Date: Wed, 4 Jun 2008 15:44:27 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: "FORK IN THE ROAD" Chapter 23

Fork in the Road
By Scott Turner
Chapter 23

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


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



From Chapter 22:

      Scott was finished with his food.  As he wiped his fingers and balled
up his napkins, he sighed.  "Like I said, I just had what's probably the
best fucking week in...well, I'm not sure how long."  He giggled.  "I was
actually humming `I've Got the World on a String' on the way over here.  He
tossed the paper into the red plastic sandwich basket and slid it to the
side.  "But there's one other thing..."

      Greg smiled.  "I'm almost afraid to ask."

      "You don't have to.  I was going to tell you anyway."  He took a long
drink and cleared his throat.  "This morning, Brett let us know that he's
moving out to live with his girlfriend next year.  That means we need
another roommate."  He was grinning like a little kid again.  "How'd you
like a Johnson Street address for the next year or so?"

      Greg cleared his throat, pushed his own basket to the side and laid
his hands on the table.  He looked directly but nervously into Scott's
eyes.  Scott could see an anxiety nearing fear on Greg's face and his own
smile evaporated in an instant.

      Greg slowly shook his head.  "I can't Scott.  I'm leaving."



CHAPTER 23


      Scott's heart hit his gut so hard and fast that he thought he'd puke
right there, all over the cheap red Formica between them.  Greg's mouth
went dry as he watched nearly all of the color run out of Scott's face.
Scott blinked several times hoping he'd wake up, but it was for naught.  He
was awake.  It wasn't a bad dream.  That really was Greg sitting across the
table, and he had indeed heard what he thought he'd heard.

      Still, he blurted out, "What?"  Greg looked down sheepishly at his
fidgeting hands.  The delay gave Scott's brain a few moments to try to form
some coherent thoughts.  That, too, was time wasted.  He mumbled and
stuttered, "Wha'...but I ...I...but I thought...I mean you said..."
Finally he managed something close to a complete sentence.  "You said that
you'd figured with the finance counselor and the coach's help and all that
stuff...and...I mean you told me that..." He shook his head.  "Aw, fuck,
Greg!  What're you sayin'?"

      Greg held up a hand half-way to interrupt.  "Scott, things have
happened very fast this week and you gotta give me a few minutes to
explain."

      Scott glared across the table and stared blindly at a very
apprehensive face.  "So what the hell happened?  What's going on?  You're
leaving?  Where are you going?"

      Greg tried to smile and put a good spin on the news, but his gesture
was futile.  "Minnesota State made me a great offer, and I just have to
take it."

      Scott closed his eyes and nodded slowly, inhaled deeply and then
slowly expended the foul tasting air.  "Minnesota State...Mankato...Nick."

      After a moment's silence Scott opened his mouth again to speak,
unsure of and not really caring about what he might say, but Greg cut him
off with a shaking head and a pleading face.  "Look.  It's not that simple,
Scott!  Give me a chance to explain."  Greg stacked the two empty plastic
baskets and gathered together the remaining paper trash on the table.  "Let
me dump this stuff and go take a leak."  He slid his soda glass across the
table.  "You get us a couple of refills, gather your cool and then we can
talk."

      It took a real effort for Scott to force a reluctant nod and his eyes
never left the tabletop.  Greg slowly slid out of the booth, dumped the
napkins into the trash and set the baskets on the counter.  He glanced back
at Scott, who hadn't moved an inch, and then went to the back of the dining
area and into the men's room.  After relieving himself he stopped to wash
his hands and splashed some cold water onto his face.  He looked in the
mirror and saw nothing but dread.  After wiping his hands and face with a
couple of paper towels, he sighed.  `You can do this.  You have to do this.
It's gonna be okay.'

      He rounded the corner outside the restroom and stopped dead in his
tracks.  The booth was empty.  As he strode quickly to the table, he saw
that Scott's book bag was gone.  His sunglasses were gone as well.  Greg's
head shot back and forth, frantically scanning the small restaurant.  Scott
was nowhere.

      He bolted toward the door, pausing only for a half second to excuse
himself for running into the back of a little boy's chair.  Once outside he
turned right on the sidewalk and started jogging toward campus.  He'd seen
Scott's car parked in the lot next to the WSA office when he was on his way
over from his last meeting with Coach Bidwell.  It was a little more than
four blocks down State Street, then another half a block south of the
Library Mall.  `You gotta catch him,' he demanded.  His eyes darted left
and right as he trotted down the sidewalk, dodging the strolling students,
faculty members, and other locals along the way.

      Scott was just opening his car door when Greg hit the curb that
rimmed the parking lot.  Greg shouted, "Scott!  Hold up!  We were gonna
talk!"

      Scott threw his backpack onto the front seat and turned.  His face
showed only scorn and rejection.  "Talk about what?  You're leaving.  It's
pretty fucking simple!  You're heading back up to Nick.  I get it, Greg.  I
don't need much more of an explanation than that, and I'm in no mood to
have you rub my nose in it!"  He sat down in the driver's seat and slammed
the door.

      Greg was stunned.  This wasn't like Scott.  He squirmed between
Scott's car and the one next to it.  He put his hand on the roof and leaned
down to peer into the driver's side window.  He slammed a flat hand on the
top of the car.  "No!  You DON'T get it!"  Scott started the car and slid
it into reverse.  Greg quickly scurried back so that he could stand
directly behind the trunk and back bumper.  He shouted at the rear window,
"I'm not moving, Scott.  We're going to talk, dammit!"

      Scott rolled down his window, shifted in his seat and stuck his head
out, turning it as far back as he could.  "Bad idea, Greg.  I just spent
most of the last month rearranging my life so that people can't fuck with
me anymore.  I just spent the last hour making an ass out of myself by
gushing to you about how great things are, and then you kick me in the
balls and pull the rug out from under me.  You've been pissing in my ear
the past couple weeks about sticking around here next year when that was
obviously never your real plan.  Now get the hell out of my way!  You're
not gonna fuck with me either!"  He released enough pressure on the break
to let the car slowly inch backward.

      Greg crossed his arms.  "Not on your life or mine, Scott!  I have NOT
been fucking with you!  You can either listen to me or you're gonna have to
run me over to get out of here."

      Exasperated and near tears, Scott threw the car into park and climbed
out.  He was nearly pleading now.  "I don't need to hear it!  I don't want
to hear it!  You already told me all I need to know.  I...we...don't mean
shit to you."

      Greg stomped his foot and then kicked the back fender.  "GOD DAMN IT!
I just sat through the better part of an hour listening to you go on and on
and on about the changes and decisions you've made in the past few weeks.
And every step of the way, I was happy for you...I was fucking proud of
you!"  He coughed to choke back a sob, sighed and shook his head.  "You
can't just...you can't..."

      Walter Jameison was just leaving the WSA office next to the parking
lot, and he heard the shouting as he opened the front door to the building.
He looked across the porch to his side and gasped.  He thought he
recognized the guy blocking Scott's exit and he was unnerved by the obvious
storm that was brewing.  He hollered, "Everything okay, Scott?  Need me to
call somebody?"

      Scott glanced left and waved a hand.  "No thanks, Radar.  It's okay.
Well, it's not really okay, but I've got a handle on it.  Thanks anyway.
You ought to be on your way.  I'll see you tomorrow."

      Radar nodded and shrugged and then shook his head.  He locked the
door to the building and made a hasty retreat down the sidewalk in the
opposite direction.

      Still planted firmly behind the car, Greg jabbed a finger at Scott.
"Remember when we were driving back after Easter at your folks' place?  You
were trying to ease the pain you knew was coming my way because of
baseball.  When I was losing it, you asked me to shut the fuck up and
listen...to give you a chance to explain.  And I did.  I shut up and
listened.  Now, tonight, I finally got the chance to get two words out of
my mouth and you're bolting for the door and telling me to go to Hell!  You
can't even return the same consideration that I gave you.  Are you the only
one on this campus who's entitled to be heard?  Are you the only one on
this campus who's had to face your fucking fork in the road?  Which one of
us doesn't give a shit about us Scott?"

      Of all the things he hated, being wrong was near the top of his list.
Treating somebody badly because he was wrong was just above that.  Treating
Elliot badly had been easy because Scott was right and the bastard had it
coming.  But in an instant he recalled how Marty had taken him to the
cleaners after he'd reacted shabbily to a misunderstanding between the two
of them.  He suddenly felt that same gut-wrenching feeling crush him again.
He put his hands in his pockets and stared at the gravel between his feet,
and then looked up.  "Okay.  Let me have it.  What happened?  Why are you
leaving?  Fill me in.  I'm listening."

      Greg folded his arms again and shook his head.  "No."

      Scott's face flashed a mix of confusion and frustration.  "What
the..."

      Greg held his ground and even mocked Scott.  "Bad idea, Scott!  Wrong
place and wrong time.  You're still pissed, not thinking and not listening.
When I walked into the restaurant a little over an hour ago, I was actually
feeling sad and a little guilty about all this shit.  But right now, I'm
even more pissed off than you are!"  He wiped a hand over his face.  "But
here it is in a nutshell: I'm going to Mankato for a good chance to play
baseball, NOT because of Nick.  That's all you need to know right now.  I
think we both need some time off because I'd rather smack you upside the
head right now than explain everything, or anything to you.  I was ready to
spell it all out for you a few minutes ago, but you just told me that you'd
heard all you need to.  If you're really interested in the rest of it, I'll
be at Denny's at 7:00 tomorrow morning.  I have an 8:30 class.  If any of
this shit really matters to you, then you'll be the guy I thought you were.
You'll be there and you'll be ready to hear me out."  He inhaled and looked
directly at Scott.  "If not, then I guess you're going to make this one
very miserable goodbye."  Before Scott could utter a single syllable, Greg
was jogging down the sidewalk toward his dorm.




      Scott stared through the gray light coming through his window at 5:30
the next morning.  He was looking at a dismally blank bedroom ceiling.  A
war was still being waged within his head and his heart.  It actually hurt.

      He wanted to feel great for Greg, to celebrate what sounded like his
last-minute good fortune, a reprieve, and a stay of the execution that he
himself had helped to impose.  He wanted to look forward to following
Greg's new baseball career and enjoying what he knew would be many triumphs
on the field in Mankato.  Another large part of him wanted to wallow in
that selfish satisfaction of being really pissed.  He wanted to feel like a
victim who had been unjustly shafted and shattered by someone who should
never hurt him so.  He wanted a reason to lash out and enjoy the dark
psychological nourishment that a good and righteous rant can bring.  His
fidgeting and under-the-breath mutterings were annoying the fattest cat in
the world.  Scott looked down at the large lump of a feline, just out of
reach, and he extended a hand.  The cat stretched his neck just enough to
give Scott's fingers access to his chin.  `You'll feel better if you
scratch me,' the cat thought.

      Scott complied and exhaled a heavy sigh.  He looked down at the
purring face.  "You know, people tell me that I'm smart, and I think that I
am a lot of the time.  Some say that I'm a fair-minded, sensitive and
sensible guy, and that's all well and good.  That's who I want to be."  The
cat's head turned upward to give Scott full access to the underside of his
jowls.  He appeared to be smiling.  Scott frowned.  "So how the hell can I
be such a complete moron, such a total fuck up sometimes?"  The cat wasn't
listening and he just kept on purring.  "I just can't, you know.  I can't
be pissed at him.  I love him, dammit."

      The scratching stopped and the cat let out a short `mew' in protest
as Scott's feet hit the floor.  "Come on, fat ass.  Let's get some
breakfast.  You'll be having the regular stuff.  I do believe I'll be
eating crow at Denny's."

      Scott arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early.  The hostess met
him at the front stand and he pointed to a corner booth at the far side of
the dining room.  "Table for two please.  Could we have that one over there
in the corner?"

      The skinny, thirty-something woman with black hair wore her glasses
on a chain and too much lipstick.  She snapped her chewing gum and shook
her head.  "Sorry, but that section's not open yet.  Don't have a waitress
scheduled to work those tables `til lunch."

