Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2020 22:57:51 +0000
From: donny mumford <donnymumford@outlook.com>
Subject: WAITING FOR A MIRACLE... Chapter 1

			   WAITING FOR A MIRACLE

			     by  Donny Mumford

		       Chapter 1...   Job Interview


I keep asking myself, why did I come here today? I know they won't hire
me. I wish I could disappear, vanish... swoosh! The other job applicants
are sneaking glances at me, and I know why too. It's because I'm wearing a
tie and sport coat. Nobody else is 'dressed up.' My parents talked me into
'looking sharp' for my interview but, come on; I'm here applying for a
menial position as a warehouse package handler. Laborers don't wear an
'effing sport coat and tie!

Oh, here comes the lady who's coordinating the interviews. Looking down the
line of us unskilled and unemployed 'hopefuls,' she says, "Brian Donovan?"
Whew, that's not me. A rough-looking guy stands up and sort of waves at
her. The lady says, "Good morning," and motions for the guy to follow
her. He's the kind of guy they'll hire— a big strong older guy, not a
skinny kid who just graduated high school like me.

Looking at my cell phone, I see it's ten-of-ten. I've been sitting here for
an hour. Huh, it seems longer than that but it's mostly because of the
noisy breathing sounds coming from the overweight fellow with the deviated
septum sitting next to me, the poor guy. His noisy breathing is exactly
like the actor who played Tony Soprano in that old HBO show.

Yeah, this waiting is brutal. I thought high school was the worst, but this
is. No, this isn't the worst! That was a rash assessment. No way would I
prefer being back in high school. It's been two weeks since graduation and,
really, anything's better than sitting in classrooms.

Moving only my eyes, I glance at the guy sitting next to me. Huh, noisy
breathing notwithstanding, he seems to be half asleep. Oh, hell, he can't
help the way he breathes! Okay, here's what I'm gonna do, I'll walk over to
that table and get a bottle of water. Then, instead of coming back to this
seat, I'll casually sit where Brian Donovan was sitting. Maybe I won't hear
the breathing sounds from six seats away.

Yeah, changing seats is a good idea, except maybe I should wait for someone
else to get a bottle of water first. Everyone will look at me, and I don't
want to draw additional attention to myself. My sport coat and tie already
have people snickering at me. Oh, shit, I hate this!

Sighing, I look at the email I received from UPS and confirm they're
looking to hire two package-handlers in the Drexel Hill UPS facility. What
the hell, maybe I do have a chance for one of those openings. Frankly, I
never thought I'd hear back after completing the online application, but
here I am. My mother's friend, Peg Lynch, who works with my mom at the ACME
Supermarket told mom I should mention her husband's name because he's been
driving for UPS twenty years. No, of course, I'm not going to do
that. Gawd, get real!

The interview coordinator is back, saying, "Is Matthew Burke here?" Okay,
that's me. Oh, God! Standing, I put a pleasant expression on my face as she
mumbles, "Good morning. This way, please." She barely glanced my way, so my
pleasant-expression went for naught.

Ya see I'm concerned about things like that because I have a developmental
disorder characterized by difficulties in social interaction and nonverbal
communication. I know I do because a child-psychiatrist told me that, and
he's right too. I need to force myself to look people in the eyes when
talking with them, and I avoid social interactions whenever possible. So
I'm dealing with that, AND the stress of applying for a job.

The lady says, "Here we are," as she indicates I should go into an
interview room. Dammit, I wasn't ready, so I was frowning instead of
projecting a pleasant expression. I walk in and just stand here as the
woman hands the man sitting behind the desk, a printout of my application.

Catching me off-guard again, she smiles at me as she's leaving. I try
smiling back, but she's already passed me. The man says, "Have a seat,
Matthew." As I sit, he says, "I'm Hal Summerville. How are you this
morning?" He looks and sounds like a nice person, one who appears to be
only in his twenties. Hmm, that might work in my favor, and he's a rare
clean-shaven guy too. I smile and concentrate on maintaining good eye
contact, saying, "Very well. I'm good, thank you." Rivulets of sweat run
down under my arms. Hal Summerville is another person here who is NOT
wearing a tie or a sports coat; no one here is.

Looking up from my application, he grins, asking, "Not a huge fan of high
school, huh, Matthew?" Frowning, I mumble, "Um, no, but..." and he says, "I
wasn't either. Your SAT scores are impressive, though... a lot better than
mine, haha." I smile, wondering what SAT scores have to do with handling
packages in a warehouse.

He says, "May I ask why you aren't considering college? Or, are you
considering it?" I nod my head, "My parents are encouraging me to attend
night courses at Community College. Um, presently, however, financial
constraints prohibit a full-time college, ah, career." My voice gives out
as I go on to say too much, "Um, and so all my focus is on getting a job
and then working hard." His face sort of gets pinched as he struggles to
hear that last part. Clearing my throat, blushing, I'm wondering if that
was too corny? The 'hard-working' part.

The man smiles and says, "That makes sense, Matthew. Um, is 'Mathew' what
everyone calls you?" I clear my throat again, and say, "No, sir. Except for
teachers at school, everyone calls me Mattie or Matt, um, mostly." Damm, I
forgot to maintain eye contact. He says, "Okay, Mattie, just so you know,
we offer tuition help." He slides a pamphlet across the desktop. I pick it
up and see it's titled, 'UPS and College'. I mumble, "Yes, um, thank you,
Mr. Summerville." He smiles, "Please, call me, Hal." Dammit, I'm looking
over his shoulder again.

Forcing myself to look into his eyes, I say, "Okay, Mr., um, Hal." He says,
"Relax, Matt... you're doing fine. I've been saying for a while now that
our Drexel Hill warehouse needs a couple of full-time conscientious young
fellows like yourself." Hmm, that's promising!

I stare hard at him with perfect eye contact, as he asks, "You can lift
seventy pounds with no problem, right?" I go, "Huh? Oh, sure." He grins,
asking, "How do you know you can? Did you lift heavy things last summer
when you worked at your summer job," and he looks at my application, "You
worked for Devlin's Builders, right?" I nod, "Yes, and I had to move a lot
of ninety-pound bags of cement mix every day."

That's not entirely accurate. Well, it's a blatant lie. I didn't need to
deal with cement bags every day. Once a week I'd lift a cement-mix bag into
a builder's pickup truck. Hmm, Hal probably asked me that weight-lifting
question because I'm skinny. Well, not skinny, but I'm slim. Five-foot-nine
and slim.

He gives me a grinning 'look,' asking, "Seriously? Ninety-pound bags of
cement mix?" I say, "Yes, sir. They weight ninety-pounds." He goes, "That
is impressive, Matt," and then he asked for more details about my job last
summer. After telling him a few things, I pull a letter from my back
pocket, saying, "My boss from last summer wrote a letter of recommendation
for me," and I hand it to him.

