Date: Fri, 16 Nov 2018 16:09:53 +0000 (UTC)
From: Bill <mgtbill@aol.com>
Subject: DYLAN'S SENIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE Chapter  19

DYLAN'S SENIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE

Chapter  19

By  Donny Mumford


It's Tuesday afternoon, the second official day of senior year. Today's
classes have been successfully completed and now there are only 158 days
left until graduation day.

Rob just took off for baseball practice and he seemed mighty pleased about
that, so I'm happy for him. I'm feeling pretty good about things myself as
I sit in the idling pickup sending a text to Pony. Last night at the
apartment Pony's demeanor was markedly improved although he still hadn't
shaved that ridiculous skimpy long beard he let grow all summer. It's
probably just me, but how anyone can look in a mirror and think a full
beard is a cool fashion statement is beyond my wildest imagination. Pony's
'Jesus-style' hairdo is hideous too but it's also on life support because
he made arrangements with Danny for a haircut. Yeah, it stings a little the
way Pony so easily switched barbers from me to Danny. I'm okay with it
though...

The slight body odor I noticed coming from Pony at the airport was not
present last night and his hair was clean, so there's a couple of positive
indications Pony's paying attention to hygiene again. On the minus side he
was wearing clothes more appropriate for a day at the beach so maybe he
doesn't have his act totally together yet. Obviously, there's something
wrong in his life and I'm sure he'll tell me what that 'something'
is. Maybe I can help him with it.

My text to Pony consists of this simple question: 'Do you wanna hang out?'
He texts right back, 'Yes! I've been sitting here waiting for you to text
me.' Huh, is there some law I'm unaware of that prevents him from texting
me? Hmmm, I may be a tad paranoid about that because Ryan never texted me
either. I always had to reach out to him, but why the hell do I keep
thinking about things in terms of what Ryan did or didn't do?

Keeping it simple, I text Pony back that I'll pick him up in three minutes
at the same place I met him last night, which is at the end of dormitory
row. It'll be just the two of us hanging out this afternoon which is how
Pony said he likes it best. The perfect situation, therefore, to tell me
what's bothering him.

Well, I'm on the other side of the campus so I need to drive from one end
to the other trying not to run over any of these numbnuts who walk right in
front of cars. God forbid if a Frisbee or a football flies in my vicinity
because a guy or girl is sure to be close behind and they simply don't give
a shit. The concept of streets with motorized vehicles capable of squashing
them like a bug doesn't occur to college students somehow. I suppose they
feel drivers are responsible to look out for them and their relatively
frail bodies instead of them looking out for these big fast moving
machines. Something is seriously wrong with that illogical thinking
process, obviously...

The windows are down in the pickup and I clearly hear my name called out as
I approach the Quad. What the ...? It could be someone calling another
'Dylan' except it sorta sounded like Danny, so I pull over. Glancing to my
right at the large grassy recreation area I see Danny's grinning face as he
jogs toward me carrying his backpack in his hand. There's a nondescript guy
wearing eyeglasses running right behind him.

Although a bit disheveled, Danny's looking eatable this afternoon. He's
very good looking and one of the few guys I know who has retained a
youthful appearance... kinda cute too. As he jogs his feet seemingly barely
touch the ground. He's very light on his feet is what I'm saying and it
makes me grin seeing him.

He comes right up to the open passenger window, saying, "Hey, Dylan!
Whatcha doing?" There are beads of perspiration on his forehead and a few
strands of his brown bangs are stuck to it. Damn, he has the whitest teeth!
As I said, I'm grinning at him because I can't help myself. Obviously, I
let his inane question of 'whatcha doing?' join the ranks of a million
other rhetorical ones, and say, 'Yo, Danny, need a ride?"

He's opening the passenger door as he answers, "Well yeah, thanks! We need
a ride to the baseball park. We're late." I'm like, "You're not late, it's
only ten-after-three," and the stranger wearing glasses who was following
Danny is getting in too, saying, "Coach says if we're on time we're late."
I frown at the kid as Danny gives my shoulders a hug. I'm like, "I gotta
drive, Danny, no hugging."

As I'm driving away from the curb, I mutter to four-eyes, "Did you
say... when you're on time you're late?" He nods, "That's what Coach says."
I mumble, "That's idiotic," and Danny says, "You've met Specks, right?" I
reach over Danny to bump fist with the guy, mumbling, "Um, sure. How ya
doing today, Specks?" Did I meet him before? He goes, "I got a job as one
of the equipment managers for the team. Well, I should say Monday got me
the job." I nod, "That's cool." Ha, manager, my ass! More like one of the
team's flunkies.

Danny starts telling me how he got his coach to put in a good word for
Specks and blah, blah, blah. Damn though, Danny left his hand on the back
of my neck after his hugging greeting and it's giving me pleasant
shivers. Boy, do I ever need to get over this 'crush' I've got on him! Or
at least get it under better under control. The problem with that is Danny
and I have had off-the-fucking-charts buddy sex ever since we got back to
college which significantly lessens my motivation for getting over my crush
on him. Thankfully there's been no more goofy conversation from him about
being in love with me, so that's good. He was so wicked hung-over that day
he was likely just been babbling incoherently in that regard.

It only takes me a little out of the way to drop these two guys off and as
I pull up to the ballpark entrance Danny brazenly takes my hat off and says
to Specks, "Check this out Specks. Dylan wanted me to give him this flattop
haircut and you can see how awesome it turned out." Then he squeezes the
back of my neck, saying to me, "Dylan, lean your head forward a little so
Specks can see?" I grab the hat from him, mumbling, "Fuck no!" and Specks
goes, "Jesus Christ, Monday, I don't want a haircut anyway!" Danny chuckles
and gets an arm around Speck's neck rubbing his head, saying, "Omigod,
you're awesome, Specks, but how ya gonna attract a little something from a
hot sophomore boy with this dumb-ass SuperCut hairdo? I'm trying to help
you out here, roomie." Specks snort a laugh, muttering, "You're crazy," as
he extricates himself from Danny's arm.

I go, "Hey, guys! Take your grab-assing outside, okay? I gotta meet
someone." Specks, getting out of the pickup is saying "And, Danny, stop
telling the world about my lack of social interaction! That was a private
conversation we had." Danny slides across the bench seat following Specks
out of the truck, saying, "Dylan knows you're bi, Specks. No worries, and
anyhow..." but he doesn't finish whatever he was going to say because he
turns back to me, saying, "Hey, thanks for the lift, Dylan," and the door
slams. Oh, brother! I roll my eyes as I'm backing up, turning around, and
then driving to dormitory row a couple of blocks up from here.

Pony's standing where he was last night looking like he's lost. Judging
from the clothes he has on he could be mistaken for a shipwreck survivor
who just got off a raft and wandered here in a daze. That image starts with
his aforementioned long skimpy beard and his 'Jesus-like' long hair parted
in the middle, and then there's his ragged cutoff jeans and the oversize
stained t-shirt he's wearing with a pair of old sandals on his feet. He has
his arms across his chest hugging himself like he's freezing. Well, it's
sixty-two degrees outside according to the digital temperature gauge in the
pickup, so he's not freezing but that's pretty chilly for the clothes he
has on. And then the eyeglasses he's wearing that I'm still not used to
seeing on him, and they're so smudged I don't know how he can see anything.

Last year, for no reason I ever figured out Pony would occasionally wear an
old pair of glasses or contacts he no longer needed. Yeah, as a kid he
needed them to correct astigmatism or something. Now he actually needs the
glasses for 'distance'... he's nearsighted in other words. Gawd though,
look at him! Oh hell, I can't help but feel wicked bad for Pony. Jesus, and
that forlorn expression on his face too.

He sees me and purses his lips like he's pissed and then he runs over to
the car. Getting in the passenger seat he frowns and rolls up the window,
muttering, "You said three minutes and it's been more like ten minutes." I
say, "Well, good afternoon to you too, Pony, nice to see you." He shrugs,
"Sorry to snap at you, but it's fucking cold out there." I stare at him and
he frowns again and mumbles, "Um, hi Dylan, thanks for picking me up. Is
the heater on?" I roll up my window and turn on the heater's fan. Pony puts
his hands near the vent. The car is idling as I stare at Pony until he
looks over, asking, "Where are we going?" I continue looking at him until
he asks, "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" Well, I'm not sure
where to start...