      Scott scratched his head.  "I appreciate that, but this is kind of an
important breakfast meeting and the less noise or traffic, the better.  If
you could find a server to take it, I promise we'll be low maintenance and
it'll be worth his or her while."

      The hostess rolled her eyes.  She didn't make any tips working the
front desk, so the `worthwhile' comment didn't phase her a bit.  Still, she
thought Scott was cute and he seemed sincere.  Finally she shrugged.
"Okay, hon.' I'll grab a pot of coffee.  You look like you could use it.
And I'll see who has time to add a table to their load."

      Scott was on his second cup, nervously bouncing a leg up and down on
the ball of his foot.  He was staring out the window and wasn't even aware
that Greg had arrived until he heard his voice.  "I'm looking for Scott
Turner."  He sat down and their eyes locked.  "The guy I was talking to, or
shouting at, last night was somebody else.  Have you seen him anywhere?"

      Scott broke their gaze and looked down, embarrassed.  "Yeah.  I spent
most of the night and much of the morning beating up on him.  Really kicked
his ass, too.  But he's back now, and we're hoping for a full recovery."

      Greg's lips gave way to a slight grin while he poured a cup of
coffee.  "I hope his hearing's improved."

      The muted smile across the table gave Scott hope.  "Oh, yeah.  I got
his head pulled out of his ass and he's able to listen again.  It's his
heart we're keeping an eye on.  There's still some room for concern there.
His ego has suffered some pretty dandy bruises too, but we're do believe
they'll heal.  He's never suffered from a weak ego."

      Greg's smile dissolved.  He glanced quickly around the dining room.
"You know I love you, don't you?  Ego and all?"

      Their eyes locked on each other's once more.  "And I love you too.
More than I think I was willing to admit."

      "So, you're ready to hear me out?  I want to paint a complete picture
for you.  I'm not run..." The waitress interrupted to take their orders,
then picked up the menus and quietly took her leave.  Greg sipped his
water.  "I'm not running away from you and I'm not running back to Nick.
I'm chasing a dream of playing baseball and it's dragging me to Minnesota."

      Scott nodded.  "Okay.  So, let me have it.  What was it you wanted to
tell me last night when I was being such a complete dick head?"

      Greg looked up to gather his thoughts.  He'd talked his way through
this in his head at least a dozen times the last couple of days.  Now he
was praying he'd remember it all.  He slid his coffee cup to the side,
leaned forward on the table and took a deep breath.  "Well, I told you that
Bidwell was fronting for us with other coaches who are still going to have
programs next year.  He said that the time factor was huge and that his
time was limited. So he asked us all to name just two or three schools we
might want to take a stab at if it meant we could still play ball next
year.  I gave him three: UW-Green Bay, UW-Whitewater and Minnesota State.
They all have good programs even if they aren't Big Ten, Division I
schools."

      Scott nodded, but said nothing, so Greg continued.  "Well, this all
started to unfold after the playoff game this past Monday.  Coach called me
in and told me Green Bay was full and out of the question for next year,
but then asked which of the other two I'd prefer, IF I still had a shot
with either one.  I told him I thought they'd both be great.  Not as good
as Madison, but if they could keep me playing and keep me in school..."  He
shrugged and lifted his hands to say, `I'd have to really consider it.'

      Scott nodded at the gesture saying that he understood.

      Greg picked up the pace and was beginning to sound excited.  "So,
he'd already sent my stats and some film to both places and called their
coaches.  Coach Bidwell played minor league ball against Coach Hardy up in
Minnesota `back in the day' as he says.  So Hardy sent a couple of scouts
to the game on Tuesday and again on Wednesday.  After that last game
Bidwell called me in and said that Hardy had been in touch again and was
really interested.  The reason I was late to the restaurant last night is
`cuz I had to go back to Bidwell's office for a conference call with him,
me, Hardy and a couple of his assistant coaches.  They really want me,
Scott.  They really do!"  Scott wanted to frown and complain, but the
glimmer in Greg's eyes forced a smile instead.

      Greg rambled on even faster.  He was more animated with his hands and
body language through every thought that flowed from his lips.  "They said
they couldn't offer a scholarship, at least not this year, but Hardy was
sure I'd be playing, as long as I'm healthy, and I'd probably be eligible
for a scholarship the year after that.  Meantime, they can offer the same
financial aid package that I was working on here, and with the deal on
tuition reciprocity between the two states I'll pay in-state, resident
tuition in Minnesota.  And Coach Hardy's brother owns what's supposed to be
a pretty nice restaurant a few blocks off campus, and there's a job waiting
for me once I get settled in.  But more than anything, I'll be playing.
Hardy said they need a third baseman.  Fuck, Scott!  I'll still be
playing!"

      Scott sighed and grinned.  "You don't say `fuck,'" he teased.  His
dark, selfish side wanted to find something wrong with Greg's good fortune;
he looked for some possible `land mine' in the plans that might make it all
blow up unexpectedly.  But it wasn't there, so he worked hard to smile
again.  "All things considered, it sounds like a hell of a sweet deal.
Good for you, Greg.  I'm very happy for you.  You'll be playing, and after
a full year starting with the Badgers you'll be kicking some major ass in
that division."

      Greg scanned Scott's face.  "You said you were happy.  You don't look
it.  Your smile's not real."

      Scott rolled his eyes.  "Of course I'm happy, for you.  For me?"  He
shook his head.  "For me?  Not so much.  Sorry for being a selfish son of a
bitch, but I'm pretty much crushed, actually.  Sorry, Greg, I gotta be
honest.  It's how I feel.  Plus, I still feel like such a schmuck after
last night.  I mean, I don't think I've ever done that; run away from
something that was tough to face.  My folks and my Gran' would have been
embarrassed, and I'm still ashamed.  I'm so sorry, Greg.  Believe me, I'm
so..."

      Greg raised a hand to cut him off.  "Enough!  I know you are.
Apology accepted."  He fiddled with his silverware before looking up.
"But, as sick as it might sound, I'm really glad that that you feel so
lousy.  And by that I mean I'm glad to know that it really means so much to
you.  I hate causing you any pain or grief, but I'm thrilled that it
matters so much."  He coughed out a snicker.  "I guess, now that we've had
some time, I'm glad you went off the way you did."

      Scott mulled it over and nodded, but he was still nursing more than a
little bit of angst.

      Then Greg slumped back and slowly shook his head.  "And you have to
know this has been a sweet and shitty few days for me.  But after the coach
and me got done with the phone call to Mankato, Bidwell said I'd be insane
if I didn't jump at this.  He's right.  A year off while I shopped around
for another UW school would make me invisible.  It'd probably trash any
hope for playing the game after college at any level.  But if I make this
move, all my credits will transfer and I can still earn the teaching degree
and license.  And...I'll keep getting looked at by scouts."  There was a
long silence before Greg sighed again, "Still..."

      Scott put his elbows on the table.  "Still what?"

      Greg looked him straight in the eyes.  "Still...I should be dancing
in the street because I just got handed another shot at doing the only
thing I've ever really wanted to do with my life.  And a big part of me
feels like shit."  He smirked and nudged Scott's shin under the table.
"The only thing I ever wanted to do until I met you, that is.  That's all
your fault, you know."

      Scott worked to lighten the moment too.  "Isn't everything my fault
these days?"

      Greg kicked his shin lightly under the table again with a grin and a
wink.  "Hey.  I let you off the hook on the baseball thing."  But the grin
dissolved quickly.  "But look at it this way, Scott.  Suppose I'd turned
down the Mankato thing to stay here, and suppose I did it because of you.
As much we care about each other today, the reality is we're still young
pups.  Can you say for sure that a year from now we'll be feeling the same
way about each other?"

      Scott gazed out the window for a second and sighed.  "You know how
I'd like to answer that...but, no...I can't say for sure where we might be
a year from now.  I'm good at a few things, adequate at others and
miserable at some.  But predicting the future isn't on either one of those
first two lists."

      Greg nodded sadly.  "And how would you feel if I'd passed on this
chance and then things didn't work out with you and me?"

      Scott closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

      Greg nodded slowly.  "I thought so.  Me too."

      The waitress set down their skillets and offered, "Anything else?"
Each man shook his head without saying a word.

      Scott unwrapped his silverware and dropped his napkin on his thigh.
He sprinkled some salt and pepper over the eggs as it occurred to him that
he had no appetite.  "It's just that I haven't felt this way about anybody
since..."

      Greg grew a sad smile.  "Since Marty."

      Scott put down his fork and sipped his water.  "Yeah, but it's
soooooo different.  You two are not the same guy.  The things I love about
Marty wouldn't fit you.  I sure as hell didn't fall for you because you
were some sort of substitute for him.  I fell for you...well, `cuz you're
you."

      Greg sat back and gazed into Scott's eyes.  Slowly, that sad smile
reemerged.  "Thank you for saying that.  Hell, thank you for doing that.
I'm not sure I would have made it through the year if you hadn't been at my
side."  He giggled, leaned forward and whispered, "Or if you hadn't been at
or on or in any variety of other places for that matter."

      Scott snorted as he sipped his water again and fell victim to a
coughing fit.  As he was gasping for air and wiping his mouth and chin,
Greg leaned forward again, laying his forearms on the tabletop.  "So,
Mr. Turner, let's just accept it.  It is what it is.  Now, I propose we
make the most of the time we have left together in Madison.  We have finals
next week, and then it's going to be another three or four days before Nick
will be able to come and pick me up so that we can move.  That gives us
about ten days to do this right."

      Scott smiled.  "It's an over-used cliché, but `take the lemons and
make lemonade?'"

      Greg filled his mouth with eggs and sausage and nodded with a smile
as he chewed.  As they ate, they made plans for the coming week and a half.
Finally, Greg checked his watch and began to slide out of the booth.  "I
gotta get to class."  He checked the tab that the waitress had left and
dropped his half plus tip onto the table.  "Let's blow this joint."

      They left the restaurant side by side.  Each one wanted to hold the
other's hand as they strolled toward Scott's car.  Instead, they both
buried their hands in their pockets.  Scott sighed.  "This is the shits,
ya' know?"

      Greg kicked at a paper cup on the sidewalk.  "Don't I know it.  We
both put our lives back together within a few weeks' time, and now here we
are.  It's great and it sucks all at the same time.  There oughta be a
law."

      Scott nudged him with his shoulder.  "Oh, there are lots of laws, and
I think this is one of them.  Good things happen, but you don't always know
what's on the price tag. It's a crap shoot, I guess."

      As they passed the dumpster behind the restaurant, Greg glanced left
and right, then quickly grabbed Scott's arm, tugging him up against the
building's back wall and out of sight.  He grabbed the other arm and held
Scott close and then kissed him.  "Thanks for meeting me here today."

      Scott grinned and kissed him back.  "Thanks for putting up with my
shit.  I don't get all deranged like I did last night very often.  I'm
really sorry for being such a prick."

      Greg released his grip and looked longingly around Scott's face and
then into his eyes.  "I thought about that.  I would'a done the same thing,
I think.  But now, you got about ten days to make it up."

      Scott wiggled his brows and leered back.  "I'll do my best.  Now, can
I drive you to class?"

      Greg shook his head.  "Naw.  It was already a nice day when I came
over here.  It's a beautiful day right now.  I think I'll enjoy the walk.
I'll call you later and we can get busy makin' lemonade."



      For the next week and a half, they were inseparable, and each one
worked hard to hide his own quiet sadness.  Greg spent nearly every night
of that last stretch of the school year at Scott's apartment.  Both the
fattest cat and the dog took to the newcomer instantly because he had a
habit of strategically dropping bits of food on the floor when they were in
the room.  Brett and Craig offered as much teasing acceptance as they could
muster, and they actually argued over whether they should refer to the
couple as "Screg" or "Grott."

      Scott and Greg both took it in stride, and dished the shit back
whenever they could.  One night, when Greg finally felt comfortable enough
to mix it up with them he looked at Craig and said, "Hey, at least I'm
getting laid...and getting laid good.  Eat your heart out, breeder man."
It was so unlike Greg that Scott nearly fell off his chair.  As a novice at
giving a gay friend some good-natured shit, Craig was at a complete loss
for words.