My boss last summer was a closeted gay who did some, um, 'inappropriate
touching' on my person. Near the end of the summer, I worked up the nerve
to confront him in a roundabout manner about his 'touching.' I used a few
euphemisms skirting the issue. He told me I misinterpreted his
friendliness. He wasn't upset, though, and we agreed he'd write this letter
of recommendation. Randy Grieves, he was my boss last summer, and he told
me, "Hell, Mattie, you definitely deserve a good recommendation."

The truth is, I wouldn't have done anything to get Randy in trouble even if
he hadn't offered to write the recommendation. He was twenty-three and a
nice guy, although not an attractive one. And he's probably right that I
misinterpreted his touching. Hell, it was a last-minute decision to bring
this letter with me on the long-shot possibility my interview was going
well, which, incredibly, I think it is.

Even though I lack confidence, which can lead to negative thinking, I'm
getting a sense Hal is going to offer me a job. I have a theory, and it's
that attractive, 'good-looking' people have advantages over less attractive
ones, and I mean in all kinds of situations, such as being hired. I'm not
saying I qualify as one of the extra attractive ones, but I'm okay. The
thing is though, Mr. Summerville, um, Hal, isn't the least bit gay, so he
probably doesn't care all that much about my 'looks.' Perhaps I remind him
of himself as a nineteen-year-old. And, he did mention not liking high
school and something about SAT scores. Whatever, I'm getting good vibes
from him.

Getting back to my developmental disorder situation. Yeah, when I was
fourteen, I overheard my grandfather tell my father that there was
something wrong with me. Initially, I assumed he meant me being gay but,
no, that wasn't it. Nobody knows that except me. No, he meant that I didn't
act like a normal fourteen-year-old boy in that I was too quiet, and I
never looked anybody in the eyes when I said something to them. He's a
district-manager for Prudential Insurance company, and my father's only a
roofer, so whatever my successful grandfather says carries weight at our
house. Grandfather saying there's something wrong with me got my parents to
make an appointment for me with a child psychiatrist.

I liked Dr. Bloomburg. First, he met with my parents while I stayed in the
waiting room, and then he talked to me without my parents. Ours was a
casual conversation, although I was slick with sweat because I was
extremely nervous. Eventually, he gave me two short tests; neither one took
fifteen minutes. I remember the tests were named GADS, and CARS, although I
forget what the letters stand for. The doctor correctly said them by their
initials and not as acronyms, meaning initials pronounced as words. Yeah, I
know worthless shit like that. I'm somewhat smart, although I sucked in
school. Let's just say I was bored, so not fully engaged... that's one way
of putting it.

Anyway, there was a word Dr. Bloomburg used in his diagnosis that bothers
me... it was the word 'autism.' I didn't want to be labeled 'autistic.' The
other disturbing aspect that day happened at the end when I felt bad for my
parents sitting at the edge of their seats, trying to follow what the
doctor was telling us. As I said, my problems are characterized by
difficulties in social interaction and nonverbal communication, meaning; I
can't 'read' facile expressions, or body language, or catch subtle jokes
people tell. I often assume they're saying something serious, or
whatever. The doctor explained my malady if that's what it is, generally is
referred to as Asperger Syndrome or ASD, Autism Spectrum Disorder. Asperger
Syndrome is a 'high-functioning' type of ASD, and there are many types of
ASD. The causes are genetic as well as environmental factors. Whatever, I
understood what he was saying, but I could tell my parents were confused by
the esoteric terminology. Not that they'd think of asking for
clarification.

Anyway, Hal tells me, "I have a good feeling about you, Matt!" I sit up
straighter, hardly believing something is going to go right for me. I
mutter, "Thank you." Grinning, he tells me, "You really should, um,
lighten-up a little, though when you talk with Brian House this
afternoon. He's the manager at the Drexel Hill facility." I say, "Thank you
so much, and, sure, I can lighten-up." He nods his head, still grinning,
and then he goes on a little bit about UPS's benefits package, which is
awesome. Lastly, he writes something on the application and then, standing,
says, "Good. That's good, Mattie. Oh, and lose the tie and sports coat
before talking with Brian, okay?"

I jump up, and we shake hands, as he's saying, "You'll do great." I'm
staring laser beams into his eyes, saying, "I appreciate that." His
left-hand is over his mouth, and I suspect he's hiding a grin but I don't
feel he's laughing at me. He asks, "Do you know how to get to the UPS
building in Drexel Hill?" I nod, "Yes, sir," and he goes, "Okay then, they
will expect you at two o'clock if that works for you." I say, "Yes, I'll be
there." Hal walks with me outside his office where he tells the
coordinating lady, "Janet, set up a two o'clock appointment with Brian for
young Matthew Burke here," and he pats my back, saying, "Good luck, and
thanks for helping us out." I nod, mumbling, "Thank you..." Helping him
out? What'd he mean by that? Is he kidding me?

Janet says, "Sure, Hal," and to me, she mutters, "Congratulations. Um,
before you leave, I need you to fill out a few forms." I do that, and as
I'm walking out of the building, I want to cheer, but I don't because I'm
not positive I'm hired. I think I am. Perhaps the foreman interview is just
a formality, but so few things go right for me I'm understandably cautious.

Occasionally something does work out; for example, last week I bought my
first car. It's a 2010 gray two-door Volkswagen GTI with 99,000 miles on
it. The sticker price was $7500, which seemed high to my dad so he haggled
with the salesman trying to save me money. I ended up paying the full $7500
anyway which took all the money I'd saved from my last two summer jobs,
plus the money I received as graduation presents. I don't care 'cause I
think I have a job now.

Sitting in my idling GTI, I text both mom and dad about probably getting
hired. Then I realize there won't be texts coming back because they're both
at work. Yeah, well, I wanted to tell somebody. Hmm, now I wish I hadn't
because what if somehow I screw up with the warehouse foreman?

Nah, I'm not gonna screw that up. Okay, I've got two hours before the
interview, so I'll head for home. As I drive, I'm vacillating between
feeling good and feeling concerned I'll jinx myself by being too cocky. Oh
man, this will be a big load off my mind if it happens. When I'm three
blocks from my house, I can't resist driving out of my way to cruise by
Lewis' house. He's home from college, so maybe I'll see him in the
driveway, or maybe he'll be cutting the grass, but no, he isn't. Fuck!

At home, I go up to my bedroom to change clothes. My dress khakis have a
sharp crease so they, plus my sport coat, get hung on hangers. As I'm
taking off my shirt and tie, a familiar urge takes over my mind. Thinking
about Lewis again, my hand touches my crotch. Mmm, I squeeze my dick while
fantasizing kissing Lewis's sexy lips. Off come my boxer shorts and socks
and then, breathing fast, my heart pounding, I flop backward onto my bed
with my hard dick in my fist. Omigod, Lewis!