Finally, I go, "Um," and rub my nose with the back of my wrist which gives
me a chance to do one of my habits, which is smell the back of my
hand. Habits are hard to break and can drive you crazy! I finally say, "I'm
looking at what you're wearing. Why are you dressed like that?" His
eyebrows furrow as he asks, "Whaddaya mean?" I give him another 'look' and
he mumbles, "Oh, these cutoff jeans and my t-shirt?" I'm like, "Yeah, in
sixty-degree weather? Weather that's gonna get colder by the hour." He
goes, "I already told you my clothes are being sent here by UPS. I, um,
sent the wrong duffle bag, okay?" I mutter, "Yeah, okay, I forgot. Jeez,
I'll lend you some clothes," and he says, "It's all because my parents
refused to drive me here this year," and then he mutters something under
his breath. I think it was: "Not that I wanted them too."

Putting the car in gear, I drive to the Route 114 exit, saying, 'We're
going to my apartment so we can have a heart to heart talk about what
you've done with my favorite little buddy, Daryl Ponti, also known as
Ponyboy." He snottily mutters, "My nickname is just plain 'Pony'. How many
Goddamn times do I need to remind you of that." I yell, "Shut the fuck up!"
and neither of us says anything until I'm parking close to the
apartment. I'm sorry, but his petulant act is getting to be too much and my
patience is wearing thin!

Turning off the engine, I look over at Pony who is slumped forward, his
shoulders rounded and his head hanging. Oh, fuck!  Squinting my eyes I
think I see a trail of tears down his left cheek. His skin is so pale it's
hard to tell. I quietly say, "Pony?" like it's a question. He wipes his
eyes and says in a challenging way, 'What?" Sliding over to him on the
bench seat, I quietly ask, "What's wrong?" He shakes his head and when I
touch his shoulder he leans over against me so, what else can I do but put
my arm around him. That's all it takes for the floodgates to open and now
he's doing a sobbing cry. Oh man, I'm not good at this! Or, maybe I am, how
would I know since I can't recall ever being in this situation before.

All I can do is hug him and rub his back because I can't think of a fucking
thing to say. I don't want to say shit like 'It'll be okay' or whatever
because I don't know what his problem is, or why he's crying... maybe it
won't be okay, ya know? Anyway, there's no crying in, um, I forget the rest
of that. No crying in something, and there should be no crying in my
presence 'cause I don't know what to do about it. Hell, I might start
crying myself.

Yeah, some people laugh along with others who are laughing even when they
don't know why the other person is laughing where I have a tendency to cry
along with a young guy who's crying even if I don't know why he's
crying. Whatever the reason, it must be awful because most guys would
rather bite a finger off than cry in front of another guy.

What can I do except let him cry? I'm feeling empathy for him, which isn't
doing him any good right now. And, disappointingly, I'm noticing he's back
to having a little body odor, not that it's especially offensive. I don't
know, it just isn't like Daryl to not be super clean. The top of his head
is against my right cheek and his hair smells like, um, hair. Yeah well,
last night it smelled like shampoo of some kind so he took a shower before
coming over for dinner and he hasn't taken one yet today. Hmmm, except
there's no way he'd have body odor already, is there?

Hmmm, yeah there is a way! Don't ask me how I know this, but body odor is a
secondary effect of anxiety. Pony has every symptom of high anxiety about
some fucking thing. What that thing is I have no idea. Yeah, anxiety
changes hormones, creates sweat, and weakens the immune system, and any of
those things can cause body odor. I must have learned that by osmosis in
some class sometime in the past. Of course, I could be wrong about all of
it, but I'm probably not.

Pony, without lifting his head, says, "I'm sorry," and I say, "Ah, balls,
there isn't anything to be sorry about. It's me who's sorry for yelling at
you to shut the fuck up. I shouldn't have included the 'fuck' word." No
response. I was hoping for a snicker from him since I left the 'shut up'
part out of my apology. He didn't get it though, so I go, "Um, are you
okay?" What a dumb-ass question... obviously he's not okay! I had to say
something though. He sighs, murmuring, "I made your shirt wet," and he
lifts his head wiping his eyes with the heels of both hands, ignoring his
running nose. Eww...

Okay, here's where something I do comes in very handy. Yep, I'm maybe one
of possibly only a dozen guys out of the five-thousand-plus people on
campus who always carries a handkerchief on my person. I pull it from my
back pocket and hand it to Pony who takes it and looks at it like it's a
miracle, asking, 'Where'd you get this?" Haha! I don't laugh
though. Instead, I go, "You wanna tell me what's bothering you?" He takes a
deep breath and looks at me, asking, "Is it okay if I blow my nose in this
hanky?" As my second effort to lighten things up a little, I say, "That's a
handkerchief. Please don't call it a hanky because that sounds too gay, but
yes you can blow your nose in it. Obviously, then you're gonna own it." He
does snicker a little at that, although that part wasn't a joke, and then
he uses the clean handkerchief to first wipe his eyes and cheeks before
blowing his nose in it and then, with half a grin on his face he holds the
handkerchief out to me, mumbling, "Thanks. Here..."

Ignoring that, I slide back behind the wheel and take the keys from the
ignition, saying, "C'mon, we'll go up to the apartment. Bring your hanky
with you." He nods his head and gets out of the pickup. As he's walking
around to the front of the truck he's pushing the handkerchief in his side
pocket and then he gets weirdly close to me. What else can I do? I put my
arm around his shoulders again as we walk inside.

Walking up the step, Pony says, "You're the first person who has seen me
cry since I was four or five years old." I say, "That's obviously a lie,"
and he says, "Yeah, it was, but I wanted to make you feel special." As I'm
unlocking the apartment's front door, I ask, "Do you feel any better?" He
goes, "Do you mean after crying like a girl?" I nod, "Uh huh, that's what I
mean," and he says, "Yes, I do. A lot better but I'm sorry you had to see
that." As we go inside, I mutter, "I am too," and we both snort out a
chuckle and then Pony says, "I suck!" I go, "No, you don't suck! You're
awesome," and he goes, "You're the only one who thinks so, which is why I
love you so much." Letting that slide, I ask, "You want a beer?" He asks,
"Do you have any whiskey?" I'm like, "No, but I'll go buy you some if you
want." He shakes his head, "No, a beer is fine, thanks."

Going to the refrigerator I see only one bottle of beer left from the cases
we've gone through during our constant dinner parties. Balls! Taking out
the bottle I get the cap off and hand it to Pony who takes a long swallow
and then asks, "Are we sharing this?" I nod, "It's all I've got right now,
sorry?" Handing the bottle back to me, he goes, "I don't like beer anyway."

We sit at the kitchen table and as I wait for him to start talking I take a
swallow from the bottle. Pony fidgets, looks down, and then abruptly and
vigorously uses the fingers of both hands to finger-comb his long hair off
his face as he's saying, "I hate my fucking hair," and I'm like, 'When is
your appointment with Danny?" Looking up, he goes, "Not until Saturday
afternoon. Can you believe that shit?" I'm like, "Saturday?" and he goes,
"Yeah, our course schedules conflict and he has baseball practice almost
all the time it seems."

Unable to think of anything useful to say to that, I go, "Um, why did you
say no one is nice to you, Pony? You have friends and the last time you
mentioned your folks and your brother, everything was great." He mutters,
"Well, things have a way of fucking changing, don't they, Dylan?" I say,
"Yes, of course. How'd they change for you?" Flipping his hair off his face
again, he asks, "Can you do something about my fucking hair, please?" I go,
"You want me to give you a haircut? What about your, um, appointment with
Danny?" He shrugs, "No, I don't want a regular haircut. Can you just cut
some of my hair? I still want that fucking flattop from Danny like that
Carl kid's flattop." Heh heh, guess he doesn't like my longer
version. Shrugging, I say, "Sure, okay, I can get the hair out of your eyes
at least. Why do you want the flattop though?"

He reaches over and takes the beer bottle and swallows a good amount of it
and then says, "I don't know why... I just do. Ah, that was a lie. I do
know why." I go, "Uh huh," and he doesn't say anything so I add, "But you
don't want to tell me, is that it?" He goes, "Oh, no... I guess I'll tell
you. It's because my father has had a flattop since he was like
six-years-old or something." I go, "Are you joking?" He laughs and then
looks like he's going to cry again, but he doesn't. Instead, he goes, "No,
it's true! Why the fuck would I joke about that? Don't be stupid, my Dad
has had a flattop haircut since he was six years old up until the last time
I saw him which was recent." I go, "Jesus, don't take your frustration
about, um, whatever out on me, okay?" He shrugs, muttering, "Sorry."