      On his first evening in the apartment, they were all sharing a couple
frozen pizzas and playing cards.  Scott plucked a morsel of ground beef off
one of his slices and looked at the dog.  "C'mere Brett," he offered,
holding the bit of meat in the air.

      The dog scampered over from the corner of the room and looked up
expectantly.

      Greg coughed on his beer.  "What'd you call him?"

      Scott grinned sarcastically.  "Greg Page, meet Brett the Dog."

      Greg bust out a laugh.  "I thought his name..."

      Scott cut him off.  "Nope.  Had a re-christening the other day."  He
glanced at his roommate whose lips were pursed in a failing effort to fight
back a grin, and who was rolling his eyes.  "His original owner wanted him
to have an obnoxious, even a repulsive name.  This is as close as I was
willing to go."  He tossed the brown ball of alleged meat into the air and
the lab made a good catch on its descent.  Scott rubbed his head and leaned
down a bit.  "Goo'boy!  Who's a gooooood Brrrreeeeeeet?"  The dog wagged
his tail.  Scott beamed.  "See, he's a fucking genius already.  Knows his
new name."  Brett the Roommate just shook his head and shuffled the cards.

      On Monday they each had a morning exam, and then they took the
afternoon off to wander through the small zoo adjacent to Warner Park.  In
a replay of many a spring afternoon with his buddies the previous year,
Scott packed a small cooler with water bottles and a few beers and he
bummed a couple joints from Brett the Roommate.  He and Greg put on a mild
happy buzz, laughed at the little primates in the round monkey cage, and
then shed their shirts and tossed the Frisbee back and forth on the green
expanse across the street from the beach on the edge of Lake Wingra.  After
a while, Greg intentionally hurled the plastic disk far over Scott's head
and into the wooded area of the UW Arboretum that abutted the zoo's large
park. Ten minutes later, Greg had Scott's shorts tugged down around his
ankles. He was leaning forward against a tree in a remote corner of the
nature center.  Scott slowly eased in and out of Greg, smiling sublimely at
the joyful whimpers and moans that Greg couldn't suppress.

      They finished in the long grass a few feet from the tree with Greg's
legs in the air.  He softly whined Scott's name as he sprayed his sweaty
abs and pecs with his own milky seed.  Scott leaned down and drove his
tongue deep into Greg's mouth and his entire body quaked as he spent
himself completely into the rubber that was buried deep inside his smiling
lover.

      They never did find the Frisbee.  Actually, they never really looked
for it.

      As they were walking back to the car, a tall, muscular brunette guy
in baggy shorts and a tight white tee crossed their path near the parking
lot.  He pushed his shades down to the tip of his nose, looked over at them
and smiled.  "Dudes!  That was fucking hot!  Keep up the good work.  You
guys could do movies."  And then he walked away still smiling.  Both of
them were still blushing and laughing as Scott drove out of the lot.

      Tuesday was a day off for both of them.  Earlier in the year, Scott
had won the fifth place prize in a Badger Booster fund-raising raffle.  It
was a certificate for a hot air balloon ride that he was sure he'd never
redeem.  He had figured he'd give it to his parents.  Heights didn't
exactly terrify him, but they didn't really comfort him either.  Now he
convinced himself it would be fun and reasoned, `I'll just keep watching
the horizon and won't look down.'  He'd made a call over the weekend to
secure the reservation.  That morning he dragged a groggy and confused Greg
out of bed, tossed him in the shower and packed a cooler full of some cold
grilled chicken, fruit and potato salad.  For nearly two hours they floated
with their goofy looking pilot and tour guide over the lakes and farmland,
the campus and the downtown area, including the gracious dome itself.
"Don't you dare," Greg admonished, as Scott got ready to spit over the rim
of the balloon's basket.  He waited and hocked one up once they were over
Lake Monona.

      And so it went.  On Wednesday, after their tests, they headed to the
casino up in Wisconsin Dells, the same one where Marty had made a killing
on the quarter slots a little over a year before.  Greg hooted loudly at
Scott's recounting of Marty Anderson grabbing a minister's wife and dancing
her up and down the row of blinking machines, and then cashing in a ticket
for nearly a thousand dollars.  At the end of this trip, Scott was down
twenty bucks.  Greg was up by about the same, so he bought dinner at the
casino's buffet before they went back to Madison.

      On Thursday, they both went to the University Book Store to sell
their used books, each one receiving about forty cents on the dollar for
what they'd paid at the start of the semester.  Still, it was enough to
cover the cost of a hotel room in Milwaukee.  Grant Cornell had given Scott
two tickets to the Brewers/Cubs game.  They watched the Brewers lose four
to three in eleven innings, and then they spent the night writhing and
crawling, grunting and groaning, laughing and panting and sweating and
drooling and cumming all over each other, re-exploring plenty of territory
that each one knew so well.  They drove back to Madison the following
morning tired and satisfied, not really giving a damn about how they might
fare on their afternoon final exams.

      One day at a time, they had moved Greg's belongings out of his dorm
room and over to the apartment.  Greg had to be out at the end of final
exam week, but Nick couldn't come down to Madison until a few days later.
So, they agreed to relocate everything to the apartment, and Nick would
come down with his Jeep and pick him up there.  A big suitcase and a box of
stuff found its way to Scott's room one day, and then a smaller suitcase
and a huge duffel bag followed the next.  Another duffel and small suitcase
along with two boxes of this and that came shortly after.  Before long, the
bedroom and hallway just outside had become a maze of boxes and baggage.
The fattest cat in the world was not amused.

      By Friday evening, everything had been moved and Scott was hell bent
on a good old-fashioned Wisconsin fish fry.  With Greg's help, he beat the
living daylights out of a couple dozen Ritz crackers and saltines for
breading, drenched some perch filets in an egg/milk bath, pressed them in
the crumbs and served up a great meal for all four of them.  They played
Euchre until the early hours of Saturday morning; trash talked one another
and drank too much.  At nine o'clock in the morning, Scott blasted the rock
opera "Tommy" on the stereo and then he and Greg banged on the other two
bedroom doors.  They dragged Craig and Brett to the University Ridge golf
course for eighteen holes.  They'd decided before teeing off that the high
scorer would fork out for the brats and the low man would pick up a case of
beer.  Scott bought the brats.  Greg paid for the beer.  They returned to
the apartment in the middle of the afternoon and each enjoyed a healthy
nap.  Scott and Greg snuggled on Scott's bed and snored for a couple of
hours before Scott got up to light the grill.  It was a great day.

      On Sunday morning, Brett and Craig packed Brett's vehicle and headed
back to Rockford for a couple of days.  Finals were done and they had an
old high school buddy who'd enlisted in the Army and was soon to be shipped
overseas.  The timing couldn't have been better for everybody since the
other two roommates knew Greg would be leaving on Tuesday.  They wanted to
give the pair some time alone.

      It was a lazy day for the two guys.  The morning weather babe on TV
had forecast rain for the whole day and she didn't disappoint.  Scott made
a late breakfast of his favorite egg bake and American fries.  In the
middle of the afternoon, while they lay together on the couch watching "The
Sting" on cable TV, Greg's cell phone rang.  Greg walked into the bedroom
to take the call but Scott could hear him discussing Tuesday's plans.  A
frown crossed his face, but he made sure it was gone by the time Greg
returned.  He looked up just as Greg was ready to plop back on the couch.
"Nick?"

      "Yeah."

      "How's he doing?"

      Greg eased back down onto the opposite end of the sofa and rested his
bare feet on Scott's thighs.  "He's gonna be here Tuesday morning and we're
gonna do the whole thing in one trip."

      Scott rubbed the top of Greg's right foot.  "That's not what I
asked."

      Greg was busted.  "He's nervous.  Maybe anxious is a better word.  I
mean he's happy that I'm going up there, and that we'll be playing ball
together, but I think he's on edge about picking me up here.  He has a
pretty good idea where you and I have been these past months.  Plus, he's
so far back in the closet that he needs mothballs to stay alive.  I think
he's kind of skittish about us living together."

      "You told him he has nothing to worry about from me, didn't you?"

      "Hell yeah!  We've been e-mailing and talking on the phone off an on
for a few weeks now, ever since the baseball thing came down on me."  He
looked down and then slowly back up.  "On us, I mean."  Scott's face gave
way to the frown again, but Greg would have none of it.  "And don't get all
misty about that shit again.  We both did what we needed to do, dammit!
Shit happens!  What is it you said that Big Scott always said?  `If you
want to make a difference in this world, you gotta be ready to piss some
people off.'  Now get over it.  Please?"

      Greg leaned all the way forward and slid his legs back so that he
could lay between Scott's legs, facing him.  He rested a forearm on each
side of Scott's head on the arm of the couch.  His gaze captured Scott's
eyes and his brows slowly rose to repeat the question.  "Please?"

      They kissed softly and slowly as the rain tap-tap-tapped on the roof.
"Okay," Scott whispered into Greg's ear.  "So you told Nick that you came
out to your dad and Jesse?"

      Greg's head shot back and he scoffed.  "Hell no.  I will when the
time is right.  But he's something of a Latino stereotype, sorry to say.
Lots of machismo packed inside that small frame.  And with this feisty
Cuban, that stuff comes out in a lot of issues about his image.  Putting it
mildly, I think it's gonna rattle his cage when I do tell him."

      Scott grinned for a second and then looked down.  "And, uhm, you two,
living together and all that, you're gonna...I mean...not that it's any of
my business or anything, but..."

      Greg giggled and his index finger traced Scotty's chin.  "Scott
Turner, Jr.  Lost for words.  Whoda' thunk it?"  He pulled Scott's head
close and planted their lips together in a long, slow kiss.  He inhaled as
he released his lover and sighed.  "I don't know, Scott."  Scott looked
skeptical but didn't speak.  "Honestly?  Probably.  We haven't talked about
it.  Nicky's still on this on-again-off-again thing with his gymnast buddy
up there, Patrick.  And I'm not sure whether it's on or off at the moment.
But could it happen, maybe now and then?  Yeah.  You and Marty have `done
the deed' since you and I met."

      Scott shrugged his admission and said, "But not in a long time.  I
mean, with their kids growing up so fast and all this lousy shit with Jill
and all, I just couldn't...not now ...I mean, I'd feel like a total shit, a
gross intruder or something if that was to happen now."

      A devilish grin crossed Greg's lips.  "So, do ya' wanna know if we do
it?"

      Scott gasped.  "Hell no!  Wait.  Maybe.  Aw shit, Greg!  I don't
know.  I'm sorry I even brought it up."  Now he was on the verge of a pout.

      "You'd be jealous?"

      There was a long moment of pensive silence.  The wheels were turning
inside of Scott's head and Greg could almost hear them.  Finally, Scott
said softly, "Yeah, I guess I would."  After another few seconds he cleared
his throat.  "Not mad, ya' know.  I couldn't blame you.  But jealous?
Yeah.  I'd be jealous of anybody else getting their hands and whatnot on
you."

      Greg forced a sad smile.  "Kiss me."  Scott did, and then Greg looked
deep into his eyes.  "But I'm glad you'd be jealous.  I'm not going to ask
you for any promises, Scotty.  We made this bed together, so to speak, and
now we gotta lay in it, live with it.  Please don't ask me for any promises
either.  I love you.  I really do love you.  A lot."  He stroked Scott's
temple with a thumb.

      Scott closed his eyes and whispered, "And I love you too."  He
sniffed.  "Maybe too much."

      Greg laid his head on Scott's chest.  "There's no such thing.  You
can't love somebody else too much.  You just can't.  I don't believe it."
He thought for another long moment.  "But let's not go and make any
promises that we might not be able to keep."

      Scott softly moaned a plaintive sigh.  "I know, I know."

      Greg smiled and tapped Scott's chest.  "Gimme your car keys."  The
dog heard `car' and his head shot up off of his front paws.

      "Huh?"

      "Your car keys.  I wanna run to the grocery store.  I'm gonna cook
dinner for us tonight."

      Scott smiled.  "Nice idea.  They're on the dresser.  I was gonna call
home anyway and talk to the folks.  Whatcha gonna make for me?"

