
. . . I . . . told . . . you."


The second and last installment of this story will appear very shortly.
Comments of any kind are always welcome.

Tom Borden
Tombor99@yahoo.com