I drink some beer. We're not having a very good time so far. Pony doesn't
look up, mumbling, "So you said, um, you can do something with my hair? Ya
know, temporarily until Saturday?" I go, "Well, of course, I can... that's
not the question. I just don't know what exactly is it you want me to do
with it?" He shrugs, "I don't know either, you're the barber, dude." Now he
reverting back to his 'flip' smart-ass attitude and it's getting me pissed
off again. Trying to be calm, I say, "Daryl, I'm trying to be
understanding. You're obviously troubled about something major, or it
better be major after all this crap, but you really do need to stop acting
like an asshole. It's getting on my nerves and I don't care for, or deserve
the way you're talking to me." He looks like he's going to cry again, but
again he doesn't. I think I might though...

He says, "I'm sorry! And jeez, I feel like I'm always saying I'm sorry to
you, but I am sorry, Dylan. Um, would you just cut my hair, um, I don't
know, make it look like I had a regular haircut about six weeks ago. Ya
know, when you're done it will look like it might look after the six weeks
is up so Danny won't think I just got a haircut before going to him for a
haircut." Joking, I go, "What was that? I didn't catch..."

He's not into jokes right now though as he looks at me apprehensively,
mumbling, "What?" I go, "I was kidding, um, okay, I heard you, and believe
it or not I think I know what you meant but it's impossible to do,
unfortunately." He asks, "Why's that?" and I go, "Because when hair is cut,
um, the ends are blunt and it's obvious they've just been cut, whereas when
the hair grows out, for six weeks like you suggested, the ends are
tapered." He nods like he understands, and then proves he doesn't by
saying, "That's, um, okay I guess, no problem. So, will you do it for me
like I said?" Giving up trying to explain, I merely say, "Yes, I'll do what
I can, but... well, I'll do the best I can." I just gonna leave it at
that... fuck it!

Pony obviously didn't understand what I was telling him but then, what's it
matter? Danny won't care one way or the other as long as he gets to do the
flattop. I say, "Pull one of those stools away from the kitchen bar while
I'll get a pair of scissors and a comb. No clippers." He nods his head and
gets up to do that as I go in the bedroom. Strangely I don't really want to
do this which is obviously odd, but it feels like... I don't know like
maybe Danny will think I talked Pony into letting me give him a haircut so
I would effectively, and no pun intended, cut Danny out of it
somehow. Yeah, but like I already decided... Danny won't care as long as
Pony still wants the stupid flattop.

I still feel funny doing it but hopefully, it may make Pony feel
better. Feel better about himself and therefore more likely to unburden
himself by telling me his tale of woe. I swear to God I can't imagine what
it is he might tell me. And how fucking odd is it that sex hasn't even been
mentioned between us and this is the third time we've been alone! Last year
it was the numero uno thing mentioned. He likes getting fucked as much as I
do.

Pony's sitting on the stool watching me walk back from the bedroom. He
goes, "Oh, how about the barber cape you had last year?" I go, "I don't
have it anymore, sorry. Danny has it. I, um, sort of donated my barbering
stuff. Do you wanna take your shirt off?" He shrugs, "Nah, I'm good."

I gently take his eyeglasses off and set them on the kitchen bar. Then,
combing his hair from the back of his head to the front his bangs reach
almost to his mouth. Cutting off the hair across his forehead above his
eyebrows, the scissors making that, "Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch," sound each
time I close the blades with a big bunch of long brown hair falling down
onto his lap after each 'Scrunch'. Professional hairstylist always wet the
hair before using scissors but I don't, and I'm also not a professional so
it's okay. I like cutting dry hair with super sharp barber scissors like
the ones I'm using. Yes, I kept one of the two pairs of professional
scissors for myself. The better of the two pairs actually.

As I continue cutting his hair big bunches of long brown hair drop onto
Pony's lap and pools on his cutoff jeans. His only comment is a muttered,
"Thank God." I continue combing up his hair and cutting it off as I ask,
"If you hate this long hair so much why did you let it get this long?" He
says, in a matter of fact manner, "To spite my parents." Oh, that reason!
It's a young teenager's reason and Pony's twenty-one; just ten months
younger than me so basically he's being uber immature with that 'spite'
bullshit.

As I'm finishing up, I say, "Would you care to expand on that 'spite'
comment?" He goes, "Not right now, no." I get the feeling that making any
sense out of Pony's meltdown is gonna be like pulling teeth. Letting that
go without further comment I comb through his hair and it's now a very
manageable three inches long on top of his head and about two inches long
on the sides tapering down to about an inch around his ears and
neckline. So, except for the blunt ends, it looks like someone who had a
regular haircut about two months ago and is past due for another one and,
since this is close enough to what Pony asked for, I'm done.

As Pony and I brush him off, getting most of the cut hairs off his unusual
clothing, he says, "Sincerely, Dylan, thank you so much!" and he runs the
fingers of both hands through his shorter hair, adding, "Omigod, this feels
a hundred times better!" It's a big pile of hair we dump in the trash can
and then, pushing the issue a little, I mumble, "I don't suppose you'd want
to do anything about that hideous scraggily beard of yours." He goes,
"Yeah, I do, but I figured I couldn't just shave because it's too long and
if I started cutting it, oh, I didn't know. You tell me what to do, Dylan."

Hmmm, I go, "Well, let me get my drugstore trimming clippers." He looks
puzzled, mumbling, "Whaddaya mean drugstore?" and I go, "Forget I said
anything about a drugstore. The trimming clippers I have cut almost like a
razor, almost as close as a razor and I'll use them on your, um,
beard... such as it is." He nods, "Okay," and I go back to the bedroom
happy that he wants to get rid of his horrendous-looking beard.

Yeah, it'll be good to recognize my old buddy Pony again and send this
impostor on his way. I hope it's not just my imagination but after getting
his hair cut I think he seems in better spirits already. Seriously, a
person's psyche, the way they feel about themselves is affected by their
appearance. If you look good you often feel good. I know that's true of me,
so why not Pony.

When I'm back with the trimmer clippers Pony's in the living room looking
at his reflection from the mirror on the wall. I ask, "Um, you weren't
under the impression those scraggily sparse long whiskers look cool were
you?" He shakes his head, "Nope! Just spiting the 'rents again." I mutter,
"Oh, that," and drop it.

He nods at his reflection from the mirror so I mumble, "Looking any better,
Pony?" He nods, "Yes, but I don't know, I guess I'm feeling like such a
jerk-off for the way I acted this past summer. It was, um, terrible."
Following me into the kitchen, he asks, "How's that clipper thing work? Ya
know, what do I do with it?" I ask, "Do you wanna do it yourself? It's
easy, um, almost like an electric razor." He goes, "An electric razor? I've
never even seen an electric razor in my life so how the hell would I know
how to use it?" Blowing out an exhale, exasperated again, I say, "Isn't
there any fucking way you can lose that negative attitude of yours? Why
doncha try being nice to me like you want me to be to you?"

He goes, "It's not easy turning off the hard-on I've had all summer and I
mean for everybody and everything. All I can do is say, I'm sorry, and I
really am sorry. You're helping me and I'm still being a jerk off." I go,
"Um, I'm pretty sure you've gone past jerk-off status. Anyway, sit on the
stool again. I'll do it for you." Sitting on the stool, he gives me half a
grin, saying, "I was hoping you'd say that." The cord doesn't reach where
we have the stool, so we move it closer to the electric socket at the
baseboard near the kitchen bar.

It takes me less than two minutes to shave off Daryl's skimpy, long
whiskers and then I'm rubbing the back of my fingers along his jaw and it's
pretty damn smooth. Feels almost like I actually used a safety razor. And,
oh man, does he look so much better now! I can't help but smile as I say,
"There he is... my buddy Pony! Now I recognize you." Oh fuck, instead of
grinning at me like I expected, he looks like he's going to cry again. His
eyelids flutter as he says, his voice all choked-up, "You're my only
friend. It's okay if you want to kiss me." What?

Oh, that's right. When we met Pony was emphatic that 'guys don't
kiss'. That may have been true fifty years ago or twenty years ago for all
I know, but nowadays there is no gay taboo about kissing or making
out. Anyway, Pony got over that misconception pretty damn fast last
semester but he's always pretending that he's allowing me to kiss him as a
favor to me. It's been a running gag since the beginning of last
semester. So now I do our routine from last year by saying, "Nah, that's
okay. You do look good enough to kiss though." He says, "Thanks, to you. So
really, it's okay if you want to kiss me. You deserve it after helping me
out like this." I shrug, "No, I'm good."

As I'm wrapping the electric cord around the clippers, Pony doesn't want to
play anymore. He goes, "Will you please kiss me! I need to know there's at
least one person on this fucking planet that wants to do that." It takes
some willpower not to laugh because he was so intensely serious when he
said that and, at the same time my heart is sort of breaking for him so I
lean down and kiss his lips. It's a sweet kiss with him kissing back even
more than I'm doing. Afterward, he licks his lips, murmuring, "Thank you."