      Greg sat up and then stood.  "I'll surprise you, but you're gonna
love it.  Everybody does."

      Scott pulled him back and stole a quick kiss.  "I'm sure I will.
Grab the umbrella out of the closet in the bedroom."  He'd stopped calling
it `my room' a week earlier.

      Greg put on his shoes and looked at Brett the Dog who was wagging his
tail at the top of the stairs and he pointed.  "Nope.  Sorry Brett.  It's
raining out there and you'd come back smelling worse than your namesake."
The dog sat and begged with his eyes.  It did him no good.

      Scott dialed his parents' number and Big Scott picked up on the third
ring.  "Hey, ya' old fart.  You guys getting the rain that we are?"

      The father smiled.  "Well, we were all set to start building the ark,
but the weather guy on the radio says it's going to clear in an hour or so,
so we put it all on hold.  So how are you?"

      Scott pinched his lip.  "Uhm, doin' okay.  Me and Greg are just
hanging out.  He's gonna fix us dinner tonight.  He leaves for Mankato on
Tuesday."

      Big Scott paused.  "And...?"

      Scotty sighed.  "And it sucks, but we're managing, I guess."  He
still wasn't completely at ease discussing this part of his life with his
dad, so he changed the subject.  "So I'm gonna be home on Wednesday and
ready to go on the campaign."

      Big Scott chuckled but he correctly read his son's move in the
conversation.  "I thought you were turning your back on politics."

      Scott smiled.  "Aw, this ain't politics.  This is my dad.  There's a
difference, and I'm rarin' and ready to jump in with whatever you need."

      "Good answer.  I'm having a lunch with some of the key folks in the
district and from the state party.  With that dumb ass Frick so jammed up
down there, we're gonna have to refigure some of our plans.  Nobody with a
brain will be taking any money or any kind of help from the campaign
committee he's been managing."

      Scott nodded.  "Good move.  My buddy at `The Journal' says that the
moron is absolutely toxic around there right now, but that he's just
arrogant enough to try and fight this through to the finish."

      They chatted a few more minutes about the Brewers and the pro
football draft that had recently been completed.  Then Scotty chatted with
his mom for a few minutes.  Not long into their talk, Suzanne paused and
asked, "Scotty, dear, you don't sound too well.  Is everything okay?"

      Scott sighed.  "Yes mommy.  I'm just tired.  It's been a long week,"
Suzanne didn't respond.  "Hey.  I'll be home in a couple of days and you
can see for yourself.  But now, I gotta jump in the shower.  Each one gave
their love over the phone and said goodbye.

      A half hour later, Scott stuck his head around the doorway to the
kitchen.  He was wearing only gym shorts and a plain white tee and his hair
was still damp from his shower.  "Need any help with anything?"

      Greg shook a tomato-stained wooden spoon over his shoulder without
looking up.  "I told you I'm making dinner!  I've been eating over here for
a week now, and you've done most of the kitchen duty.  It's my turn to show
off.  This is my mom's lasagna, the best ever.  It's one of the two dishes
I actually know how to make, and it's gonna be great."  He grabbed the
round, blue Morton's box and salted the water in the big pot that was
waiting for the noodles.  "Craig and Scott are gonna thank us both for the
leftovers."  He picked up the plastic McCormick shaker and frowned.  "The
damned store didn't have any fresh basil, so this dried shit will have to
do.  Meantime, get the hell out of my kitchen."  Then he giggled.

      Scott snuck up behind him on his tiptoes and wrapped his arms around
Greg's waist.  "Mmmm...smells great."

      Greg let go of the spoon he'd been stirring in the pot of sauce and
leaned back.  "So do you.  But I'm busy, and I told you to get the hell out
of my kitchen."  He cocked his head to the side and whined as Scott's
tongue slowly lapped up his neck and behind his ear.  "Dammit, Scotty!  You
know that makes me nuts."

      Scott let out a muffled "Mmmm hmmmm" into the side of Greg's neck,
"Why do you think I do it so often?"  He gently nipped Greg's left lobe.

      Greg giggled and stirred the sauce one more time before tapping the
spoon on the pot's rim and laying it on a nearby towel.  He turned around.
"Not now, you freaking perv."

      Scott pinched Greg's nipples lightly through his tee shirt.  "You
love it when I'm a perv."

      Greg grinned and pecked him on the lips.  "Naw, I just plain love
you, and you're always a perv."  Then he pushed Scott away.  "Now open that
box of noodles and drop them in the water, perv."

      Scott faked a pout, but did as he was asked.  Greg turned around
again and began tearing up some Romaine lettuce and dropping it into a
large bowl.  Scott stirred through the noodles to separate them.  Once
they'd softened enough to be fully submerged in the roiling water, he
turned his attention back to Greg.  Just as he was about to slip his hands
up under Greg's shirt he got another admonition.  "Ah, ah, ah!  Hands off!
Grab that loaf of bread and slice it down the middle.  Butter both halves
and put it on a cookie sheet."  Scott winced, but once again did as he was
told.  Greg followed him with a bread knife and scored each half loaf into
generous slices and sprinkled both sides with garlic powder.  "When the
lasagna comes out, I'll pop these under the broiler for a few minutes."

      After draining the noodles, Greg assembled the pan with layers of
noodles, sauce, and cheeses and then he repeated the process all over
again.  After patting the top layer of grated mozzarella, he sprinkled the
pan with a generous handful of freshly grated Parmesan and slid the pan
into the oven.  He checked his watch.  Scott was leaning against the
counter with a soft smile, sipping one of the two beers he'd just opened.
Greg cocked his head.  "What're you grinning at?"

      Scott's smile broadened.  "You.  You're so damned cute when you get
all serious and shit in the kitchen."  He held out a beer.

      Greg took a couple of steps forward and grabbed the beer.  He took a
sip, put it down on the counter and leaned into Scott, wrapping his left
arm around the middle of Scott's back and pulling himself close.  "And here
I thought you were still pouting about being rebuffed on your crazy
come-ons a little while ago."

      Scott wiggled his brows.  "Well, I must confess that I was hoping for
something of an appetizer before we dig into this wonderful meal."

      Greg glanced at the oven again, and then the clock.  "We got forty
minutes `til dinner is ready."

      Ten minutes later, after hearing some strange sounds from the
kitchen, Bret the Dog peeked in on them.  The newcomer was leaning over,
his elbows propped on the counter and his sweatpants were bunched down
around his ankles.  It sounded like he was purring.  Scott was on his knees
with one hand on each of Greg's glutes and his face was buried in the
crevice that separated Greg's sweet globes.  His head was sort of rotating
just a little bit up and down, left and right.  "Jeez," the dog thought,
"that's an awful lot of sniffing going on there.  Don't they know that a
good whiff or two of the other dog's butt is all it takes to get to know
someone?  Then you find a good tree to pee on and be on your way.  But this
is just overkill."  He sauntered into the living room hoping to torment the
fattest cat for a while.

      Within minutes, Greg's upper torso was spread prostrate across the
kitchen table, his arms outstretched with his fingers curled around the
opposite edge of the table's surface.  The left side of his face was flat
on the table, but Scott could just make out the ecstatic grin that told him
he was hitting all the right spots with each thrust from behind his lover.
Greg moaned softly through his nose and bit his lip as Scott picked up the
pace a bit.  "Yeah, Scotty.  Just like that, babe.  Oh, God, yeah!"  He
mumbled "Oh...oh... oh...oh!" in perfect rhythm with each new invasion by
Scott's tingling rod."

      Scott closed his eyes and slid both hands off of Greg's hips and he
greedily kneaded the cheeks without breaking his stride.  He thrust forward
hard and Greg whined with great pleasure and appreciation.  Scott pushed
forward hard and he held himself there deep inside, swiveling his hips back
and forth, up and down.  He grinned when Greg's head shot up off of the
table and he gasped, "Aawww, Chrrrrrist!"  He slapped the table hard.

      Scott's lips spread into a devilish grin.  Slowly, he slid his
glistening pole out of Greg's chute with a quiet `pop' and a whimpering
protest from below.  "No!  God, don't stop now Scotty!  Oh, shit, dude.
Don't stop now.  Bring me home, Scotty.  Don't tease me!  I'm so damn
close! "

      Scott gently swatted the taut right cheek below him.  "Turn around
and get on your back.  I want us to fuck on the table while I watch your
gorgeous face, suck on your lips and tongue, play with those hot, hard
nips."

      Greg flashed a lascivious grin and in an instant he'd propped his
butt on the edge of the table and laid back.  He grabbed crook of his legs
under each knee, pulling each limb up near his chest.  Scott leaned into
the `V' between the parted thighs in front of him, and then bent over and
assaulted Greg's mouth with his own.  As his fingers wove through the
sweaty strands of hair on Greg's forehead, Scott was suddenly aware that
his hungry partner had a grip on his manhood and was pulling it toward
their desired target.  Greg grunted and moaned into Scott's mouth when he
was entered once more.  In seconds, the tight warmth around Scott's cock
and the full feeling of Greg being connected again with his lover's steely
manhood had both men grunting and sweating and spitting into and onto each
other.

      Scott lifted Greg's legs higher, setting each calf on one of his own
shoulders.  Greg's forearms embraced Scott's writhing back, pulling him
downward into him harder and faster.  When Scott's forehead came down to
the table's surface and their cheeks touched, Greg's tongue dug into
Scott's ear.  The table's legs bounced a couple of times when Greg's body
quaked.  Without realizing it, he turned his head and bit Scott's left
shoulder while his raging hard tool erupted between their trusting, heaving
abs and chests.

      With Greg still languishing in his own orgasmic oblivion, Scott
withdrew and slid off the sheath.  He stroked himself two or three times
and quickly painted Greg's still swollen red member, his sack and his pubes
with gobs of pearly jiz.

      They hugged and kissed and laughed, Greg still lying on the table
with his arms and legs around his hot lover.  Then, they cleaned up the
tabletop and the floor and lavished in a lazy, hot, soapy shower together.

      Finally, they enjoyed lasagna, salad and garlic bread.  Naked.  In
bed.  It was delicious.




      On Monday evening, Greg had to attend the team's end of year banquet.
Actually, it was the "End of the Team Banquet," and nobody was looking
forward to it.  Greg was due to receive the `Rookie of the Year' award, and
Coach Bidwell was going to publicly announce and congratulate him on his
swift catch of the new position at Minnesota State.

      "You clean up real good, Page," Scott offered as Greg came out of the
bedroom.  Greg looked so hot in his charcoal gray suit, white starched
shirt and cardinal red tie.

      "I'd rather just hang out here tonight and molest you," Greg
whispered into Scott's ear during their embrace at the top of the stairs.

      Scott pecked him on the lips and grinned.  "Let's not rule that out,
but you gotta go.  Darrin's leaning on the horn pretty heavy down there and
it's going to piss off the neighbors if you don't get out to his car pretty
soon."

      After moping around the apartment for about an hour, Scott was
getting tired with the talking heads on PBS's "The News Hour" and went to
check the fridge for a beer and whatever leftovers might be in there.  The
beer was there, but other than the leftover lasagna, the food situation was
looking pretty bleak.  After contemplating the culinary delight of a
bologna sandwich he opened a bottle of Leinenkugel's and sat back down in
the living room and channel-surfed.  Just as he'd drained the bottle there
was a sudden hard knock on the front door that jolted him from his mournful
repose.  The dog barked and the fattest cat scooted into Scott's closet.
Three steps from the bottom of the stairs he heard the familiar voice
shouting at the door.  "C'mon professor!  The pizza's getting cold and the
beer's getting warm.  Get a move on, dammit!"

      Scott's face nearly exploded as he swung the door open.  He shouted,
"Heeeeeeeey!  What the hell?!"  Marty had a large pizza box in one hand, a
twelve pack of beer in the other and his trademark impish grin on his face.

      After Scott pushed the screen door open Marty shoved past him.
"Outta my way, bud.  We'll put the pizza in the oven to warm a little,
crush each other in a big hug, open a couple a beers and then sit out on
the front porch and get caught up."  Scott stood aside and then followed
Marty as he bolted up the stairs.  During a long embrace in the middle of
the kitchen, Scott asked again.  "What brings you up here?"