Lewis is a year older than me, and the sexiest guy in the world. He's an
inch shorter than me and perhaps a little too heavy. I like his short dark
hair and his big blue eyes. We both wear eyeglasses and two years ago I
insisted mom buy me the identical eyeglass frames Lewis had, although I
didn't mention that was the reason. Anyway, Brooks Brothers' frames cost a
lot and my mom only relented when I paid half. Then, a month later Lewis
got new glasses. That was unfortunate as I still have the same frames.

With my eyes closed, I picture Lewis naked and then begin stroking my
cock. I've only seen him naked one time. It was in the locker room of the
Lansdown Swim Club last July. He caught me watching him changing into his
swimsuit and snarled at me, 'What are you looking at, ya pervert?' No smile
or anything, he just stared back at me defiantly. I couldn't think of
anything clever to say, so I averted my eyes and mumbled a pathetic lie, "I
wasn't looking at anything." Jesus!

Stroking my cock feels fantastic. I'm imagining Lewis and me lying together
naked, hugging and kissing with our tongues licking together and him
moaning my name. The fantasy I almost always have is me and Lewis making
out, although I don't even know how to do it. Well, I guess I know how, but
I've never made out with anyone. Lewis' body was hairless except for a lot
of pubic hair around his long penis and low hanging balls. He's stocky
while his arms and legs are thin. Yeah, that's kinda weirdly spider-like.

"Oooh, oooh, oooh," stroking my boner feels so good, but it only lasts for
thirty seconds before cum shoots out in a big arc over my left
shoulder. Shuddering, I murmur, "Mmmm, that felt fantastic." My heart is
beating fast as I try catching my breath. Yeah, but, oh Christ, what a mess
I made on the bedspread.

Sure, most gay guys would think about sucking Lewis' big dick or fantasize
Lewis shoving his cock up their ass, but not me. I think about kissing him,
his short beard scratching my cheek, and my fingers in his hair. Of course,
our cocks would be steel shafts with him on top of me, humping his steel
boner against mine until we both shot our loads of creamy cum on each
other.

As I sit up, I try remembering who I thought about when jerking off before
I got this crush on Lewis. I think it was my brother, Nick, who is named
after my dad. Hmm, maybe it wasn't Nick though because he's seven-years
older and he would have been at college when I started jerking off at
eleven-years-old. He's now working for Johnson and Johnson as a
pharmaceutical salesman and earned $70,000 last year. I guess he's even
more 'successful' than grandfather. Huh, I never gave that a thought before
now. Anyway, Nick doesn't live at home; he shares an apartment in Philly
with some girl. I can't stand her, but Nick and I get along fine.

Except in my dreams, I've never even touched Lewis's body. That's hard to
believe, considering I've known him my whole life. I've got a total of six
cousins, two girl cousins, and then four boys but I only fantasize about
Lewis. Occasionally I'll fantasize about my friend Dean Morris too. He's
unaware of it because, as far as he knows, we're a couple of 'straight'
dorks. How would he know otherwise? No one knows my secret.

I'm still on my bed thinking about all this, and then I quickly glance out
the window opposite my bed to be sure the old lady who lives next door
isn't looking over from her window. Well, it's a little late to be worrying
about that. Our house is a six-room 'ranch,' one of twelve ranch-type
houses in a culdesac. I live in Clifton Heights, Pennsylvania. These houses
were built in the 1950s, and I've lived there my entire life. Ours is the
third house from the end and only a few blocks from Baltimore Pike, and
Philadelphia is a five-mile drive up the Pike.

I suppose we're classified lower-middle-class, although my dad and mom's
salaries combined are more than the median household income for Clifton
Heights, which is $46,000. The median property value is $131,000, and the
population of Clifton Heights is about 7,000, of which 68% are white, and
21% African Americans, with the remaining 11% classified as 'other.' These
statistics were valid two years ago when I needed to do a paper about my
hometown for social studies class, which is the reason for me knowing all
those statistics.

All six cousins live within two miles of our house. They are children of my
two uncles... my father's brothers. Dad and his two brothers work at Three
Brothers Roofing, a company the oldest brother, Uncle Ronny, started
twenty-five years ago. Our families do all holidays and celebratory
occasions together, which is the only time I see Lewis. Well, I stopped
going to Sunday cookouts last year, so I don't see him at all now. Yeah,
this is my life and, no, it's not great.

Mom's an only child. Her parents passed away in a car accident before I was
born, so all my relatives are dad's family. I suppose we all look
Irish. Some of us have freckles and we're pale complexed with light eyes. I
think Lewis and I are the best-looking of all the cousins. Hahaha, hell, I
think I'd be right too, plus Lewis is sexy. Nobody has ever said I was
sexy, but I have heard I'm cute. Of course, attractiveness and sexiness are
in the eyes of the beholder, right? So there's still a chance I'll meet a
guy who thinks I'm sexy.

Thinking these thoughts, I get off the bed to grab my cell phone. Scrolling
through my photo albums I get to the one for last Memorial Day. The last
time I attended a Sunday cookout. We were at my Uncle Ronny's and I took a
lot of pictures that included Lewis. Oh yeah, here's a picture of Lewis
wearing prescription sunglasses, grinning his sexy grin. Getting back on
the bed, I stare at the picture getting aroused again. Stroking my cock,
moaning, "Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm! Oh, ahh, ahhh, ahhhh!" 'cause it feels good!
It lasted longer this time, but not much longer before cum shoots in a
streak from my iron penis... oooh, Christ, yeah! There wasn't much cum, but
it felt fantastic. I feel dizzy, then sigh, and finally take my hand off my
dick.

Breathing deeply, I savor the zinging after-effects from that last
orgasm. Then, when it's all over I feel like such a loser. Who jerks off
looking at a picture? Wait a second; probably a lot of guys do except
they're looking at pictures of naked girls. Oh well, dropping my cell
phone, I say out loud, "Lewis doesn't even like you, ya dumb shit. Plus,
he's not gay!" God, I suck!

As I get off the bed, the thrill of pleasuring myself becomes almost a
feeling of self-loathing. Why can't I be 'normal'? I go into the hall
bathroom to get cleaned up while telling myself it's not self-loathing;
it's self-pity. I cowardly remain in the closet about my sexuality and if
I'd admit to the world I'm gay, while my chances of kissing Lewis wouldn't
improve at all, maybe I'd be able to hook-up with someone else who I'd want
to kiss on the lips.

Yeah, but what kind of 'gay' am I though? That's the thing; what are the
chances I could find another gay guy who only wanted to hug and
kiss... what kind of 'gay' is that? Anal and oral sex is distasteful to me
because I'm super-conscious about germs.

I've watched innumerable gay videos of fucking and sucking but can't
imagine doing it myself. I say that although, in the videos, it looks like
the sexiest thing and I get hard as steel watching the cute models
fuck. It's gotta be my germ phobia getting in the way of me wanting to do
it. I mean, gay sex involves a guy's asshole and/or penis, places he shits
or pisses. Is that's the best 'nature', natural selection, or whatever
could come up with, seriously?