So it's a little awkward for a second or two and then I say, "C'mon with me
to the bedroom, Pony, we'll pick out some clothes you can borrow." Getting
off the stool, he's like, "You don't need to do that, Dylan. My clothes
will be here in a couple of days." He said that with very little conviction
as he's following me into the bedroom.

I randomly pile up a few things for him to take back to his dorm: a pair of
sweatpants, a long sleeve pullover, a hoodie sweatshirt, and a pair of
jeans. Pointing at the pile, I say, "Take those things with you," and I
grab well-worn sweatshirt/sweatpants combo and hold them out, saying, "And
for now why don't you put these on." Pony asks, "You don't mind me wearing
your stuff?" I say, "Nope, it'll make me feel good if you'll wear my stuff
until yours gets here."

Taking a deep breath, he goes, "Oh, okay then. Thanks," and as he puts the
sweatshirt on over the t-shirt he's wearing, he mumbles, "This might sound
gross, but would you lend me a couple of pairs of underpants too? I
stupidly packed my underwear with my other stuff and then left the wrong
duffle bag at UPS. Um, this is the third day I've worn the same jockey
shorts." I pick up three boxer shorts and put them on the pile of clothes,
and then three pairs of sweat socks. What's missing? Oh yeah, undershirts
so I grab a couple of plain white t-shirts and smile to myself as I add
them to the pile of clothes.

The smile to myself is in memory of my preteen days when I loved one song
by a rock band called the Plain White T's. It was the only hit the band
ever had that I know about. Their hit was number one on the charts that
summer and nominated for a Grammy although I didn't watch much TV in those
days so I don't know if they won the Grammy. Hell, except for sports and an
occasional movie on cable, I don't watch much TV now either. Anyway, the
smile was for that memory of the song, 'Hey There Delilah' by the Plain
White T's. I don't share that thought with Pony 'cause he might not even
know the song and why complicate matters any more than they already are?

Pony's got the sweatshirt and sweatpants on, mumbling, "Ah, nice and warm,"
and as he's stepping back into his sandals, he adds, "I feel like a new
person thanks to you, Dylan." Patting his shoulder, I'm like, "No problem,
um, what can I do for you now?" He takes a deep breath and lets it out
slowly before asking, "Would you come to that bar, Rolf's, and have a shot
of VO with me?" I say, "As you know very well, I hate shots, but I'll have
one with you if you'll open up and unburden yourself of your
troubles. Share them with me... maybe I can help." He nods his head,
"That's a great deal for me! I'll bet anything that you can help me even
though it'll take a miracle. You'll probably be able to do it
though... that's how much faith I have in you." Omigod!

Picking his cutoff jeans up off the floor and dropping them in the hamper,
I put a hand on his shoulder to get him walking out of the bedroom, as I
say, "Well fuck, now I'm not nearly as sure as I was before that I'll be
able to help." He asks, "Was it me using the word 'miracle?" I nod, 'Yep,
that's the word. I'm not all that proficient at performing miracles." He
goes, "I have all the faith in the world that you'll know what I should
do."

In the kitchen, I mumble, "Well, I know how to help you with this," and I
pick up his glasses and spray them with Windex and then clean the lenses
with a Bounty paper towel. I wouldn't use just any paper towel to do this
because most aren't as soft as Bounty. A rougher paper towel might scratch
the lenses. Pony watches me, as he's saying, "Just so I'm clear; you're not
saying you've never performed a miracle, are you?" I go, "I never said
anything about 'never'." He chuckles, "Whew! So you're saying there's a
chance?"

See, Pony's already acting a little more like the kid I remember. He's good
at bullshitting back and forth. I like that. I hand him his clean glasses,
clean for the first time since he got off the plane, and when he puts them
on, he goes, "Awesome! How'd you do that?" I chuckle and we head out the
front door with me determined to help him. After saying that, but being
totally honest with myself I wish to Christ I didn't need to help him or
even need to hear whatever he's going to tell me. I wish he had someone
else to lay whatever it is on them. I guess that's awful of me, but here we
go anyway...

Rolf's is in downtown North Andover. By 'downtown' I'm referring to a lazy
one street affair called, what else, Main Street. It's not a hick town at
all though, not even close to that but it's not large and 'downtown' is
basically just that one street. There's the post office, a barbershop, a
Dunkin' Donut shop, a flower shop, a pizza joint I've never been in, and
then three or four other stores along one side of Main Street I've also
never been in.

On the other side of the street, there's a local hardware store, another
barbershop, a convenience store, a tailor shop, and another store or two
that I can't remember what they are right now. I don't get downtown very
often. Then past those stores, there's a mall of sorts that has its own
parking lot on the left of Main Street. In the 'L' shaped mall are a fancy
take-out seafood restaurant, a big CVS store, and next to that another
restaurant named, Bollywood that no one I know has ever been in. There's
also another barbershop, the third one in a two-block area, an expensive
pastry shop where Carl bought the overpriced cake at for dinner that time,
a wine shop, a used bookstore, and that's about it. In case you're
wondering, SuperCuts, that infamous butcher of a barbershop is in the
Burger King strip mall along with Ace Hardware and other stores. That strip
mall is across from Bertucci's, very close to Merrimack.

It's only a ten-minute drive to downtown from our apartment and during the
drive Pony mostly is either running his fingers through his hair or rubbing
his smooth face, finally exclaiming, "This feels so good, Dylan!" I'm like,
"I'm happy for you, bro! Um, you said you didn't shave or get a haircut to
spite your 'rents', is that the whole story? No other reason?" He goes,
"Well, it started because I was supposed to visit you in the middle of the
summer so I was waiting for that to get a haircut from you. Not the flattop
though." I'm like, "Uh huh, but you'll let Danny give you a flattop?" He
goes, "Well, yeah! That's who gave Carl the kind of flattop I need, right?"
Impossible to argue with that...

Rolf's Bar, by the way, is a quarter mile down from the CVS mall on Main
Street. We pass four more stores on the way, one of which is J & J's Sub
Shop.  I don't know about the other shops. Plus there are more stores on
the other side of the street a little further down too that I've never been
in. Let's see, um, one is a bicycle shop for expensive bikes and one is
called Ye Old Candy Store and a couple of others. Ya know, it's just now
occurring to me that I'm listing a lot of shops and stores so I guess
'downtown' is a little bit more extensive than I gave it credit for. Like I
said though, I don't get down here much except for Rolf's Bar and
occasionally, J & J's sub shop.

Inside the bar we get carded, naturally. I don't know how many times I need
to come in here before this numbskull bartender remembers me. Another thing
I hate is the way some bartenders look at my license like they can't
fucking believe their eyes. What's that all about?

I order two draft Buds and then Pony says, "And two shots of VO with those
drafts." He sounded authoritative saying that and the bartender looked up
at him like he wanted to say something, but he doesn't. Both Pony and I
stared right back at him defiantly for a second and then he leaves to do
his job. That entire exchange pissed me off so I'm not leaving this grouchy
motherfucker bartender so much as a dime for a tip. I'm sick of bartenders
trying to intimidate me. Hmmm, maybe most college students don't leave that
guy a tip which perhaps accounts for the lack of friendly personality
coming from him. Yeah, but there's always that paradox situation of what
came first the chicken or the egg. In this case, is the bartender's lack of
personality because college students don't leave a tip... or is it because
we leave no tip because his personality sucks, or... well, you see what I
mean.

The bartender is back in no time putting the draft beers in front of us
along with two shot glasses. He's holding a bottle of VO in his hand and
looks at us for a second; I guess so we'll notice the bottle. Then now he
pours our shots and I sort of get it. He does that so we know he's using VO
and not some cheap rot-gut liquor. VO isn't a rot-gut liquor but it's poor
cousin, Seagram's 7, is.

Pony adjust his glasses and then we pick up our shots of VO and he taps my
glass with his, saying, "You've already performed a miracle, Dylan, making
me feel almost like my old self." I mutter, "That's sweet, Pony," and we
flash down the shots. I immediately chug some beer which helps a little,
but not much. I've noticed some progress in my shot drinking ability
though. Yeah, I no longer feeling like I'm just about to throw up after a
shot of whiskey. See, I'm conquering another bad habit, making it more
doable. Good for me... not!

I go, "Omigod, that sucked," and Pony mumbles, "Yeah, shots suck but so
does beer. I prefer the shot 'cause it's quicker." Nodding, I go, "Yeah,
but you're drinking beer too," and he says, "God forbid I should be
confident enough to not drink any kind of booze and suffer my peers
thinking I'm a pussy." I shrug, "Carl doesn't drink or smoke," and Pony
goes, "Yeah, and he's a pussy!" and we both chuckle.