      Marty pulled away and stepped back to grab a couple of the cans from
the twelve and put the rest in the fridge.  Then they walked down the hall
toward the porch.  "I didn't tell you, but Jill went back in today for
another marrow biopsy.  I brought her up and stayed until she was sound
asleep.  Then her folks showed up with the kids.  I sat with them for
another hour and then told `em I was gonna take a break and come over here
for a visit.  She'll sleep most of the night `cuz of the pain meds."  He
took a long chug from his beer and frowned.  "Brutal procedure, that marrow
tap is.  They can call it an `aspiration' but it's a fucking brutal
invasion.  After the first one they did, Jill swore she wouldn't go through
it again without morphine."  Scott shuddered and shook his head.  Marty
countered, "But she can handle anything, and it's gotta be done."

      The guys got comfortable in the chairs on the front porch, propped
their feet up on the balcony's front railing and each took a gulp of beer.
Marty swallowed and muffled a burp.  "Plus, a couple days ago a little bird
told me you'd made some major changes that you haven't filled me in on..."

      Scott interrupted.  "I figured that shit could all wait.  It's not
like you don't have enough to worry about..."

      Marty cut him off with his hand.  "AND that you were kind of down in
the dumps, AND that maybe you could use an ear to bend or a friendly
shoulder to lean on."

      Scott's brows scrunched down.  "Craig called you?"

      "Nope."

      "Not Brett!"

      "Ha!  Mr. Sensitivity?"

      Scott thought another second or two.  "Greg?  You mean Greg called
you?"

      Marty gulped his beer again and wiped his lips.  "He e-mailed.  Said
your lives have both been one friggin' tornado after another lately.  Said
that he was movin' on and thought you could use somebody other than him to
talk with about it."

      Scott tossed his head back and laughed.  "Well, I'll be damned!"
Then he thought about it again.  "But maybe not.  I guess it's just like
him to do that."

      For the next half hour the two munched on a pepperoni pizza, sipped a
couple of beers and Scott retold his roller coaster life of the past two
weeks.

      When Scott finally concluded the saga, Marty tossed back his head and
cackled.  "Jesus fucking Christ!  And you think I'm the impulsive one."  He
counted on his fingers.  "Let's see...in the course of a couple of weeks,
you've come out to your folks and then to Craig and Brett.  You've made up
with Greg.  Then you quit a job that might have been the launch pad for
your already rising political star.  You changed majors, announced you're
leaving the WSA completely and then publicly told one of its more infamous
members to `sit down and shut the fuck up!'"  He howled again and swatted
Scott's thigh before impersonating him.  He pointed at himself, "What is it
Elliot, you want some of this?"  He reached over and ruffled Scott's hair.
"You actually said that?"

      Scott nodded as he got up to go to the fridge.  "Even the `Badger
Herald' quoted me the next day, and they actually got it right for a
change."

      Marty turned and shouted through the screen door.  "You're learning,
professor.  That sounds like something I would have done."

      When he returned to the porch, the fattest cat was sitting on Marty's
lap and the dog was busily licking his hand.  Scott chuckled.  Marty
grinned and shrugged.  "Hey.  What can I say?" he asked.  "Pets are very
keen judges of character."

      Scott handed him a fresh beer and sat down.  "Don't let the fat one
sit there too long or he'll cut off the circulation.  Every morning when
I'm having coffee he plops across my lap and after a little while my feet
fall asleep."

      Marty looked at Scott with a knowing, sympathetic grin.  "So...you
were on top of the world one day, and then Greg drops his bombshell about
Minnesota."

      Scott raised his brows and breathed heavily.  "That's putting it
mildly.  I was all jazzed and shit `cuz it was like everything was falling
together just perfect.  I had just invited him to move in here this summer
and he kicks me in the gut with two words: `I'm leaving.'"

      Marty shook his head in sympathy.

      Scott leaned back and gazed out over the lake.  "You know when we
were down in Florida, we met these two really cool guys, Alex and Austin.
Alex is this little waif of a guy who's some sort of martial arts ninja,
former bank teller and one hell of a singer who now also books and promotes
groups for the club he sings at.  Austin is this big lunk, former college
jock, one-time stripper and now a wine salesman."

      Marty laughed.  "A little ninja-teller-singer-promoter and a big
jock-stripper-wine distributor.  Sounds like quite the pair.  What, no
psychic gypsy who does balloon animals and impersonations in there
somewhere?  Or maybe a one-eyed skate-boarding champ who's a tattoo artist
and a mime?"

      Scott laughed with him as Marty sipped his beer and arched his brows.
"So...were they hot?  Did you guys, like...?" the brows rose and fell in
truly dirty fashion.

      "Hell no!  Those two are practically married, whatever that means in
Florida.  But hot?  Hell yeah!  But each in his own way."  He smiled again
as he pictured Alex's wiry, sharply contoured build and twinkling eyes, and
the contrast he gave to Austin's massive frame and playful "puppy dog"
demeanor, as Alex called it.  "Anyway, we had dinner with them, and they
told us all about their own coming together and making it all work.  I mean
the dudes are seriously in love!"  He sighed, and went on.  "Then, a couple
nights later we went to see Alex's show.  It was unbelievable!  And then
the little shit dedicates that old Beatles tune, `We Can Work it Out,' to
me and Greg."  He paused and pinched his lower lip.  Then he turned his
head and looked at Marty.  "The thing is, I was really getting hooked on
believing that maybe me and Greg could work it out.  Somehow..."

      Marty eased the cat off of his lap and then leaned over to rest his
elbows on his knees.  He stared at the floor for a moment and turned his
head to look directly at his friend's misty eyes.  He extended a hand and
Scott took it in his own.  "But you did, Scott.  You worked it all out.
Both of you worked it out.  You just didn't do it together or at the same
time."

      Scott was ransacking his brain for a response, but Marty continued.
"What's the first line in that song?  `Try to see it my way.' Sounds to me
like you guys have done a pretty good job of that, both of you.  You and
Greg worked through a lot of shit this year.  Greg's had the family
disaster and survived it, the counseling that you say really helped him,
the school and the baseball season, and he made some major calls of his own
along the way.  He worked it out.  You had the shit with the Regents,
coming out with Big Scott and Suzanne, Brett and Craig, the bullshit at the
capitol, all the WSA hoo-ha, not to mention your degree and future career.
And at the end of the day, Greg's basically living here until he has to
leave.  Between the two of you, that sounds like a shit-load of working it
out to me."

      Scott started to shake his head and was going to say `that's not what
I meant,' but Marty persisted.  "In the end, you both did the only things
you thought you could do and be true to yourselves.  You both worked it
out.  And now here you are, leaving each other for a time, and still loving
each other.  It could've been a lot different.  All things considered, I'd
say you worked it out pretty damn fine.  Besides, who's to say that your
paths aren't going to cross again in some way, shape or form down the road?
I mean, look at you and me."

      Scott grinned wryly.  "Yeah.  You and me.  Greg and me.  I'm on a
fucking roll.  I fall for a guy and then get hit upside the head with the
reality that he has to move on."

      Marty put up a finger and pointed it between Scott's eyes.  "Oh, quit
your bitching and stop feeling sorry for yourself, godammit!  I'm not going
to beat your ass with the obvious about suffering..." his voice cracked,
"...or possible loss—but you're whining to the wrong guy.  I feel for
you, Scotty, but don't pretend that you're carrying all of the world's
burdens.  Ya' wanna know more about that, then just ask."  He paused to let
it sink in.  "And the two guys who have `left' you did it for all the right
reasons!  Neither me nor Greg shit on you or walked away from you without
our own pain.  And we didn't really leave you.  I sure as hell didn't and I
don't think he's going to either!"

      Scott shrunk, humiliated.  His friend took a deep breath and wiped
his face before going on, waving a finger at him again.  "And yeah, you are
on a fucking roll!  You're parting ways, but not totally, one more time.
Poor Scott!  You're left here with another deep and loving friendship in
your hands and in your heart, one that's going to last no matter what
happens and you're not really losing a God damned thing!  Ya' know,
professor, I don't think most guys are this lucky.  I think most of these
things... these affairs or deals or whatever the hell they are...they end
up with each one calling the other one a skanky bitch before they both
stomp away with a shit load of hard feelings and bitterness, and then start
looking forward to their next good lay.  So it's time to quit your friggin'
bitching and count your blessings instead."

      Scott was thunderstruck.  Here was Marty, with his wife in the
hospital fighting for her life and no guarantees for his family's future.
And he had the heart and mind and compassion to pick up a pizza, some beer
and come over to console a dear friend who's wallowing in his own
self-pity.  Console him, but then kick his ass too.  "Aw, shit, Marty.  I'm
sor...

      Marty waved him off as he squelched a small burp.  "Oh shaddup!"  His
wink was his acceptance of Scott's apology.  "So this Nick guy is coming
down tomorrow?"

      Scott nodded.  "Greg said he'll be here about ten.  They have a long
haul in front of them.  All the way up to Greg's old man's place to pick up
all of his stuff and then back down to Mankato.  Two drives, seven or eight
hours on each leg of the trip."

      Marty set down his empty beer can and patted Scott's knee.  "Well, my
good man, speaking of drives, I need to get back to the hospital to kiss
Jill goodnight and pick up the kids.  But I'm coming back up tomorrow
afternoon.  We're hoping for some good news and then I think we're going to
plan the next steps based on what the biopsy tells us."

      Scott smiled.  "I know it'll be good news.  I just do.  I'll come on
over there to spend some time with you guys tomorrow.  Then I'm heading for
home the next day."

      They hugged again at the top of the stairs.  Marty pulled on the back
of Scott's neck and planted their foreheads together.  He looked deep into
Scott's eyes.  "You can handle this, professor."

      Scott smiled and nodded.  "Thanks for coming and for..."

      Marty faked a scowl.  "I said shaddup!  No charge.  Kicking ass is
what I do."  He winked again and said goodnight with a peck on the cheek,
and then one on the lips before clomping his way down the stairs.




      The following morning, Scott winced, opened his eyes halfway and
glanced down.  "Dude!  You need a shave!"  Greg's eyelids fluttered in
reaction to the noise, though he wasn't quite awake yet.  "Either that, or
quit rubbing your stubbly chin across my nipple."  Scott's protest was soft
and throaty.  He ran his fingers through Greg's hair and he sighed a deep
sigh.

      Greg was slowly coming out of his sleepy fog and he giggled.  Then he
licked and gently nibbled the brown nub before looking up.  "Then quit
shoving your nip against my face."  He stretched his neck to meet Scott's
mouth.  "Mmmm.  Nothing like the smell of me on your lips in the morning."

      Scott laughed, kissed him, and then lightly swatted Greg's ass.  "You
start the shower.  I'll put on the coffee and feed the beasts."

      They'd fucked hard, like animals, three times before finally giving
into the sleep gods.  On his back, on his knees, standing up leaning over
on the dresser, on his side, on his stomach, riding Scott...Greg just kept
begging for, and sometimes demanding, more...and more again.

      Scott stood at the kitchen counter and yawned.  `Jesus!  He couldn't
get enough last night,' he smiled as he spooned the ground beans into the
filter.  He looked down at the brown dog with the big, begging eyes.
"Brett, I hope all you want is to go out, `cuz opening that fucking door is
about all the energy I have left, and I'm not sure I'll make it back up the
stairs."

      The dog heard "go out," and he charged down the back steps, anxious
and relieved in knowing that his gaze had been understood.  `Good thing
he's the smart one, and that he's still alive,' the dog thought as he
waited for Scott to catch up with him.  The pooch had feared someone had
died during the night, given all the noise coming from behind that bedroom
door.

      Scott had to step around the dog at the bottom landing.  "Like I
said, this is all I got left. Not that I'm complaining, mind you."  The dog
just looked up and thought, `open the fucking door!'  Scott did, and he
clipped the rope to the dog's collar.  `That's a good boy,' the dog
thought.  `Finally.'