Hmm, when I was six years old Karen DePietro showed me a picture of two
adults fucking and I wonder if that is what fucked-up my mind about sex. I
told her, 'My mom and dad would never do that.' She was sixteen at the time
and she laughed her ass off and then she put her hand down my pants and she
played with my little dick until I peed my pants. What a cunt she was!

I'm thinking, maybe, if I was 'high' on a drug like marijuana, I could put
a cute guy's penis in my mouth. The chance to do that has never occurred,
but maybe I could, ya know? And maybe I could let a very cute young guy
stick his boner up my ass but I don't think I could stick mine in his. Of
course, wearing a condom would be a must. Yeah, if I was wicked 'high'
though I just might be able to do it. Unfortunately, the chance I'll ever
have to do it is remote. A cute guy would need to come right out and say he
wanted to do 'it' with me. I'd need to be positive I wasn't misinterpreting
his words and how he said them. It's complicated.

Yeah, but I need to stop thinking about this stuff and get back to what's
relevant. First, I need something to eat before my interview at the UPS
warehouse. Well, no! First, I need to clean the cum off the bedspread. I do
that while feeling pathetic about jerking-off twice perving on Lewis. Am I
the only guy dealing with this kind of aberrant behavior? Well, I'm not
sure if it is aberrant. It'd be a help if I believed in God, any god would
do 'cause then I could pray for salvation or guidance or something. Then
I'd have an allusion of trying to improve my behavior. Instead, I'm on my
own, and my prospects for any kind of a successful sex life isn't looking
too good.

Forcing myself to focus on immediate concerns, I put on some decent clothes
for my interview and then wander into the kitchen to see about
lunch. Looking in the refrigerator, I see several possibilities for lunch
but they're all too complicated, too much trouble. Instead, I make a peanut
butter sandwich and eat it along with a glass of chocolate milk.

After brushing my teeth, I get in my car and drive to the UPS
building. It's a six-mile drive to Pontiac Road in Drexel Hill. Parking in
the UPS lot, I get out, take a deep breath, and then tell myself, 'Don't
fuck this up'. Inside the front door, there's a man behind the counter who
asks, "Can I help you?" I tell him I'm here to see Brian House, and he
goes, "Oh, he's in the warehouse. You're in our customer area. Employees
use the 'employee door' on the side." Nodding my head, I mumble, "Thanks."
Hmm, it's a big building, so I get in my car and drive around until I see
the employee entrance.

Inside, I get directed to an office where a middle-aged guy, Brian House, I
assume, is sitting behind a desk talking on the telephone. The man points
at a chair and I sit as he raises his voice, talking into the phone,
saying, "I don't care, Millie, just do it!" Hanging up, he says as a
question, "You're Mathew Burke?" I say, "Yes, I am," and, looking through
some papers on his desk, the man mumbles, "Yeah, Hal emailed your
application and Carol printed it for me, but I can't find it
now... dammit!" He stops going through the papers on his desk and looks at
me, saying, "No matter, I'm passing you on to Dennis Tully. He'll be your
supervisor. Welcome to UPS!" and he stands up, yelling, "Carol!"

Brian looks like a bodybuilder. There are muscles bulging in his arms and
his t-shirt is stretched tightly across his well-developed chest, all of it
in a small package. Yeah, he's little. I'd guess he's
five-foot-one-or-two. A woman, Carol, I assume, comes into Brian's office
carrying a take-out cup of Dunkin' coffee. She has big breasts and looks
kinda young, even with her gray hair. Showing a lot of large teeth, she
smiles, saying, "Um, you bellowed, Brian?" Brian ignores that and says,
"Take this kid to Tully's department. Inform Tully this is one of the two
replacements he's looking for, and we're working on the other one." Carol
says, "Sure, but in the meantime, Mark Driscol is still claiming he's
disabled." Brian makes a face waving dismissively, saying, "Christ
Almighty! Okay, I'll call HR, but for now, get this kid over to Dennis."

Carol smiles at me, again showing me a lot of her teeth, and then she says,
"Follow me." Brian holds his hand out for me to shake, as he's saying,
"You'll do fine, Mike. Good luck." I shake his hand, mumbling, "Thank you."
I do not correct him about my name. As I follow Carol out of the office,
she mutters, "I thought you were Mathew, um," and she looks at a piece of
paper she's holding, "Mathew Burke, right?"  I say, "Yes, that's me," and
Brian, sitting behind his desk again, calls after us, "Carol, do you have
the kid's application? The one Hal emailed over?"

Jesus, these people aren't filling me with confidence. Carol goes, "Yes,
you dropped it on my desk. Remember?" and he mutters, "Yeah, that's what I
thought." Carol chuckles, and then says, "This way, Mathew. I'll get your
application, and we'll go on over to see Tully." I follow her to her desk,
she looks through some papers, picks up one, and then we walk through this
vast building, going outside to the loading dock at the back.

"Tully, ya got a second?" Carol asks a balding tall thin man with a large
nose. I'd guess the man is in his forties as he turns and says, "Hey,
what's up, Carol? Oh, is this one of my new guys?" and he holds his hand
out, "Hi, I'm Gene Tully, and you are?" As I shake hands with him, Carol
answers for me, "This nice-looking young man is Mathew Burke." I'm staring
at the big mole on Gene Tully's forehead when I should be looking him in
his eyes.

Carol takes a swallow from the take-out coffee she's still carrying and
then hands Gene a printout of the application I filled out online. She
says, "Good luck, Mathew," and then pats my shoulder, adding, "See ya
later, Tully." Gene, or, um, Tully looks at me and asks, "How old are you?"
I tell him and he mutters, "If you say so," and then he says, "Well, come
with me, Mathew," and I follow him inside. We walk to his desk. It's
cordoned on three sides by four-foot cubicle divider walls. He motions at
the chair next to his desk and I sit on it as he very slowly eases down on
the swivel chair behind the desk, mumbling, "Fucking hemorrhoids."

Without even looking at the application, he puts it in his desk drawer, and
asks, "Can you start tomorrow at seven o'clock? I'll hook you up with
Vinnie who will show you what we do here." So, I'm officially hired!

This man Gene, er, she called him Tully, isn't even going to interview
me. I nod, "Yeah, you bet, sure, tomorrow morning at seven o'clock. I'll be
here." He says, "Good," and I ask, "What should I wear?" He says,
"Comfortable clothes, layers are best because it gets really hot in here
afternoons, and you can take things off. It's usually cool early in the
morning, though. Oh, and bring a lunch." I nod my head, and he adds, "And
wear boots. Do you have boots? Non-slip boots." I go, "Sure," although I
don't. I'll buy some today.

I'm back in my car less than fifteen minutes after getting out of it. Oh
man, I'm in a daze wondering what just happened? Fifteen minutes ago I was
nervously walking into the warehouse, and now I feel giddy 'cause, haha,
I've got a job!