After another sip of beer, I say, "Let's hear it, Pony." He goes, "Where
should I begin?" I'm like, "Well, I talked with you the first month of
summer break and, other than your brother being sick it seemed to me
everything was good. That's how you sounded anyway." He goes, "Yeah, but
everything wasn't all that good even then. I didn't want you to know
though. At that time I thought there was no way my summer could get
worse. I was wrong about that because a full load of shit was waiting for
me and it just hadn't hit the fan yet. Sorry to be gross, but... "

The bartender interrupts by dropping off a bowl of pretzel sticks, saying
real friendly like, "On the house in case you boys need a snack." I go,
"Thank you," and Pony and I both take some pretzel sticks. After chewing a
few, I go, "Awesomely salty," and Pony goes, "An absolute necessity for a
good pretzel stick. If it's not salty it sucks." So we drink some beer and
eat more pretzel sticks until it becomes obvious I'll need to prod him a
little. I say, "And after we talked on the phone you were planning on going
on vacation with your family, right? I mean after you got over your own
bout of whatever disease it was you caught from your brother." He nods,
"Yes, and that's when fate continued shitting all over me. Fate or bad luck
or bad karma... whatever that is." I'm like, "What happened?" Actually, I
was expecting to hear what happened to him earlier; before our phone
conversation. Probably best if I let him tell it his way though.

Pony's looking around before saying, "Can we sit at a table?" What? He
thinks someone will overhear him at the bar. There are ten or twelve people
at the bar but none especially near us. On the other hand, there isn't any
music playing on the jukebox and it is kinda quiet in here this
afternoon. Getting a table will be no problem as there are lots of them in
Rolf's. I wondered about that until someone told me that at night, or a few
nights a week at least, they have open-mic nights and on weekends there's
some kind of live band and it's quite a jumping spot, although for an older
crowd. Not a lot of college kids on the weekend but they show up for some
of the open-mic nights. Rob and I thought about showing up a few times last
year but never did. Anyway, I go, "Sure, we can sit at any table you want."

Wow, looking at Pony when I said that, and him being cleaned up like he is,
I felt a quiver on my dick 'cause he's sexy-looking to me. He is one cute
fucker looking so serious and all like this. I pat his shoulder and squeeze
it for a second. He looks at me with a questioning expression on his
face. I just smile at him and pat his shoulder again because, dammit,
Dylan, this isn't about sex! Not right now anyway...

We carry our beers and sit at a table near a window that looks out at the
parking lot. Pony says, "Okay, here goes. Right from the start of summer
break my mother began hounding me about shaving, um, but I figured that was
just a normal mom being a pain in the ass thing. A mother-nagging-situation
which is nothing too unusual but for some reason, it caused a rebellious
attitude in me. I mean, I'm twenty-fucking-one years old, ya know? I
refused to shave and I already told you why I didn't get a haircut."

I go, "I better get us another beer," and when I get back to the table,
Pony says, "My dad works his ass off so he'd never had much time for
disciplining my brother and me. Last summer though my mother started
bugging him about that and he started getting on my case too so I had both
of them nagging the shit out of me and I rebelled like I had a right to."

Wanting to comment on that, but I don't, muttering instead, "Uh huh,"
because I want to keep him talking. Pony's living at home so it's still
their rules he's gotta follow, within reason. But also, age twenty-one is a
strange age for his parents to decide they'll begin disciplining him. He
goes, "Oh, and I was working part-time saving money to buy this kid's
motorbike too. When I casually mention that at dinner one night, ya know to
make friendly conversation my mom and dad told me they wanted me to use the
money for college. Can you believe that shit? The money I earned working my
ass off at the gas station they wanted me to use for college! What's the
point of me working, ya know?" I need to bite my tongue because I agree
with his parents about that. I don't want a debate though, I want to learn
what his problem is... and it can't be just that!

He drinks some beer. For someone who hates beer, he drinks it faster than I
do. Wiping across his mouth with the back of his hand, Pony goes, "And it
wasn't some Hell's Angel type motorcycle either. Just a modest
motorbike. You know, so I could get around town without borrowing my mom's
car which she wasn't too eager to lend me." I shrug and he says, "They
pitched a bitch so much about that every night it was getting like I didn't
want to come home after work. It was around that time my brother contracted
the virus or whatever it was. I told you about that on the phone and then I
caught it. So that was what was happening before we talked on the phone. I
was hiding my true feeling about my unrealistic nagging parents, and the
motorbike shit. I didn't want anything to keep me from visiting you."

We both drink some beer and, wow, could I ever go for a smoke! Him visiting
me last summer couldn't have happened anyway because I worked full time all
summer. It was an ill-conceived idea right from the start. I don't know
what I was thinking when I invited him. Pony drops in a non sequitur
saying, "And ya know when the last time I had sex was; guess when that
was." I go, "I don't want to guess and I don't care. Um, I should interject
this so you'll know where I'm coming from. I worked all summer to pay for
part of college. So, um, that's not an unusual scenario, Pony. "

I'm expecting him to ask whose side am I on but instead, he shrugs saying,
"Sure, I know that. Here's the thing though, my parents told me that if I
hit a certain GPA in high school they'd pay for me to go to college. They
held that GPA shit over my head for four years and I made the GPA of 2.6
which 'rounds' forward to the 3.0 goal they set for me and yet now they
wanted me to pay for some of my college expenses. It was the principle of
the thing!" I go, "Ain't it always... plus of course the money," and he
goes, "Yeah, and the money." I ask, "Did you get the motorbike?" He says,
Nope! I got my brother's infection instead. Anyway, so far this is just the
tip of the iceberg, Dylan. It got much worse." I hold up a finger, and say,
"I better get us a couple of more beers," and he goes, "And two more
shots."

Yeah well, I get the shots 'cause he's rolling now getting into his tale
and I don't want him slowing down. We touch shot glasses and he says,
"Thanks for helping me," and we flash down the shots and then gulp beer as
I look longingly at the bowl of pretzels on the bar. Food helps in
tolerating shots of whiskey so, why didn't I bring the bowl to the table?
I'm a little bit frazzled with Pony's long tale of woe probably and I
didn't think of bringing the pretzels when getting our latest drinks. Plus,
Pony's talking again now so I leave the pretzels where they sit.

He puts some emotion into telling me what else happened; well, he tells me
more than I want or need to know for the next forty-five minutes or so. How
much of what he's saying is exaggeration or embellishment or involves
conveniently forgotten aspects of his own bad behavior I have no way of
knowing, but a synopsis of what he tells me goes like this:

He didn't get along with his boss at his part-time job so he got fired from
that and then he didn't look for another job very hard because the earnings
had to go to college expenses. His parents were not pleased and he was
continuing to let his personal appearance and hygiene go down the toilet
claiming it was because of his nagging parents and his stubborn rebellious
attitude. All in all, it wasn't a lot of fun around the Ponti
household. And then, after the brothers recovered from their disease things
really go further down the toilet on the family vacation. It started with a
dispute whether to go to Orlando or Cape May.

The boys obviously wanted to go to Orlando, Florida's. Universal theme park
to be specific which the patents had promised Daryl's younger brother they
would go this year but because of problems their dad had with his business
they couldn't afford. His brother's fifteen-years-old by the way, but you
don't outgrow Disney World or Universal or whatever until you're older than
that! Anyway, they went to Cape May primarily so his parents could fish
with neighbors who would be there the same week.

Their rental house wasn't remotely near a beach and there's no boardwalk at
Cape May so the boys were constantly bitching there wasn't anything for
them to do. They didn't want to go fishing! The more he told me made it
sound like a family summer vacation from hell. The third day of 'vacation'
the mother and father went deep sea fishing with the neighbors so at least
Pony had use of the car. Pony dropped his brother off to hang out with the
neighbor's son. He didn't want to hang out with fifteen-year-old boys so
Pony went to a bar and had a few beers by himself. An hour later he gets a
text from his brother to pick him up because the other kid got sick and
threw up. Pony never got a straight answer as to why the kid threw up but
they were probably doing something they shouldn't have been doing involving
banned substances. Stupid-ass fifteen-year-old boys, ya know?

As he's telling me about all that he wasn't looking at me. He was looking
at the table top so I took the opportunity to stare at his face and he's
still very youthful looking and almost, um, pretty. His eyelashes are
so... oh fuck, this isn't about that! I needed to get my mind back on what
he's saying so, to interrupt my thoughts of how sexy cute he is, I told
Pony I'd get us another round of drinks. Also I needed a fucking break from
his one disaster after another tale.