      After a long, luxurious shower, the two spent young men retired to
the front balcony with a couple cups of coffee.  Scott sat on the long lawn
chair in his robe and invited Greg, in gym shorts and a tee, to sit between
his legs and lean back.  Both had been dreading this particular morning for
over a week, but each was determined to make it as happy and as
light-hearted as they could.

      Scott wrapped his arm across Greg's chest and kissed his neck.  "I've
been meaning to thank you."

      Greg's head turned.  "For what?"

      "For e-mailing Marty.  I've been trying to leave him and the family
alone to deal with all their own shit.  I wanted to call him about a half
dozen times during that week when I was making all those changes, but I
figured there'd be time later.  Then, when you gave me the news about
Mankato, I really wanted to call him."

      Greg nodded.  "I knew you'd want to, but was sure you wouldn't."

      "What made you so sure?"

      Greg nudged Scott's rib with an elbow.  "Mr. Independent.  Mr. `I can
handle this shit on my own?'  Christ, Scott!  What do you think?"

      Scott sniffed and nodded.  "Busted.  Guilty as charged.  But I'm
really glad he stopped by."  He sighed and stroked Greg's chest.  "You
know, I told him about our trip to Florida and Alex's little tribute to us
and the whole `We Can Work it Out' thing.  I said I had been hoping that
Alex was right, that we could work it out."

      Greg grabbed Scott's hand.  "I've thought the same thing a bunch of
times since we got back from Florida."  He took a sip of coffee before
setting the mug on the floor of the porch.  "And what did your special
advisor have to say?"

      Just then the dog barked out back.  Scott patted Greg's chest.
"Shit.  I gotta let him in or he'll just keep barking and the neighbors are
gonna be pissed."  Greg leaned forward and scooted far enough to give Scott
room to stand.  He picked up Greg's mug.  "I'll let him in and refill the
mugs.  Then I'll tell you."

      While Scott refilled the coffee, the dog slurped from his water dish.
Scott scooped a little more dry food into the bowl and went back out to the
porch.  This time, he took the spot between Greg's legs."

      As Scott leaned back, Greg took the mug and asked, "So what's your
special advisor's take on the whole thing?"

      This time Scott took Greg's hand in his, locking their fingers
together.  "He said we did work it out.  We just didn't work it out
together.  I worked out my shit, and you worked out yours.  Then he sang,
`Try to see it my way...'  It was awful."

      Greg snickered at the effort.  "I'm glad Alex wasn't here to hear
that."

      Scott nodded and smiled.  "But he basically said we looked at our
fork in the road together.  One way had a shitty and bitter ending with
each of us full of hard feelings of feeling dumped on and hating the other.
The other road had this.  What we're doing now."  He snuggled back closer.
"We worked it out.  And, as usual, the silly bastard was right.  Once a lot
of the emotion cleared, I saw it your way and you saw it mine.  I guess
that's part of working it all out.  It just didn't get us where we though
it might."

      Greg kissed his neck.  "Hoped it might.  At least not for now,
anyway."

      Scott leaned his head back.  "Marty said that too.  I think his words
were `You're a couple of young fuckers who mean a lot to each other.  Who
knows where you two will be in another year or two or more?  Between now
and then, it's not like Mankato is BumFuck Egypt.  You two horndogs might
decide you have to find a way to work out the distance.'"

      Greg laughed.  "He's quite the romantic poet, isn't he?"  Then he
held Scott close.  "Yeah, Mankato might be four hours from Madison, but
it's only two hours from your mom and dad's place.  I looked it up."

      Scott smiled.  "Might be looking for a lil' sump'n this summer, ya'
think?  But you don't have a car."

      Greg snorted.  "But you do, and I KNOW you'll be lookin' for a lil'
sump'n this summer.  Besides, you said your mom gave you shit for us doin'
it in their house. So it's not like we'd be tearing up the sheets over
there anyway."

      Brett the Dog shoved the screen door open and peeked out.  Seeing
nothing that confounded him, he found his usual spot on the corner of the
porch and laid down facing the pair.

      Scott looked down at the dog and laid the back of his head in the
crook of Greg's neck.  "Sometimes I wish I was a dog."  He chuckled, "I
could run headlong into trees and just shake it off.  And then somebody
would scratch my ears and kiss my nose for doing something stupid.  I could
roll on dead fish and end up smelling putrid, but I'd feel really good
about smelling putrid, and then somebody would clean me up.  Dogs don't
have egos.  Practically everything's done on instinct and they don't have
to second-guess themselves.  Their love is unconditional even after
catching hell for doing something bad."  He shifted his weight a little
between Greg's thighs and chuckled.  "Plus, they can get away with sticking
their snouts in your crotch, and they can lick their own balls and get
laughed at for doing it."  Greg reached down and swatted his thigh.  "And
somebody else is making most of their decisions, and they just go along
with them and get a warm place to sleep and a regular feeding for their
mindless efforts.  What a life."

      Greg rolled his eyes and snorted.  "Yeah, what a great life.  Ya'
gotta beg for a Milkbone treat now and then, and have to ask somebody's
permission to go out and take a dump.  Of course there are the naps, lots
and lots of naps.  But you have to turn all the way around two or three
times before you lay down.  What's up with that anyway?"  They both
chuckled as Greg went on.  "But you do have a point on the obvious
satisfaction of getting away with sticking your nose in a hot guy's crotch.
And you're right on the whole ball licking thing...whenever the mood
strikes, even if others are watching." Brett The Dog was supporting them
both by giving his nether regions a thorough cleaning.  After a second's
reflection Greg added, "Of course, if I could do that I'd probably want
people to know it, and I'd demonstrate it every chance I got."

      Scott's eyes shot to the porch's overhang and he shook his head.  "If
you could do that you'd never leave home.  But I never figured you for a
showoff"

      He pointed at the dog.  "Shit, if I could do that, I'll bet I'd
become one hell of a showoff in a New York minute."

      Scott leaned back again and giggled.  "And I'd sell tickets."

      Greg drummed his fingers on Scott's chest.  "Yeah, dogs are usually
cute, and most of them are loyal and lovable.  But the biggest challenge
they have to tackle most days is how to get into the garbage can.  It might
be satisfying if they succeed, but it's only for them.  And it's
short-lived satisfaction until the master gets home.  And then there's hell
to pay.  They can challenge your patience, but not your mind or your
character.  They might make you wonder sometimes, like when they roll
around on a dead fish, but they really don't make you think.  They gratify
their humans a lot of the time, and they can make good company.  We talk to
them and tell ourselves that they're listening, but they're only hearing
the noises that are connected to the rewards they want.  They can make us
smile and tug at our hearts for an instant, but they don't really make us
better people.  No disrespect to the noble Brett here.  But the fact is,
how we decide to treat them tells what kind of people we are.  They're
basically another one of our tools: lovable, affectionate and amusing
tools.  But they're still tools."

      Scott just closed his eyes, and Greg went on.  "You, Mr. Turner are
not a tool.  You live to tackle real challenges that might make the world a
better place.  You've already fought a few hard battles to avoid bad things
happening to a lot of good people, and you've won.  Dogs can't do that.
Okay, maybe Lassie could pull that off, but she was, like, one in a
bazillion."

      Scott scoffed softly.  "She was a he.  There were nine of `her' but
they were all males."

      Greg tapped Scott's head gently.  "Oops.  My bad.  I forgot I was
dealing with the TV Trivia god here."  Then he lifted his left hand and ran
his fingers through Scott's hair, lightly massaging his scalp.  Scott
purred his thanks and Greg smiled as he whispered, "But, maybe worst of
all, dogs never really make love.  They fuck who they don't love, and the
owner that they think they do love, they can't fuck."

      Scott let out a naughty snicker.  "How do you know there's no love in
humping a bitch in heat?  And besides, you've never seen Brett the Dog hug
my thigh with his front legs and act like he's giving my shin `the high
hard one.'  He loves me, and tries to fuck my shins, my knees, my calves
all the time."

      Greg was giggling while Scott stood up, turned around and straddled
the lower half of the lawn chair.  He planted his butt between Greg's
knees, grabbed onto the arms of the chair, pulled them forward so that the
back came upright and they were looking directly into each other's eyes a
couple of inches apart.  Greg put a flat hand on each side of Scott's face
and gazed.  "And no fucking dog, not even Lassie, could have done for me
this year what you have."  He leaned forward and softly kissed him.  "I'm
glad you're not a dog, even if you can't lick your own balls."  They kissed
again and then Greg smiled.  "That's my job."

      Scott laughed and reached into the pocket of his robe.  "Hold out
your hand."  Greg did as asked and Scott placed the silver guardian angel
medallion into his palm and pushed his fingers closed.

      Greg gripped it tight and rubbed Scott's chest with his free hand.
"Thank you.  I was afraid you might have thrown her away."

      Scott adjusted his weight and took a sip of his coffee.  "Truth?  I
almost did, a couple of times."

      Greg looked down and rubbed it with his thumb.  "I'm glad you didn't.
I promise not to lose it again."

      Scott leaned forward.  "Well then, I'll thank you."  Their mouths and
tongues came together in a long, sweet kiss.

      As Scott's face backed away, Greg leaned up and quickly kissed him
again.  "You know that I'd like nothing better than to sit right here like
this all day long, but Nick's going to be here in about a half hour or so."

      Scott sighed.  "Let me put on some clothes and we can move all your
stuff to the porch downstairs."  He walked slowly to his bedroom and
swallowed hard.  As he was stepping into a pair of shorts he shook his
head.  `Suck it up, dummy.  This is all for the best and you know it.'  He
took a deep breath, put on a happy face and grabbed onto the biggest of the
suitcases.

      Twenty minutes later, Nick Torres pulled to the curb outside the
duplex and put the Jeep in park.  He could see all the baggage and boxes
stacked on the porch, but he double-checked the address Greg had given him
anyway.  As he walked up the front steps he saw that the inside door was
open.  Squinting through the outer screen door, he could see the dozen or
so steps that led up to the apartment.  As he peered up the dimly lit
stairway to the upstairs landing, he made out the image of four legs and
four feet without an inch of space between them.  His vantage point didn't
allow him to see anything above the thighs, but the proximity of the lower
limbs made it clear that Scott and Greg were saying their goodbyes.  Nick
quietly stepped back from the door.  He slowly walked to the Jeep and
opened the back door, and then slowly strolled back to the porch and rang
the doorbell.

      Greg hollered down the stairs.  "Down in a minute, Nick."

      The cute Cuban smiled.  "No problem.  Take your time.  I'll start
loading some of this shit into the Jeep."  He grabbed a suitcase in one
hand and a duffle bag in the other.

      Scott stroked Greg's cheek with the back of his hand.  "I'll call you
when I get resettled at Mom and Dad's.  He smiled warmly and used both
thumbs to wipe the moisture under Greg's eyes.  He remembered the classic
scene from the movie, `A League of Their Own.'  "Crying?  Crying?  There's
no crying in baseball!"

      Greg laughed and dropped his forehead onto Scott's shoulder.  "You're
no Tom Hanks."

      Scott held him tight.  "And you're no Madonna."

      They kissed one more time slowly, each one wishing it wouldn't end.
Greg put a hand on each of Scott's shoulders.  "We really should go down
and give Nick a hand."

      To Nick's surprise, Greg grabbed his old friend in a big embrace.
"Hey, Nicky!  God, it's great to see you!  Thanks for coming."

      Nick finally relaxed and returned the hug, patting Greg's back.
"Anything for you, man."  He looked up at Scott's smiling face.  He broke
the embrace and extended a hand.  "Hi, Scott.  Good to see you again."

      Scott teased him.  "A bit easier in some ways than the last time we
met, eh?"

      Even through his olive complexion, Nick's blushing was evident.  He
looked down shyly and then back up with an embarrassed grin.  "You had to
bring that up, didn't you?"

      Scott laughed and nodded as Greg nudged him with an elbow.  "Shit,
Nick.  He's been waiting for a couple of weeks to say that.  He can be a
real prick sometimes, ya' know?"  All three enjoyed a friendly laugh and
then they dove into the rest of the boxes and bags.  They worked quickly
and quietly, as if all three wanted this over in a hurry.