Starting the engine, I'm feeling pretty good about myself. Hmm, but what's
my hourly wage? That is something I should have inquired about. The ad read
'earn between $14 and $20 an hour'. Well, the lowest amount is plenty good
enough. Let's see... $14 times forty hours is $560 a week, times fifty-two
weeks is, holy shit, almost $30,000 a year! Hmm, minus taxes, but
still... wow!

After driving past Louis' house, not really expecting to get a glimpse of
him, and not seeing him, I drive home to change clothes again. Wearing
cargo shorts and a t-shirt, I text my friend Dean Morris to tell him about
my job, and he texts back, 'You hot shit! Good for you. C'mon over and
we'll celebrate.'

Dean's going to college in the fall, Penn State University. In a way, going
to college sounds like a cool thing to do, and my folks said they'd sign
for college loans like they did for my brother Nick, and like Dean's
parents did for him, but the concept of navigating my way among thousands
of other freshmen students and sitting in classes again, well, thoughts
like those create high anxiety in me.

Dean and I are friends from school, plus we were both in the Boy
Scouts. That's where he made friends with me initially, the Boy
Scouts. We're a couple of nerds, basically. Anyway, two years ago, during
an overnight campout at Valley Forge, I accidentally spilled a can of Pepsi
in my sleeping bag and I couldn't use it so Dean shared his sleeping bag
with me. We only wore boxer shorts in the sleeping bag since body-heat will
get a sleeping bag plenty warm. Two almost naked teenage boys in one
sleeping bag, I mean... Jesus! Oddly, Dean seemed perfectly comfortable and
fell asleep quickly while I had the hardest boner ever and hardly got any
sleep that night. After that, I hoped 'something' intimate would develop
between us, but it hasn't. When Dean quit the Boy Scouts, I quit too.

Anyway, Dean doesn't remotely resemble the ideal 'boyfriend' I fantasize
about. As a matter of fact, it shocked me when I analyzed what my ideal
boyfriend would be like, and I realized he'd be a lot like me. Cuter and
sexier looking perhaps, but pretty much like me. Christ, that's
embarrassing to admit, even to myself! I Googled to see how sick I am for
fantasizing that but found nothing written about it which I interpreted as,
yes, I'm definitely fucked-up. It's kinda funny though... yeah, in a way it
is. It's another one of the secrets I'll not be sharing with
anyone... ever!

We aren't alike physically, Dean and I. He's an inch taller than me, but
with a larger frame, and he weighs quite a bit more than I do. I'm slim at
a hundred-and-twenty-five-pounds while Dean weights-in at fifty-pounds
heavier. Like Lewis, Dean is stocky but not fat. He's also very pale so his
body reminds me of an uncooked dinner roll, and he has what I call a
'tom-cat' head; it's big and sort of squarish and his eyes seem too far
apart. Other than that, he's pretty much normal looking.

When I drive to the curb in front of his house, I see him sitting on the
front steps, but for a second I'm not sure it's him because he looks very
different. As he's walking to the car, he points at his head, asking,
"Cool, huh?" Giving him a 'look,' I ask, "Why did you get that haircut?" He
usually has long, unruly hair so it's a shock seeing him with a buzz
cut. He says, "It's for the summer. I went to Sal's barbershop. It cost me
fifteen bucks plus a tip." Then, instead of getting in the car, he says, "I
got my mom's keys. C'mon, Mattie, I'll drive. I don't get a chance to drive
mom's Mini Copper that often."

Shrugging, I mumble, "Yeah, okay," and I drive my car around the corner to
park on a side street. A minute later Dean drives his mom's Mini Cooper
behind my parked car. In the Mini, I go, "If you gave that dick Sal a tip
for that haircut, you're sick," and I rub my hand over his bristly head. He
grins, mumbling, "Fuck you," and then, unused to driving a stickshift car,
it's a jackrabbit start with the tires squealing. Glancing at me he goes,
"Oops."

I'm fastening my seatbelt as he asks, "Ya think my haircut sucks, huh?" I
go, "Duh," and he mutters, "Yeah, it is the shortest buzz I've ever seen
but Sal apologized saying he accidentally used the wrong clipper guide but
wouldn't charge me extra." I'm like, "He's an asshole! I always wait for
the older guy, or at least I try to. Sometimes Sal tells me there's no
waiting and I don't wanna argue with him so I'll get in his chair and then
he always cuts my hair too short. He doesn't even ask how I want it, he
just mumbles, 'a boy's haircut, right?' and I can't think of what to say as
he turns on the clippers... the fuck-head!" Dean goes, "What'd ya say?" He
often doesn't listen to me. I mumble, "Nothing," and he mumbles, "Yeah,
well, you should get over to the Sal's 'cause your hair is way too long and
looks like shit."

There's a bag in the back seat that I point at, "What's that?" and he says,
"Take a look." Reaching back I pull a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey from
the bag. Dean goes, "To celebrate your job. Is that cool or what?" I'm
like, "Where the hell did you get this?" He nods at the bottle and says,
"That's from the basket of cheer my parents won at St. Charles' Christmas
raffle last year. They don't drink liquor so I was looking for it and I
found where they stored it away in the basement." I say, "I saw your
parents drinking at your graduation party." He glances at me, "Yeah, they
drink beer, but not hard stuff. Hey, why should it go to waste, ya know?"
Shrugging, I go, "Well, this is very nice of you, Dean."

Dean's driving too fast but I don't mention that. Instead, I go, "I'm not
too good at drinking whiskey, that's the only thing..." He says, "What?
It's no big deal," and, taking the bottle from me he puts it between his
legs, twists off the cap and swallows some whiskey. I watch his Adam's
apple bob up and down and then he yells, "Oh, Gawd! Haha, yeah well, that's
terrible alright!" He passes the bottle back to me as I shake my head,
"Jesus, Dean, drinking while driving is a terrible idea." He mutters,
"Don't be such a pussy. Hey, let's go to Kent Park... we'll drink it
there."

Two miles down Baltimore Pike, Dean takes a left onto the bridge that
separates Clifton Heights from Drexel Hill. As we're crossing the bridge, I
look down at the park. It's sixty feet below us. Then we're on a steep
rutted road leading down to the park.

Kent Park is in serious decline. Years ago it was a popular family spot for
picnicking, but mostly it's a hangout for kids nowadays. The picnic tables
are dilapidated, and the lavatory is a mess although one of the toilets
miraculously still works. The park ranger's office next to the lavatory has
been empty for years and is full of debris. To the left of the picnic area
is a large grass area and at the far end of that is a rusting chainlink
backstop for baseball games. Occasionally there are 'pick-up' games still
played there. Bordering the park is Darby Creek where a lot of 'fouled off'
baseballs have ended up. Many years ago no one was allowed to swim in Darby
Creek because, supposedly, you'd get polio from the water. That sounds like
bullshit to me, but that's the story people tell.