Waiting for the bartender at the bar I'm checking my watch 'cause I'll need
to pick up Rob after practice pretty soon. Then, back at the table Pony
goes on to tell me that he left the bar and while driving back to their
rental cottage after picking up his brother, he gets in a car accident
caused, he claimed, by a guy who pulled out of a side street right in front
of him.

And if that isn't bad enough, the guy he ran into was a year-round resident
and knew all the Cape May cops... and the man called one. The man
personally knew both cops when they showed up and he accuses Pony of being
the cause of the accident. The cop smells beer on Pony's breath and gives
him a sobriety test right there. Touch your nose and walk with your toe
touching your heel with each step etc. He does all that while Pony's
insisting he had two fucking beers and meanwhile his brother is screaming
in pain that his arm's broken. Pony blows into a contraption and, while he
isn't legally drunk, he gets a ticket for reckless driving.

About now I'm thinking another shot would have been nice but I don't want
to interrupt this series of unfortunate events. Daryl tells me the car
wasn't drivable and got towed away to God only knows where, plus he had a
cut lip, but by far the worst part of everything was his brother's broken
arm. Well, it actually was a broken wrist. Pony goes to the hospital in an
ambulance with his brother and some shit happened there that I don't want
to hear so I try thinking about something else. I had the picture by then:
his summer wasn't great.

It all sounds terrible in the telling although living it must have been
much worse. Anyway, Pony's bitching that everything was so unfair and he
goes into every tiny detail about how horrible his parents were to him and
how much the accident cost them for this and that, and how it ruined their
vacation, and how they didn't believe a word Pony said about
anything... and on and on until my head was throbbing. Plus, it was a
freakish kind of break on his brother's wrist that caused nerve damage and
the kid loved playing the guitar and was good at it too, but he couldn't
play for the rest of the summer and... oh my God I feel really bad for all
four members of the family, but of course I feel worse for Pony because I
know him and I don't know them. Plus I think his parents suck!

Anyway, Pony was heartbroken about his brother as they were very close but
his brother sort of started blaming Pony and by then his parents were
barely talking to him so he rebelled all the more... and what a horrible
mess with all four of them acting terribly to one another.

Another round of beers was desperately needed by now so Pony forces two
twenty dollar bills on me, which I take, and then he goes, "That's not all
the bad shit, Dylan," and when I get back with two more beers he tells me
how his best friend, who is straight, was Pony's only ally that summer. A
friend to commiserate with. Someone who'd take Pony's side and whatnot so,
consequently, Pony hung out with him a lot. That is until one time when
they were drinking bourbon and ginger ale in the kid's finished-basement
Pony confided to the kid that, as he put it, he told him he thought he
might be bi. The kid interpreted that as Pony coming on to him and one
thing led to another and they ended up in a drunken fistfight and neither
of them has spoken to the other since then.

I've hardly interrupted him at all but I can't help saying, "Oh man, that
hurts. Losing a close friend really hurts! How long have you been best
friends?" I'm actually thinking the kid was an asshole! I mean, a best
friend breaks up their friendship over that! I don't say it though and Pony
takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes and then tells me they've lived
down the block from each other and were best of friends for fourteen years!
Jesus! and that was all it took for the other kid to put an end to their
friendship? That's an example of where I may not be getting the whole story
from Pony.

I'm persevering through all these horrific woes hoping the 'telling' is at
least cathartic for him because it's making me feel ill. Pony's been
venting like mad and getting it all out of his system which is the main
reason I don't challenge any of what he's telling me. And, believe it or
not, all that shit happened before the end of July so it was a long
gruesome remainder of the summer. Pony said he hardly left his room and
there was almost no communication or interaction between him and his
brother or parents. Omigod, what must it have been like during all the
meals they had together! Oh, fuck! Frankly, I'm probably underestimating
how terrible it must have been, not that I think Pony's blameless. No one
in that family is blameless!

By now though, I'm looking at my watch every minute or so thinking Rob will
be texting any second. I feel my pocket just to be sure I have my cell
phone even though I'm positive it's in my pocket, which it is. I start to
say something but Pony goes, "And not only that but I'm scared to death my
old man is going to pull me out of college!" I go, "What? Why do you say
that?" Pony goes, "That's the last thing he said to me at the airport! The
very last fucking thing he said. Can you believe a parent would say
that... or do that?"

Not really, no. I swallow some beer and say, "What'd he say exactly?" Pony
shrugs, "He said if I don't straighten up he's gonna pull my ass out of
Merrimack and I'll need to work in his automobile tire distribution
business. If I refuse to do that they'll throw me out of the fucking
house." I go, "Come on, that's bullshit! He didn't say he'd throw you out
of the 'fucking' house?" Pony says, "That the inference! Not the exact
words, no, but..." and I go, "So from the time you got on the plane in
Philly to fly here a few days ago until right now you've been scared
shitless waiting to hear from the administration here at Merrimack that,
what... your tuition hasn't been paid or what?" He goes, "I don't know
what, Dylan. I've been in a state of high anxiety thinking how humiliating
it'll be however it happens. Dylan, I gotta do something!"

Hmmm, trying to sound like the calm voice of reason, I ask, "Do you know
what your father meant by you 'shaping up'?" He shrugs, "I guess he means
me getting a haircut, shaving, get serious about my studies, and stop
acting like a rebel without a cause." I go, "You've been thinking about
this, obviously. I mean, that's the perfect answer... too perfect almost."
He frowns a deep frown, mumbling, "Of course I've been thinking about
it. What should I do?" Well, that's a good question.

I'm trying to think but I can't even imagine myself being in anything like
his situation. Since I'm not saying anything, he does. Pony goes, "I know
I've been an asshole but, Dylan, so have they! That's what's so unfair." I
go, "Well you gotta do something, but forget about getting thrown out of
your college, or thrown out of the house for that matter. Hyperbole is what
that was; what your father said. It was said in frustration because he
doesn't know what to do any more than you do. Parents use hyperbole a lot;
lots of people do."

Pony finishes his beer and then says, "I don't know what that means, what
you just said, but I need to know what I should do now. You're my idol so
you tell me and I'll do it." How the fuck should I know?

Okay, be cool! I say, "Um, let me have your phone," and when he slides it
across the table, I pick it up and say, "I'll take a pic of you that your
parents will think you took as a selfie. You know, showing your parents
you're, um, already getting your act together. Your hair is much shorter
and you've shaved." He goes, "I was thinking of the same exact thing."
Nodding, I focus Pony in the picture frame with a curtain beside him and
nothing showing that indicates he's in a bar. I've got him in the frame
from the chest up to avoid including the beer and shot glasses on the
table. I go, "Okay, don't smile exactly, um, look contrite if you can." He
makes a face and I go, "No, you look like you're going to cry again," He
goes, "Don't you dare tell anyone, not even Rob that I was crying! Tell no
one!" Waving my hand at him, I'm like, "Don't be ridiculous, Pony. Why
would I tell anyone about that?" He changes his expression and I mumble,
"Um, now you look sad... which is almost what we want I guess." I take half
a dozen pics of him before we settle on one that shows an acceptable
expression on his face.

He asks, "What should I write under it?" I'm like, "Um, before we decide
that, you know what? Something just occurred to me and it's that you're
agreeing to all this awfully easily. Were you already planning to do
something like this?" He nods, "Yeah, like I said, I had the idea to send a
pic but I was originally thinking of doing it after Danny gave me the
flattop." I go, "Because your dad has had a flattop haircut since he was
six," and Pony shrugs, "Yeah, I guess." It takes a concerted effort on my
part not to roll my eyes at that, and then he adds, "It's just that I
needed encouragement from you to initiate any action, you know, something
along those lines. I can't just do things without confirmation, ya know?"
No, actually I don't know.

Pony adds, "Ya know what? Now that I've spilled my guts about everything to
you I'm thinking the sooner I send them something the better. Whaddaya you
think?" I go, "Well, yeah, I think the selfie is a good idea, that's why I
suggested it." He goes, "You don't think, um... oh I don't know, that maybe
it's too obvious or something? Too condescending, or that they'll take it
as me being a smart-aleck again?"

Huh, maybe they will, how the hell would I know. I mutter, "Jeez, I don't
know your parents, Pony, so I don't know what they'll think. You've gotta
do something though, you're right about that. Like you said earlier... this
is a start. But let me ask you something." See, I'm getting this feeling
I'm being used by him a little bit here, so I ask this perhaps a little too
loudly, "Is preparing for the selfie the real reason you wanted me to cut
your hair this afternoon? And all your histrionics, all that energetic
messing with your hair, was a put on... an act, right?" He goes, "No! I
hated my hair but please don't yell at me, Dylan." More quietly I say, "I
wasn't yelling." Oh fuck, it doesn't matter anyway!