      Nick slammed the rear doors of the Jeep shut and nodded.  "Looks like
we're good to go bud.  Ready to saddle up and head out?"

      Greg sighed and nodded back.  "I'm gonna run up and give Brett the
Dog and the fattest cat a quick pet and grab a couple bottles of water."
He dashed toward the porch.

      Scott held out his hand again and then used both when Nick accepted
the handshake.  "He's a special guy, Nick.  Take good care of him, huh?"

      Nick also put his free hand over Scott's.  "No need to even ask,
Scott.  I know you've been good to him, and good for him.  I really
appreciate that."

      Greg bounded down the steps.  "Okay, Nicky, time to hit the road,
huh?"  He tossed a bottle of water.  Nick released his grip on Scott's
hands and caught the drink in his left.  He smiled and nodded at Scott
before walking around to the driver's door.  Greg grabbed Scott into one
last hug.  He kissed Scott just below his left ear and whispered, "It's all
good, huh?"  Nick started the engine.

      Scott leaned back.  "It's all great, Greg.  Not what I had in mind,
but some things we just can't change.  The rest of it, I wouldn't change in
a million years."

      Greg patted his cheek.  "Let's talk tomorrow after you get back to
your mom and dad's place.  Give `em my best, will ya'?"

      Scott nodded.  Greg opened the door, rolled down the window and
climbed in.  "Safe drive, guys," Scott shouted.  Nick smiled and waved.
Greg dropped his right arm onto the window's edge and looked back.  "Talk
to you soon.  Thank the guys for me, will ya'?"

      And they were off.

      Scott walked slowly to the porch, then up the stairs.  He lumbered to
his room and slowly lay down on the bed, clutching the pillows under his
chin.  He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then stood up.  He
stripped the sheets and all of the bedding off the mattress and shed the
pillows of their cases.  They smelled of Greg.  He lay back down on the
bare mattress and, slowly and quietly, he finally managed to cry himself to
sleep.




      He woke up at about two in the afternoon.  He opened a can of Coke
and sat on the front porch mulling over his good and not-so-good fortune
over the past few weeks.  He missed Greg already and scolded himself for
stripping the bed.  The cell phone chimed in the bedroom and he walked in
quickly to take the call.

      "Scooter!  Hey, it's Grant."

      Scott smiled.  "Corny, you tall Irish bastard!  What goes on these
days under the dome?"

      "Well, just wanted to give you a heads up.  My source in the D.A.'s
office tells me you're going to be served with a subpoena for the whole
mess in the caucus.  You dumb shit!  If you hadn't resigned so fast, they
probably would have left you alone.  But your quick exit and friendship
with McCarthy sent up red flags, so they're gonna haul in all the
full-timers and you."

      Scott pinched his lower lip and then bit his thumbnail as he thought
it over.  "Uhm, okay, not a problem.  I'm covered, and happy as hell to
answer all of their questions.  Actually, I'm kinda glad.  If Frick gets
neutered, humiliated and thrown in jail, and if I can play even a small
part in that, then all the better!  Any idea when I might get this love
note from Kachelski's office?  I'm leaving town tomorrow morning, early."

      "Want me to let them know that?  Your dad probably doesn't need a
sheriff's deputy serving you with papers on his front porch in another day
or so."

      "Uh...yeah.  Might as well.  I'm heading to UW Hospital to visit a
friend in about an hour.  But, like I said, I'll be on the road for home by
dawn tomorrow.  They could save some time and mileage costs if they served
me with the papers today."

      Scott was sitting on the balcony tying his shoes when the county car
drove up and parked.  He stood and strolled down the stairs.  `This'll be
kinda cool,' he thought.  `I've never been subpoenaed before.'  He stepped
outside as the Sheriff's Deputy was nearing the porch.  Scott smiled.
"Looking for Scott Turner, Jr., right?"

      The officer looked surprised.  "Ah, as a matter of fact I am."

      "Well, you got him."  He extended a hand to receive the folded blue
paper.

      "Mr. Turner, this is a subpoena to appear..."

      "Not to interrupt, sir, but I know what it is.  I've been expecting
it.  Tell the gang in the D.A.'s office that I'll be there with bells on."
He'd given it a lot of thought and was glad that he and Maureen had agreed
to keep some distance for the time being.  He could go in, swear to tell
the truth and nothing but the truth and do her no harm.  Given their years
of friendship, and assuming Grant's information that she really was the
spark the led to the D.A.'s interest in this case, he owed her that much.

      The officer scratched his head.  "Well, alright then Mr. Turner.  You
have a good day."

      Scott unfolded the document and scanned for the date he'd have to be
back in Madison.  He glanced back and smiled.  "And you too, sir.  Thank
you."

      The deputy just shook his head on his way back to the car.



      Scott drove out to UW Hospital on the west side of town and found
Jill's room on the third floor.  He was happy to see that the door was
open.  As he neared, he heard Marty's voice and paused just outside the
door.  He could see Jill's reflection in its window.  She looked gaunt and
her eyes were closed.  Marty was reading to her, "Oh The Places You'll Go,"
by Dr. Seuss.  "You can get so confused that you'll start in to race down
long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across
wierdish wild space, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place...

"...for people just waiting.  Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come,
or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to
ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or a No or waiting
for their hair to grow.  Everyone is just waiting.

"Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite or waiting
around for Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot
to boil, or a Better Break or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants or a
wig with curls, or Another Chance.  Everyone is just waiting.

"NO!

"That's not for you!  "Somehow you'll escape all that waiting and staying.
You'll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing.  "With banner
flip-flapping, once more you'll ride high!  Ready for anything under the
sky.  Ready because you're that kind of a guy!

"Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!  There are points to be
scored. There are games to be won.  And the magical things you can do with
that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all.  Fame! You'll be
famous as famous can be, with the whole wide world watching you win on TV."

      Scott stepped in slowly and quietly.  Marty looked up and grinned,
but didn't stop reading.  Scott walked to the edge of the bed and reached
for Jill's hand.  She squeezed it and her eyes opened half way.  Her lids
fluttered a couple of times and she finally focused on Scott's face.
"Scotty.  How are you, hon'?"  She looked at Marty.  "Okay, you can quit
now."  She looked back at Scott; her eyes now open all the way.  "Ash' can
recite it from memory, but he always has to read it."

      Scott leaned down and kissed her forehead.  "He's a dope, you know?"

      Jill smiled and sighed.  "Yeah, but he's my dope."

      Scott chuckled and looked back at and forth between them.  "So,
what's the latest?"

      Jill lifted her right hand in a fist and raised the thumb.  "Lookin'
good so far.  The biopsy was clean, but I have to stay another day or two
to get rid of this friggin' infection."

      Marty put down the book and walked to the edge of the bed.  He picked
up a glass of ice water and pushed a button to elevate Jill's head.  He
held the straw near her lips.  When she was nearly upright, she sipped hard
on the straw and breathed deep after she swallowed.  Marty smiled at Scott
with wide eyes.  "They found the right donor!  If we can keep her cancer
free for another couple of months, the transplant will happen in early
July."

      Scott's face erupted with excitement.  "That's great!"  He squeezed
Jill's hand again.  "Oh, Jill, that's outstanding!"

      She smiled weakly and nodded.  "My own special Independence Day."


      Downstairs, Brett held the front door to the reception area open and
Craig sauntered through.  Craig glanced back.  "You sure this is gonna
work?"

      Brett giggled and tapped his shoulder.  "Hey.  Have I ever let you
down before?"  He pointed to a row of chairs.  "Just go sit down.  I'll go
and find her, and we'll be in."

      Craig muttered, "Yeah, you have let me down before.  Let me count the
ways," but he just shook his head and grinned while his soon to be
ex-roommate confidently walked through the set of double doors to the right
of the reception desk.  `Maybe we shouldn't have smoked that joint on the
drive up here,' Craig considered as he sat down and picked up a four-month
old copy of "Field and Stream."

      Two minutes later, Brett came back out accompanied by a short, sturdy
looking young woman of some mixed races that Craig couldn't pinpoint.
Brett waved him over and introduced her as Penelope, one of the
percussionists in the marching band and part-time nurse's aid at the
hospital.  She smiled warmly and checked her watch.  "Perfect timing guys.
The shift change just ended so the storeroom will be empty.  Follow me."


      Upstairs in Jill's room they all heard footsteps and voices in the
hallway.  "Honey, slow down!  I don't want you to trip and fall," a woman's
voice cautioned.

      Ashley bolted into the room.  "Moooommmmy!"  She rushed to Marty and
threw up her arms to get a lift up and into her mother's bed.

      Jill squirmed to her left to make some room.  "No big hugs honey.
Mommy's kinda sore right now, but I have to have a kiss."  Ashley gently
leaned up and pecked her mother's lips just as Jill's parents entered the
room with Lil' Scotty in his grandfather's arms.  Scott enjoyed a round of
re-introductions with Jill's parents whom he hadn't seen since the wedding.
Jill's mother, Meredith, teasingly asked, "Are you still dancing the Rumba
these days, Scott?"

      He blushed a little.  "Not that much, but that's just `cuz you're not
around."  He winked and they all laughed.  She and Scott had really cut a
rug at Marty and Jill's wedding reception the previous summer.

      For a half hour they all sat and chatted.  Scott scooped his godson
out of Grandpa John's arms and sat down. He `goo-gooed' and `gaa-gaa'd' the
poor lad while Scotty's tiny fingers played with his godfather's face.  Now
wide-awake and feeling better, Jill motioned to Uncle Scott and her son
with outstretched arms.  Scott stood and gently laid Lil' Scotty on his
mother's bosom.  He gurgled and giggled as she stroked his back and kissed
his head.  The toddler instinctively mauled his mother's breasts with his
little hands.  "Ouch!  Easy boy," Jill protested.  She shot a glance at
Marty.  "Aren't you feeding him?  He's a little animal."

      John chuckled.  "Takes after his dad, I'll bet."  Meredith swatted
his arm.

      Marty giggled.  "I'm feeding him plenty."  He winked at John and
whispered, "And I have no comment on the rest, you cad."

      Just then, two white coats swept into the room.  Brett walked
directly to the side of the chair Scott was sitting in and he looked over
his shoulder at Craig.  "Doctor!"

      Craig wore a grave expression.  "Doctor?"

      "This looks serious."  Brett put his left palm on Scott's forehead
and pushed it back a bit.  "Open please."  He plucked a thermometer out of
a coat pocket.

      Scott grabbed Brett's wrist.  "What the...?"

      Brett persisted.  "I said, open please."  His eyes said `just play
along,' and so Scott did.  Brett nestled the thermometer under his tongue.
"Close please."  All the other adults in the room were either laughing or
muffling their chuckles.  Ashley just watched with wide eyes and mouth
agape.

      While Brett pretended to take Scott's pulse, Craig pulled a
stethoscope from his coat pocket and plied it first to Scott's chest, then
his forehead, his ear, the back of his head, his knee and then, finally,
his left armpit.  With each move of the instrument his expression grew more
grim.  "Hmmmmm," he moaned and looked at Brett, who shook his head in
dismay.

      By this time, Ashley was pretty sure she recognized these two as
friends of her daddy's who had been at the wedding.  She giggled through
the fingers she'd placed on her lips and looked up at Meredith.  "They're
just being silly, Gramma, aren't they?"  Meredith nodded and winked.

      Brett plucked the thermometer from Scott's lips and handed it to
Craig, who frowned.  Then he produced a tongue depressor from another
pocked and grabbed Scott's chin.  "Open please."  Scott complied.  "Tongue
out."  Scott stuck out his tongue.  Brett pressed down gently and ordered,
"Say aaaaaaaah."

      "Aaaaaaaah."

      "Say eeeeeeeeeeeh."

      "Eeeeeeeeeeh."

      "Say ooooooooooooh."

      "Ooooooooooh."

      Brett continued to peer into Scott's mouth.  "Say E I E I O."

      Scott grinned; his tongue still extended and did his best to utter
the sounds with a stick on his tongue.

      Brett looked at Ashley.  "Good sign, nurse.  He can spell `farm.'"

      Ashley giggled.  "Silly.  That's not how you spell farm!"