With me carrying the whiskey bottle, Dean and I walk from the pot-hole
infested parking lot to the picnic area and then sit at the only intact
picnic table. Dean takes the Canadian Club bottle from me, saying,
"Congratulations to my buddy Mattie for getting hired at his first
interview. That's awesome," and he takes a big swallow of booze before
passing the bottle to me. I take a swig and make a face muttering, "Thanks,
Dean." The booze makes me sweat and my glasses fog up, so I take them off
and wipe them on my t-shirt.

Dean takes another swallow and then goes, "Fuck, Omigod," and he lights a
cigarette. I swig from the bottle and hold it in my mouth working up the
guts to swallow. After gulping it down I hiccup and then shake my head,
muttering, "That sucks." Dean says, "C'mon, one more," and we both take
another mouthful of the harsh liquor. Gasping, I mutter, "Yeah, that
blows."

Dean gets a MilkyWay bar from his shorts, unwraps the candy bar and takes a
big bite of it before passing it to me. I mutter, "Thank God. Get this
taste out of my mouth." Chewing the candy, I'm like, "NIce celebration,
Dean. Thanks!" He chuckles, muttering, "Fucking-a right." He has a
three-day growth of beard on his pale face that looks kinda cool although
it's not a fashion statement so much as it's a case of him being too lazy
to shave. I shave every day even though it's just my chin and upper
lip. 'Neatness counts', that's what my grandfather always tells me.

As we were drinking the liquor I glanced up a few times at five teenagers
passing joints around on the hill under the bridge... three girls and two
guys. From here I can't tell who they are, but I probably know them. As
Dean and I take another swig of the Canadian Club, one of the guys on the
hill yells down, "Hey, Morris, is that a bottle of whiskey ya got there?"
Dean waves the bottle, yelling, "Yeah, Jello, come down and have some."
Dean's eyesight is better than mine. He tells me, "That's Jello Springer up
there with his brother Bruce. The bitch with the ponytail is the town slut,
Grace Falco." I frown at him and he goes, "Omigod, yeah, Grace will 'put
out' for a beer nut. The blond babe is Brenda Cummings and I don't
recognize the other girl."

I know the first four he mentioned, but I thought the 'other girl' was a
cute guy, haha. I mean, she has really short hair, she's wearing guy's
style shorts and sneakers, and she's sorta acting like a guy. I've known
Jello since grade school. He and I were in the same homeroom last year
too. 'Jello' is his nickname, obviously... his real name is George
Springer. In my opinion, Jello/George was the only cute guy in any of the
classes I had last year. He always has a smile or a smirk on his face
too. It's as if the world, in general, amuses Jello. He's also a smart-ass,
so there are guys that consider Jello a dip-ship, but I don't. He's a guy
I'll occasionally fantasize making-out with... just Jello and my cousin
Lewis. I don't really know Jello's brother Bruce very well because he
graduated two-or-three-years ahead of me.

As the five pot-smokers are approaching our table, Jello says to the girl,
the one I mistook for a guy, "Robertson, you left my fucking lighter up
there on the hill, didn't you?" She goes, "I didn't leave shit on the hill
and, anyway, I'm not in charge of your fucking lighter, asshole." Jello's
like, "Did anyone bring my lighter?" His brother Bruce mutters, "Fuck the
lighter, bro," and Jello walks past me, tapping me on the head, saying,
"Hey, Burke, how's it going, buddy?" I shrug and mumble, "Hi, Jello," and
then he rubs Dean's head, laughing and saying, "Cool buzz cut, Morris. Did
your old lady do that home-haircut for you?"

Yeah, Jello calls everyone by their last name. Gawd, he's cute! He has
light brown hair that he wears in a regular style with a part on the side
and then he combs a cool-looking pompadour in front. I tried to get my hair
cut like Jello's but that prick Sal cut it too short for a pompadour in
front. Jeez, speaking of haircuts, Dean's right. I need one bad and should
have gotten one before applying for the job. It's just that I never
expected a reply to my online application.

Jello has a part-time job, but other than that he's taking the summer off,
and Dean's doing the same thing. Goddamn, but I really am hooked on Jello's
'looks'. He has what I think is a pretty complexion. It's tannish and he
has cute facial features and a beauty mark on his cheek. He's usually
smiling showing his smallish white teeth and pink gums that are very clean
looking. He's a little bit taller than me but slim like me, and he's
cool. The fact I ogle him doesn't mean I talk to him very much. I'm a
little intimidated because of his outgoing personality, but then I don't
talk to anybody very much.

So, yeah, Jello's cute but I force myself not to stare at him too
long. Instead, I look at his brother, Bruce, who's sexy and kinda cute
himself. I mean for an older guy. Um, yeah, I also think Bruce is slightly
stoned. He takes off his sunglasses, sways a little, and then swipes his
long hair out of his eyes, and asks, "What kind of booze is that?" Dean
holds up the bottle again, and Bruce mumbles, "Canadian Club, huh? Gimme a
little taste, dude." Jello takes the bottle first and then swallows two
mouthfuls and goes, "Smooth as shit," and then leans over the picnic table
passing the bottle to his brother. Heh heh, Jello's cargo shorts are down
his ass so far I can see his ass-crack, which I do stare at too long. It's
always baggy shorts, t-shirts that have something written on the front,
sneakers on our feet... that's the uniform for most of us during warmer
weather.

As the bottle gets passed around, Brenda sits next to me and puts her arm
around my waist. Leaning against me, she says, "Hiya, Mattie, are you gonna
finally start talking now that we've graduated?" Looking at the top of the
picnic table, I mutter, "Probably not," and she pinches my ear, saying, "Ya
wanna share a joint with me? You and I could sneak off to the park ranger's
office." Bruce says, "Stop teasing him, Brenda!" I take a chance and glance
up at Bruce and see he's cleaning his sunglasses. He grins at me and winks,
then he tells Brenda, "Mattie's always thinking deep thoughts. Aren't you,
Mattie?" I snort out a laugh at that, but can't come up with anything to
say.

Brenda can, she says, "Fuck you, Bruce. I'm gonna seduce this cutie if it's
the last thing I ever do. You're a virgin, ain't ya Mattie?" I make a face
as she musses my hair with me pulling my head back, mumbling, "Stop it."
I've known her since middle school, but we've never been what I'd call
'friends'. We're acquaintances, neighbors... like that.

Jello says, "Hey, numbnuts," and everyone looks at him. He laughs, then
goes, "Haha, you all looked up! Do you all think you're numbnuts?" Bruce
says, "You're tripping, bro. Smoke another joint why doncha." Jello goes,
"Hey, let's all go over to the bowling alley. There's a killer new video
game, and we can get a pizza, I'm fuckin' starving." Dean says, "You're a
pothead, Jello. That's why you're always hungry."

The bottle makes its way around the seven of us four times before it's
empty and then Dean throws the empty bottle into Darby Creek. Meanwhile,
Brenda has given up on teasing me and is now over pulling on Jello's belt
with both her and Jello giggling like people do when they're 'high'. Bruce
sits next to me and asks, "Hey Mattie, do you got a cigarette?" I shrug
looking at the top of the picnic table again, mumbling, "No, sorry, I don't
smoke."