We're both quiet for a little bit and then he says, "I have to do something
because I don't want to work in a tire shop all my life. So it's
simple... I'm surrendering to all their criticisms of me and I'm sucking up
to them. I need to suck up to my parents as if they've been right all along
even though that's bullshit because... um, they've been totally unfair!"  I
go, "Yeah, they do pretty much have you by the balls, but let's face it,
you were also an asshole with that beard and long hair routine which is
frankly a stunt more appropriate for a fifteen-year-old, something your
brother might try, and then the motorbike thing, um, well that's water
under the bridge now, so..." He makes a hurt 'face' mumbling, "Hey! You
need to support me!"

Shrugging, I mumble, "I am supporting you. Let me see that photo again." He
passes his cell phone across the table and as I look at the selfie I'm
thinking: hmmm, is that a smirk on his face or an expression of contrition?
Hell, his parents will know better than me if it is or isn't. Nothing I can
do about that, so I guess this will have to do. Pony goes, "Whaddaya think,
is it alright?" I nod, "Yes, you look, um, you look sorry, or um,
whatever." Then I say, "And you know what, your parents will probably be
happy for this breakthrough in the conflict. I personally think they should
have made the first step, but they're gonna be glad you did. I'm pretty
sure about that." Why I'd say I'm pretty sure about anything I haven't a
clue. This whole mess is so alien to me I can't believe I'm even making
suggestions. Ha, in a minor, very minor way it's like the stalemate Ryan
and I found ourselves in last year. And how did I resolve that? I didn't,
that's how.

Damn though, as I look at this selfie of Pony he's beginning to look
cute... even with the glasses. I'm sort of getting used to seeing him
wearing glasses now and I kinda like them. Funny how after you get used to
something... hmmm, his hair's still too long and, obviously, his cuteness
isn't remotely the issue here... but I couldn't help noticing... again.

Clearing my throat, I ask, "Um, what'd your brother have to say about the
accident? Did he verify your claim that the other car pulled out in front
of you?" Pony goes, "He says he doesn't know what happened, but I'm telling
you the honest to God truth when I say that fucker pulled out of a side
street right in front of me. Hell, my car left twenty-foot tire tracks on
the street and this one younger cop thought the tire tracks proved I was
right, but the other asshole cop was older and was a buddy of the other
driver so he told the young cop to shut up. Just like that, he said to the
other cop, 'You, shut up!' No one believed me except that young cop... he
knew." Why did I bring this up? Pony might go off on another tirade and I
need to get out of here.

Well, I actually believe Pony about the accident. Some of the other
things... I'm sure he's not totally innocent. What a shocker though, a cop
lying for one of their 'insider' friends.

Pony takes his phone back and as he's looking at his selfie again, he
mumbles, 'Well, you still need to tell me what I should write with the
selfie?" I say, "I don't know. Something short and to the point I guess."
He asks, "Like what?" I go, "How about, um, what do you call them?" He
says, what do I call my parents?" I go, "Yeah, when you're talking to them,
are they mom and dad or mother and father or what?" He says, "Usually mom
and dad." I say, "Well, start with that. Address both of them, and then say
something along the lines of... 'you were right, dad, I needed to get my
act together and I've started doing that as you can see. I've had a lot of
time to think about things here and I want to tell you both I'm so sorry
for the way I've been acting.' Then just leave it at that. Don't get
maudlin or anything. Save that for later. Humble yourself; a lot of parents
get 'off' on that."

He's nodding his head and typing on his phone, so that's good. I'm thinking
about how totally different Chubby's and my lives have been as regards
'parental controls'. Looking over at Pony, I encourage him, "Good, you've
come up with something positive. I see you're typing so do you mind reading
it to me?" He holds up a finger, meaning 'just a second' and finishes
typing. I go, "Did you use any of my suggestions?" He mutters, "I used
every one of your words! I couldn't come up with anything as good on my
own."

What? Oh man, I start to protest but don't because I just want to be done
with this. Pony's an awesome hang-out buddy but he acted like a
spoiled-brat causing some of the problems himself last summer and I'm
basing that on what he told me, and his parents acted like immature
bullies. That's what I conclude from the one-sided version I heard from
Daryl. So, yeah, that's how I see it, but this is becoming tedious beyond
belief... and I hope it doesn't make me a bad person for thinking that.

So, what more can I do? I'm not a psychologist or family counselor... if
there even is such a thing, and I'm sure there must be since there's
counseling for any and everything you could possibly think of. As I said,
I'm not one of them though, so all I can do is mutter some encouraging
words. I go," You know, um, it's awesome that you're reaching out to your
parents; that has to be seen as a positive step by them. They'll probably
be so relieved... you can't even imagine how relieved they'll be. Um, but
the thing is, ah, I've gotta get back to the campus because Rob's practice
will be over any minute now."

He nods his head while adding something to what he's already typed, typing
really fast with his thumbs like Rob types. There are beads of sweat on
Pony's forehead reminding me of Danny earlier this afternoon. Damn, where
did that thought come from? I need to stay focused just a tiny bit longer
and I need to stay patient too because I'm aware this is extremely
important to Pony. The poor kid.

He looks up at me and asks, "Should I send it now?" I say, "Christ no!
Definitely do not send it for an hour or two at least. You need time to
think about what you've written. Read it over a few times until you're sure
it says exactly what you really want to say to them." He goes, "No, I'm
sending it now," and he does. Rolling my eyes, I'm letting out another
exasperated breath before saying, "Why the hell did you ask me if you're
going to ignore what I say?" He goes, "I've been so fucking stressed out,
Dylan, it's been like a huge black cloud over my head that's been there
like forever and just now it's begun slowly drifting away. Yes, it's
finally started drifting away."

Frowning at him for a second, I'm like, "A huge black cloud drifting away?
That doesn't sound like something you'd say." He shakes his head slowly,
"No it doesn't, does it? I don't know, but I've been under a lot of
pressure so who knows what the fuck I'm likely to say?" I go, "That's why
you shouldn't have sent the pic until you re-thought everything." He goes,
"No, what you said was perfect and now the ball is in their court." I check
my watch again as he mutters, "I sent the pic and your message to both of
them too."

Hmmm, I really need to show support here. I say, "Pony, this was a big
fucking deal... what you just did is a mature big deal! It's the right move
for you to make and I'm serious about that. A first step that you
took... yourself! You're beginning to take control of your life so you can
get back to normal. The past is the past, we learn from it and do what we
can to correct what we can... and then move the fuck on. What else can any
of us do? I'm proud of you!"

I don't want to give him fuel to later use against his parents so I don't
say what I'm thinking, which is: I think Pony's being more of an adult than
his parents. I saw a TV show once where a father and teenage son had some
kind of major conflict. It was religious in nature I think. Anyway, the
father finally said, "Son, you come toward my way of thinking as far as you
can and whatever the remaining distance is I'll go the rest of the way to
you.' That was being an adult!

We're up out of our chairs and ready to leave at last. The bartender tried
at being friendly by giving us the free stick pretzels and saying something
half-decent, ya know, after being an asshole initially. Correcting his
attitude gets him a two dollar tip which I put on the bar. As we're walking
out, I go, "I owe you some money, Pony. It wasn't forty dollars each in
there and you gave me the two twenties." He goes, "Oh, please! We're not
two broads splitting the cost of lunch." Shrugging I mutter, "I'll get the
next round we have someplace, or whenever."

Getting in the pickup, Pony says, "Do you think I said enough with the
pic?" I go, "Jesus, bro, that's why I told you to hold off sending it until
you had time to think more about it!" He says, "You're yelling again." Oh
fuck, I'm exhausted! Taking a deep breath, I say, 'Sorry," and pull out of
the parking lot, adding, "I think it's the perfect opening or, um, perfect
first volley... or something. A good first step on your part is what I mean
and not many guys would be man enough to take the first step like you've
done. You should be proud of yourself!"

Omigod, no! He looks like he's going to start crying again. His sexy lips
tremble when he mumbles, "Thanks, Dylan. Your help means more to me than
you'll ever know. Without you, I...." He stops because his voice was
getting that crying sound in it. I don't pat his shoulder this time for
fear he'll lean over on me and start crying again. I merely mutter, "We're
friends, Pony, um, so... it's nothing. Glad to help."

He gets himself under control and then when we're still on Main Street
Pony's phone pings... a text! We exchange glances and he quickly gets his
phone out of his pocket and says, 'It's a text from my mom!" Slamming on
the brakes to avoid hitting two ladies who walked right out to cross the
street without so much as a glance to see if a car was
coming... jay-walking assholes! Pony's eyes get big as he goes, "Whoa!" and
I mutter a few curses at the women under my breath and then go, 'Well, what
does your mom's text say?" Pony reads: 'I'm proud of you, son. I forwarded
this to dad. Love you.'