      Craig looked back and winked at her.  "Don't tell that to Old
MacDonald."

      John leaned to his side, still smiling, and whispered to Marty,
"Jesus!  I think this is a bad M*A*S*H* rerun."

      Brett removed the depressor and tossed it in the wastebasket, and
then he and Craig huddled for a few seconds, whispering some mumbles that
the rest could scarcely hear.

      Craig turned around and looked at Scott and the rest of the group and
Brett stepped out into the hallway.  He returned in a second with a
wheelchair.  Craig shook his head gravely.  "I'm afraid it's just as we'd
suspected."  He pointed at Scott.  "This poor young man is suffering for a
significant cholesterol deficiency.  We recommend an immediate infusion of
fatty red meat and buttery hash browns accompanied by a moderate-to-heavy
regimen of distilled spirits."

      Brett chimed in.  "I also detect a slightly inflated ego, yet a
moderate need for morale boosting.  I'm recommending some trash talk and
teasing for the next..." he looked at his watch...  "oh, six to eight hours
or so."  He looked back at Ashley again.  "Nurse!  We have no time to lose.
Call Smokey's Steak House and tell them we'll have the patient there within
the next twenty minutes.  Tell them this is an emergency."

      Scott followed along, blushing now, as Craig led him into the
wheelchair.  Brett turned to the group and held up a hand.  "No, no.  Don't
thank us.  It's what we do."  The two `doctors' nodded to the group,
swiveled the chair around and quickly exited the room to the sound of
applause.

      Scott held one hand up to shield his face as he glided toward the
elevator with Brett pushing the chair.  "You know I'm probably going to
kill you both for this.  Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day."

      Marty stood up and glanced around the room.  "That's the kind of
malarkey I had to put up with all last year."

      Jill coughed.  "Mr. Innocent here!  Honey, you instigated most of
that kind of stuff.  You're just jealous that you didn't think of that."

      He leaned over and kissed her forehead.  "You're right.  It was
Brett's idea.  I'm going to catch up with the guys.  We're gonna eat and go
back to the apartment.  I'll check in with you on my way back to their
place.  Then I'm staying with the guys tonight, and will be back in time to
feed you breakfast."

      He kissed Lil' Scotty on the head and then leaned down for a peck on
the lips from Ashley.  "And you're gonna go back to grandma and grandpa's
tonight.  I'm taking most of the day off tomorrow.  I'll pick you and
Scotty up at about ten or eleven, and take you out for a late breakfast or
an early lunch."

      Ashley eyes sprung wide.  "IHOP!"

      He nodded.  "IHOP it is, m'lady."  He kissed Jill again.  "See you in
the morning."

      One corner of her mouth curled upward.  "Sober, please."

      Marty smiled and rolled his eyes, as if that was some kind of
imposition.  "Awww, alright.  If you insist."  He waved at the in-laws.
"Thanks again, John...Meredith.  Scott really needs a night out.  He's had
a rough day.  Those two came up with this scheme, and who am I to be the
nay-sayer with my best buds on a rescue mission?"

      The grandparents just waved him away.  "Have a good time," John
smiled.  Marty jogged down the hall to catch up with his friends.

      Over a dinner of steak, salad and Smokey's famous hash browned
potatoes, Scott gave his buddies a `Reader's Digest' version of Greg's
departure.  Nobody pried for any details, and all three were happy to see
him smile.  "It's all good, I guess," Scott offered.  Then he told them
about the delivery of the subpoena.

      Marty leaned over looking concerned.  "So, is any of this shit going
to stick to you or Maureen?"

      Scott cut off another slice of his New York strip and shook his head.
"Not unless there's a hell of a lot I don't know about.  And my statement
isn't going to create any problems for her.  Besides, I have good reason to
believe that she was the one who prodded the D.A. into sniffing around the
caucus to begin with, so I'm pretty sure she's gonna be okay."

      Craig furrowed his brows.  "Reading `The Journal,' you'd think they
were the ones who started all the legal shit."

      Scott snorted.  "That's Bruce Weeden taking a certain `journalistic
license,' I think.  He's a self-promoting asshole with delusions of
grandeur.  Thinks he's Bob friggin' Woodward now, I'm sure.  But there's no
way in hell a newspaper is going to run to the prosecutor's office with
their dirt.  If they did, nobody would ever talk to them."  He chewed and
swallowed the juicy beef and buttered a roll.  "But I'll be back in a
couple of weeks to give a sworn statement about what I knew and what I'd
heard.  Don't think I'll have anything to add to what they probably know
already, but I think they just want to talk to everybody in the office who
might know anything."  He grinned a satisfied grin.  "And methinks Jeremy
Frick is gonna go to jail.  If there's anything at all I can do to help
make that happen, then I'll be a happy camper."

      An hour later, they trod up the stairs of the apartment.  While Brett
the Roommate let Brett the Dog outside to do his thing, Marty went into the
bathroom to do his and Craig went to the hall closet.  He came back from
behind the door with his Scrabble game.

      Scott took a step back.  "Oh, no!"

      Craig grinned and nodded.  "Oh, yes, Mr. Turner.  Shot Scrabble."
They'd invented this game when they all lived in the dorm.  Anyone who
played a word of fifteen points or more, or who played the X, Q or Z, got
to name another player to knock back a shot.  If they used a blank to form
a word, they were called a wimp and had to drink one.  If one of them
emptied his rack of letters on a single word, or score a fifty-point word,
then all the others had to pay the same price.

      Brett came back from the kitchen with a bottle of bourbon and one of
tequila.

      Scott sighed and whined.  "But I gotta get up early and be on the
road by about six.  I told my dad I'd be back and ready to go to a lunch
meeting with his key campaigners."

      Brett smirked.  "This is payback for renaming the dog.  I can't
believe what you did to him."

      Scott shrugged.  "Well, your original goal was to give him a
repulsive name, right?  I'm just trying to follow your lead.  The new name
is nearly as bad as the original one."

      Brett flipped him off.  Marty returned from the john and patted his
friend's back.  "Quitcher bitchin.'  You've never driven with a hangover?
Leave by six and you're home by eight.  A nap, a shower, a cup of coffee
and you're good to go.  No debate, professor."  He looked at Craig.  "Set
up the board, sir.  I've been reading the dictionary all day."

      The `C' on Craig's "RECESS" was wide open and Scott began to giggle
and clap his hands.  He gave the board a quarter turn so that he could read
all the words and then, one tile at a time, spelled "QUIXOTIC."  With a
triple letter score on the `Q' he hit 94 points and emptied his rack.  He
held up the two bottles of liquor.  "Pick your poison, losers!"

      And so it went.  All in all, Scott's buddies each determined that
their mission had been accomplished.  He'd had a tough day, but was going
to have a great night if it killed them.  Finally, after two rounds of the
game, at a little after one in the morning, Scott waved the white flag and
declared he was calling it a night.  He thanked the guys with a round of
hugs.  "I'll be out of here by the time you morons even open your eyes, but
I'll be back in a few weeks, and then off and on all summer."  Marty
flopped on the couch and the other two stumbled to their respective
bedrooms.



      After almost four hours of fitful sleep, Scott rolled over on the
sleeping bag he'd borrowed from Craig.  He found some clean clothes that
didn't smell of alcohol and smoke.  `Marty was right.  I'll shower when I
get home and then take a nap,' he reasoned.

       He was glad he'd set up the coffee maker during a break between the
two rounds of Scrabble.  He hit `Brew' and brought Brett the Dog
downstairs.  "Do your business, boy.  Got a two hour drive in front of us."
As the coffee flowed from the basket into the pot, he scrounged in the
fridge for a bit of leftover chicken.  He scrunched the small piece of dark
meat around a mild tranquilizer he'd gotten from the vet and treated the
fattest cat to a special breakfast. `What the hell?' the cat thought.  `Is
it my birthday or something?'  The cat carrier, the dungeon of doom as far
as the cat was concerned, was still hidden on the top shelf of the kitchen
pantry. Little did he know as he licked his paws and cleaned his face.

      All Scott needed to do was brush his teeth, toss the shaving kit into
the car with his suitcase, load the pets and head out.  He opened the kit
he'd left on the top of the toilet's water tank to find the toothbrush.
There was a small blue envelope sitting on top of the collection of
personal hygiene supplies.  He opened it and pulled out a slip of paper.

      "Scott,

      "I know we said we weren't going to get all mushy and shit, and I'm
thankful that we did such a great job of making the most of these past
couple weeks.  I know it's a sappy cliché that's usually found on goofy
inspirational posters and `cheer up' greeting cards, but I think it works
for us right now:

      `If you love something, let it go.  If it comes back, it's yours
forever.  If it doesn't, then it never was.'

      "Or something like that.  You get the point.

      "I miss you already.  I know we're both better people because of the
ups and downs we've shared.  I'm going to remember the downs and cherish
the ups.  Nothing can ever take them away from us.  I love you, Scott
Turner, Jr.

      "Always and always,

      G."

      Scott grabbed a Dixie Cup and downed three gulps of water to try and
ease the ache in his throat.  He wiped his eyes and looked in the mirror.
"And me too, you, Greg Page," he whispered.  "And me too, you.  Always and
always."

      He brushed and rinsed, then zipped up the kit.  He picked up the very
drowsy cat, eased him into the carrier and closed the door.  Then he looked
at Brett the Dog.  "Getcher leash!"  The dog happily tromped down the hall
and chomped on the damned leather strap that still straddled Brett the
Roommate's doorknob.  Scott ambled down the stairs and led the dog onto the
back seat, gently laid the carrier on the front seat and dropped the
shaving kit onto the floor.  The cat gave a drunken `mew' in protest.  "Be
right back, kids," he assured the pets.  He tiptoed back up the stairs,
filled his travel mug and tore a sheet of paper towel off the roll on the
counter.  He found a marker in the junk drawer.

      He scribbled, "Craig, Brett, Marty: You're all fuckers, but you're my
fuckers.  Thanks for last night.  Back in a few weeks.  Be good, or at
least don't get caught bein' yourselves.  S."  He left it on the kitchen
table.

      Marty was snoring quietly on the couch.  Scott leaned down and
lightly kissed him on the temple.  Marty grunted and rubbed the side of his
head, but didn't awaken.  Instead, he rolled over to face the back of the
couch and pulled the afghan more tightly around his neck.

      Scott sniffed a quiet laugh and whispered, "You and Jill and the kids
are in my prayers" and then he quietly crept out of the room.

      The straight shot to the interstate was dead ahead four blocks, with
a right and then a quick left onto East Washington Avenue.  Instead, Scott
turned right at the end of the first block.  The steely gray sky was
beginning to give way to a pink hue through trees branches to the east,
signaling the earliest dawn of a beautiful day.  He turned right again on
Dayton and then made a left on Wisconsin Avenue.  He pulled up along the
curb facing the capitol a half block in front of him.  He gazed up at the
beautifully lit façade and dome of what was still his favorite building in
the world.  The golden beauty standing high on the pedestal atop the dome
continued to thrust her sword out and up.  `Forward' was her name, as it
was the state's official motto.

      Scott smiled.  "Forward it is, my dear.  Thanks.  You've taught me
much these past couple of years.  And to think I once told myself that I
was going to own your house some day."  He put the car in gear, shook his
head and chuckled at himself.

      He drove out East Washington Avenue at just before six o'clock in the
morning.  The rising sun was on a mission now, so he fumbled around the
passenger seat for his shades.  He glanced in the rear view mirror one more
time at the shrinking dome that still shone in his rearview mirror.  He
pursed his lips and nodded.  "Greg was right.  It is kinda corny and sappy
and all, but I do still love you.  But I gotta let you go too."  The
morning rays of a new day did their job.  The floodlights obeyed and dome
went dark.  Scott Turner, Jr. sighed and he smiled a peaceful, satisfied
smile.  "Amen," he whispered as he turned onto the interstate and headed
for home.


THE END


Author's Note: A brief Epilogue will follow within a few days to tie up
some of the loose ends regarding some of the characters: Frick, Maureen,
Big Scott, etc.  A more complete note of thanks will be attached.  Be Well.