I'm just now realizing I'm a little drunk. Dean holds over his Marlboro
box, saying, "Here ya go, Bruce. Where ya working now?" Bruce takes a
cigarette, swipes the hair out of his eyes again, and says, "Over at the
mill, but I'm gonna enlist in the Marines. Fuck that boring millwork!"

Then, as he's exhaling smoke from his first drag off the cigarette, he asks
me, "What are you doing this summer, Mattie?" I look past his shoulder and
tell him about getting hired at UPS today and he goes, "No shit? Good for
you but that job will probably suck like mine. Hey, why don't ya join the
Marines with me?" I snort out another bark of a laugh but don't say
anything. I like that his arm is brushing against mine. Bruce isn't skinny
like Jello and me, and he's almost six feet tall and tough-looking, and
he's 'built' too.

It's decided we're all going to the bowling alley but my friend Dean is now
over near the creek talking with the 'slut' Grace Falco. He looks over at
me and yells, "Mattie, grab a ride with someone. I'll meet you at the
bowling alley later. I need to give Grace a lift to her place so she can,
um, get something from home." Hunching my shoulders I'm thinking, I knew I
should have driven! Bruce pats my back and says, "You can ride over with
me, Mattie."

Oh man, I hardly know him, but I nod and say, "Okay, thanks, um, Bruce,"
and yell to Dean, "I'll ride over with him," but Dean's already walked off
with the slut. That Goddamn Dean! He's supposed to stick with me, and now
I'm gonna need to think of some small talk to make with Bruce. I'm also
telling myself... stop looking at the top of the fucking picnic
table. Christ, this shouldn't be a big deal, but it is to me!

As everyone drifts over to the parking lot Bruce gives my narrow shoulders
a squeeze, saying, "I hope you're not scared of riding on the back of a
motorcycle. You're not, are you, Mattie?" I'm like, "Huh? Noooo." I've
never been on a motorcycle in my life. Christ, my glasses are fogged up
again so I wipe them on my t-shirt which doesn't help much. I'm gonna buy
prescription sunglasses when I get my first paycheck. Cool ones like the
ones Bruce has, although Bruce's aren't prescription.

Ya know I don't think I've said ten words to Bruce before this. Well, I
haven't said ten words to him now either. The fact he even knew my name
surprises me, and now I'm getting more uncomfortable because he just said,
"We'll hold up here until I finish the cigarette," and everyone else has
left. It's only him and me at the picnic table, me sitting here the normal
way, meaning I'm facing the table while Bruce has his back against the
table facing away from it with his legs stretched out in front of him, and
I think he's staring at the side of my face.

When the silence between us is roaring in my ears, I've got to say
something, so I ask, "How'd you decide on the Marines?" He goes, "Oorah!"
Glancing at him, I'm like, "What's that mean?" He shrugs and blows a smoke
ring, then says, "Semper fi, dude! 'Oorah' is what Marines say when they
see each other."

I've got a quizzical 'look' on my face so he says, "Semper Fidelis. It's
Latin, meaning 'always faithful.' The Marines are always faithful to God,
Country, Corp... in that order." I still have this goofy quizzical
expression on my face, asking, "That's why you wanna join the Marines?"
Stepping on his cigarette butt, he mutters, "Not really. C'mon, let's go,"
and he stands, asking, "You've got a helmet, right? Ya can't ride a
motorcycle without a helmet," and he walks toward the parking lot.

Getting up, I follow him, whining, "What the fuck? Why would I have a
helmet?" Looking back and grinning, he goes, "I'm kidding you. Jesus,
Mattie!" Catching up with him, I say, "I don't always 'get it' when people
are kidding." He puts his arm across my shoulders, asking, "Oh, yeah? Why's
that?" Shrugging, I mumble, "I don't know." I'm not telling him I've got
Aspergers, no way am I mentioning that. I've never mentioned 'that' to
anyone!

Bruce stops next to a big-ass motorcycle and says, "Grab the helmet in the
saddlebag," and he points to a metal compartment next to the back wheel. I
ask, "In this container?" and he laughs, "They're called hard saddlebags
and, yeah, there's a half helmet like this one," and he holds up the helmet
that was hanging off the handlebars. Huh, it looks smaller than most
helmets I've seen. It's matte black with a large cup-like thing for his
chin. I can't get this so-called hard saddlebag open. Bruce, holding his
helmet, opens it for me and hands me the helmet that was inside. Yeah, it's
exactly like his.

He tells me, "These are Bell Rogue half-size helmets, they're comfortable
and meet all the safety requirements too," and he pats my head, adding,
"Jesus, we both need haircuts, don't we?" He hands me the helmet as I
mumble, "I do, yeah, um, I know." I try the helmet on and, surprisingly,
it's wicked lightweight although it's also too big for my head. Bruce puts
his helmet on and tightens the chin strap and then adjust mine, and now it
fits comfortably. I mutter, "Thanks," and then look at the little seat over
the back wheel. Hmm, I'm not going to say anything, but I can see myself
falling off that little seat the first sharp turn he makes. Fuck it though,
I'm not gonna be a pussy. I ask, "Do I get on first?" He laughs, and then
asks, "Well, what'd you do the last time you rode on a motorcycle?" Ha, I'm
caught in another lie.

Well, why not tell one more lie? I say, "It was more a motorbike that I
rode on before. Um, not a big-ass motorcycle like this, and, ah, that seat
appears to be dangerously small." He laughs again and says, "You're
priceless, Mattie. Don't worry, you won't fall off 'cause you'll be holding
onto me." He gets on and nods his head for me to get on behind him. I do
that, and he says, "Don't be shy, hold me with both hands, or better yet
get your arms around me. No one is gonna think you're a fag." What'd he
mean by that?

Leaning forward, I grip his waist with both hands and he takes off without
doing a wheelie, which I appreciate. There's a sharp turn onto the road
leading up from the park, and then it's a bumpy ride to the bridge. He
makes a sharp turn and I dig my fingers into his sides because the momentum
had me slipping off the seat. To make the yellow light Bruce hits the gas
and the tires squeal. When we roar up Baltimore Pike my arms go around his
waist holding on for dear life.

Omigod, this is the first time I've ever had my arms around a guy, my chin
is bumping against his back with my nose hitting the back of his neck,
flesh to flesh, his longish hair tickling me. He reaches his left hand back
to touch my side as he turns his head, and yells, "Hold on tight Mattie,"
and the motorcycle roars louder as we pass three cars and now we're moving!
God, this is so cool!

The bowling alley is only a ten-minute ride the way Bruce drives. I wish it
were an hour's drive. He glides the motorcycle to a stop in front of the
bowling alley and then he drops his feet to the blacktop. "Here you are,
buddy." Reluctantly I take my arms from around him and sit up, asking, "Oh,
aren't you coming in?" He says, "Nah, I had off work today so I promised to
smoke a joint with my brother but now I'm meeting some guys for a couple of
beers at Gambol's Bar."