Now he does have tears in his eyes as he says, choking up a little, "She
said, 'love you.'" I can't even guess at how much pressure and stress or
how high the level of anxiety this poor kid has been dealing with the past
eight or nine weeks. It's mind-boggling... and I need to have more
compassion for him!

And, oh balls, I'm choking up a little myself as I mumble, "Like I said,
it's a good start, Pony." Yeah, but why'd he wait until now to, um, start?
And ya know what, his father put the fear of God in him at the Philadelphia
airport threatening Pony with... gasp, a job!

Glancing over at him I get a tug at my heart string because he's staring at
his mom's text and, I don't know, he could be thinking any one of a million
things. It could be my imagination too, but he looks calmer than I've seen
him be since meeting him at Logan airport. I can't help but still be pissed
at his parents though. Leaving it up to their kid to make the first step
toward resolving something as important as the 'family'! That seems
irresponsible... of the parents I mean.

What the hell? I still haven't heard from Rob so he and Carl are probably
in one of the toilet stalls again doing God only knows what. Haha, no, they
aren't in a toilet stall!

Pony has his arms full of the clothes I'm lending him when I drop him off
at dormitory row. As he's getting out of the pickup, I ask him, "Do you
want to have dinner at the apartment again tonight? We'd like to have you
over if you wanna join us." He says, "Thanks, Dylan, but Donald and I
agreed to eat together at the dining hall. We want to get to know one
another better. He's, ahh, really been nice so far. Today he said he could
tell I was upset about something and offered to help if he could. I didn't
tell him anything but that was nice of him and I think I like him." I go,
"Yeah? That was nice of him, and it's definitely a good idea getting to
know your roommate."

Pony gets out of the pickup and before closing the door, he says, 'He's a
good-looking dude, doncha think?" I go, "Your roommate? Um, yeah, he
is. Text me tomorrow, buddy," and as he closes the door he says, "You were
wonderful today, Dylan. Thank you. I don't have the right words to tell you
how much you helped me." I mumble, "No problem. See ya later," and then
drive away feeling both relief and of course I'm happy things are looking
'up' for Daryl.

Wow, that was one fucked-up summer for him and his whole family... really
fucked up and all of them are to blame if you ask me... not that anyone
asked me, not even Pony. He told his story in a jumbled, mixed up manner
but I sure got the picture. Man, that was a lot for him to deal with. Oh
fuck, like I've said ten times, I can't even begin to know the torment he
was going through.

Instead of going back to the apartment I drive a couple of blocks to the
ballpark to wait for Rob's text. I get out of the pickup and sit on the
brick wall-divider between the parking lot and the ballpark. From habit, I
light a cigarette and purposely don't think about Pony at all, not
specifically. I think generally about the troubles we bring on ourselves
and each other and how we then usually tend to exacerbate the situation
because of pride. Yeah, misplaced pride is often the culprit plus
ignorance, stupidity, and bullheadedness... they play a part too. Then we
get in so deep we can't see a way out of the mess we all helped to
create. Stupid!

Yeah, but I'm afraid that's just basic human nature. Hell, in terms of our
human evolutionary timetable it wasn't that long ago that humanoids were
still grunting at each other while wearing a muskrat's skin as underwear?
Maybe we haven't evolved far enough from the reptilian part of our
subconscious minds to think logically yet. Instead, our first instincts are
still, even in modern times, fight or flight, metaphorically speaking.

Yeah, I remember learning in some class that 'modern' humans didn't even
begin forming anything we'd consider a civilization until a mere 6000 years
ago. Heh heh, I remember Chubby once complaining that the problem with
history is it takes too fucking long! Haha!

Rob still hasn't texted me and I'm looking right at him as he walks out the
ballpark entrance with his arm around Carl's shoulders. Those two are
laughing about something while talking animatingly at the same time... and
now they just doubled-over laughing. Huh, they sure get along.

They don't see me. After doing a cursory hug with Rob, Carl walks off
toward dormitory row. Only now does Rob take out his cell phone to text
me. He's fifteen feet to the left of me as I hear my phone ping. Without
taking it out of my pocket, I yell at Rob, "Yo, you with the cell phone!
There's no texting in this area, dummy!" He whips around with that 'look'
on his face like, 'Who the fuck...?' Looking for trouble, that's what that
'look' says to me... haha! He sees me now and calls over, "Smart-ass," but
he's all smiles.

As he's walking over to me I decide not to talk about Pony's problem; not
now anyway. Some later time I'll discuss it with Robby but right now I
don't have the energy for that. We do a quick hug with Robby saying, "Who'd
you go drinking with?" He obviously smelled the booze on my breath. I
mutter, "It was Pony and me having a couple of beers. I'll tell you about
it later."

He's not all that interested in that, and as we're getting in the pickup
Robby goes, "Ooooh, let me see that new haircut of yours!" I start the
engine and Rob takes off my hat and touches the top of my head gently, as
I'm asking, "What do you really think?" He says, "Honestly? I think Danny's
a good barber except he did kind of a longish flattop for you." I go,
"Yeah, that's what I wanted," and that's all the conversation Rob needs as
far as a haircut discussion goes. He's like the vast majority of guys in
that a haircut is a haircut and it's rarely worth talking about more than a
sentence or two.

I'm different though, so as I'm driving for the Route 114 exit, I ask,
"Seriously, how do you think I look with this flattop?" Rob goes, "Oh, man,
Dylan! You'd look good with any haircut and you look cute as a fucking bug
with that one too. I wanna jump your bones right now, babe." Oh man, I
can't get an objective opinion from him. He'd say anything looks
awesome. At a red light across from the entrance to our apartment complex,
I'm like, "You don't think this haircut looks out of date or anything,
right?" Rob's like, "Whaddaya mean out of date? That's a cool hairdo that
you could probably comb differently if you wanted to." I nod. "Yeah, I
might do that but I'll wait a couple of days so Danny doesn't bust a blood
vessel or something." Rob goes, "The light's green now, Dylan."

At the apartment, I stay in the pickup as Rob runs up to our place and
grabs the bogus slipcover that doesn't fit our sofa and then I drive us to
the Target store so we can exchange it for one that will fit. We need it so
it'll cover that mysterious stain on one of the sofa cushions. Rob's all
bubbly about baseball practice and especially his success in the 'batting
cage'. He goes," Omigod, Dylan, the summer league was awesome in that it
kept me swinging a bat all summer. Fielding comes naturally to me. Eye-hand
coordination and all that bullshit, but fuck, I've been doing that since I
was six-years-old. Hitting though never came as easily to me. Well, I was a
pitcher all through high school and so hitting was secondary and.... blah,
blah, blah. It's all happy positive blabbing though and much easier to
listen to than Pony's sad tale of woe. Plus I love seeing Rob this pumped!

At Target we stand in line at the return desk and, of course, need to
suffer fools during the exchange. Quite a hassle that Rob's in charge of
resolving. Then, with the charge reversed on Rob's credit card we're
looking through the slipcover options with the shape of our sofa firmly
imprinted on our minds this time. I find a neutral sort of tan color that
would be perfect and it's on sale for $39.99. Rob goes, "Oh yeah, babe,
that looks perfect... but not so fast. There could be a more perfect one
for less money." I'd offer to pay for this fucking thing myself just to be
on our way except I know it wouldn't do any good. Rob's going to check out
every fucking slipcover in the store before deciding. Okay, so now I know
there's one more thing I want to avoid in the future: shopping for a
slipcover with Rob.

We finally buy the one I first picked out and when we get back it still
requires a few frustrated f-bombs before we get the new slipcover to fit
the sofa; not perfectly, but it's a pretty damn good fit. We sit on the new
slipcover grinning at each other like goofs. Rob goes, "Let's try it out,"
and we start making out like madmen which leads to hot sex with both out
pants only down just below our asses and when we shoot off we both have
awesome climaxes! Oh God! Panting, we're lying together taking those
necessary deep breaths while coming down from our highs until I go, "Oh
balls, look Rob! Do you think that's gonna be a permanent stain?" He's
like, "What, where?" I go, "Look, over there on the end cushion... dammit!"

to be continued...

       Donny Mumford    thinat20@yahoo.com    donnymumford@outlook.com

========================================================

Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published
and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for
next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a
19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And
there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them
out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the
books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.

Donny Mumford

========================================================

Hey guys, how about making a small (or large, go for it!) tax deductible
donation to nonprofit Nifty. They could use your help covering the expenses
inherent in maintaining a free story site this size. Easy directions about
how to do that on their 'home page'. Thanks!

http://donate.nifty.org