Jeez, I'm disappointed he's not coming in with me. Standing next to the
motorcycle, I'm taking the helmet off, asking, "Why'd you drive here if
you're not going inside?" He goes, "Because I didn't like the way your
friend blew you off back there. Not cool. And anyway, I'm happy to give you
a ride." He sees I can't get the saddlebag open again, so he drops the
kickstand and gets off the motorcycle to open it for me.

I drop the helmet in the saddlebag, saying, "But you hardly know me," and
he goes, "What? I've known you for ten years, dude. Jesus Christ, you live
a block from my house. Whaddaya talking about?" I go, "Yeah, but..." and he
says, "Hell, I picked you to be on my softball team at the Fourth of July
picnic, didn't I?" Oh yeah. He felt sorry for me. I nod my head, "Yeah, I
remember. I just meant, um, you're older and, um..." He pats my shoulder
and says, "You're cool, Mattie! I asked you to join the Marines with me,
right?" I go, Huh?" and he grins, saying, "I'm kidding you again. See ya
later." I mutter, "Thanks for the, um, ride." He says, "My pleasure," and
off he goes.

That was random. Wow, my dick got hard holding Bruce around the waist like
that. Fuck though, why couldn't he be gay and take me under his wing? I can
never tell if someone is inferring more than the words they use, but then
if he were inferring something gay, which he wasn't, um, he'd expect me to
blow him, and he'd want to fuck me and I couldn't... oh, nevermind.

Inside the bowling alley, I'm feeling very uncomfortable because my
security blanket, Dean, isn't here. If he's fucking that slut I'll be
disappointed in him. Yeah, well, that's pathetic of me. Oh, good, there's
Jello at the counter of the pizza outlet. I'll walk over to be near
him. He's so outgoing no one will expect me to say anything.

When I'm sort of next to him, Jello looks at me, saying, "Hey, my man
Burke! How's it going, dude? What kind of pizza do you like?" I shrug,
"Pizza, um..." and, oh fuck, here comes Brenda. She comes right over to me
and rubs my back, asking, "So, what are you doing this summer, Mattie?" I
shrug again as Jello mutters, "I'm thinking a pepperoni pizza should hit
the spot!" Then he goes, "Hey, do either of you numbnuts got money? I need
two more bucks." Brenda says, "I don't want pizza, Jello. Just buy a wedge
for yourself why doncha?" He ignores her and looks at me, "Burke, ya got
two bucks I can borrow?" I nod and then go into my pocket and pull out two
five-dollar bills. Jello delicately slides one of the fives from my
fingers, mumbling, "Thanks, you're awesome."

Oh God, where's Dean? He's my buffer. The redheaded girl, who I thought was
a guy, comes over and tells Brenda, "Dickie Love and his friend Chico are
bowling on alley eight." Branda squeals as they hug each other and then the
two of them hurry off. Thank God!

Jello places his order and then I watch him put the three-dollars in change
from my five-dollar bill in his pocket as he's asking me, "How 'bout your
buddy Morris and the slut? They snuck off together, huh?" Avoiding that for
obvious reasons, I say, "Your brother Bruce, um, is wicked cool. He gave me
a ride over here." Jello, ignoring that, calls out to a guy, "Hey, Toad!
Where the hell were you earlier today? I had some good shit we smoked!
Tough tittie... you missed out on it!" The guy is Steve Norris, aka
'Toad'. I know him but he's an arrogant bully, so whenever possible I avoid
him. I drift away as he comes over and I hear Jello asking, "Ya want a
slice of pizza, Norris?"

This blows, plus I feel shitty from drinking too much whiskey. Goddammit, I
should have driven... I could go home now. Walking outside the bowling
alley, and then across the parking lot to the strip mall, I go into
Fortello's Deli. After buying a Coke I'm outside sitting at the only table
not being used. Well, I'm stuck here because there's no way I'm gonna walk
five miles home. All I can do is wait for Dean to show up. Man, it would
have been so cool if Bruce had asked me to go with him on his
motorcycle. Where that would be I can't imagine, but...

Less than a minute later, a man and woman carrying sub sandwiches and cans
of soda come over and sit at my table. The man says, "Can we share the
table with you?" Why does he bother asking when he's already sharing it? I
mumble, "Ah, um, that's okay, I was leaving anyway," and I get up and head
back to the bowling alley. After I take two steps, I hear the man say to
the woman, "Was it something I said?" and they both laugh. Assholes!

It's not like I'm picked on or bullied, not any more or less than bullies
bully anyone, and I get along with most everyone and everyone seems more or
less 'okay' with me. Hell, some guys actually like me. It's just that I
can't make myself feel 'part' of a group. I'm like one of those rogue
planets without a sun to orbit around. Yeah, astronomers recently
discovered planets without a sun. These planets drift in space as a
solitary entity. That's me. Well, except for Dean, and he's the one who
made friends, and it's me who always needs to call him.

Today's been a regular summer day for guys I know, and it would be for me
too if only I was as normal as the rest of them. How great it would be if I
was maybe a 'hot-shit' guy like Jello, able to banter bullshit with the
guys. Today would be cool and stress-free, a summer day half-drunk and
killing time at the park and then here at the bowling alley with the
guys. I can't make myself be like that though! I'm incapable of responding
normally within my peer group. I know why, of course, not that that's any
consolation. I've Googled and found many famous people have degrees of
Asperger's syndrome but yet they've become super successful in
life. There's nothing on Google about the ten trillion of us who aren't
successful, and then there's the other little 'thing' I'm dealing
with... I'm gay.

It sounds like I'm feeling sorry for myself but I'm really not. Mostly I'm
grateful I don't need to deal with my problems PLUS be one of the millions
who live in poverty here and in third world countries... and blah, blah,
blah. Oh, and then there's Tommy Singleterry. Whenever I feel down, I try
imagining how 'down' he must feel. And, oh, fuck, I just remembered this
coming Saturday is my turn to be with him all day. Damn! Well, eighteen
months ago I volunteered to do it every three weeks and unlike other
volunteers, I'm keeping my word.

Back in the bowling alley, I watch a guy and girl bowl. They're probably
boyfriend/girlfriend. I wonder what that would be like? Someone yells, "Yo,
Burke, where'd you get to?" I turn to see Jello sitting at a small table by
himself, still eating pizza. He waves his arm, "Come here and have a
slice." Bringing my half-full can of Coke, I go over and sit with Jello,
saying, "Thanks." He has pizza sauce on his t-shirt and chin as he smiles,
saying, "Is it okay if I owe you five bucks, or do you need the
three-dollars in change? I'll pay you back tomorrow," and he picks up my
Coke can and finishes the soda in it.

Choosing the smallest pizza slice left in the box, I pick it up and mutter,
"Whatever. I got a job today, so...." He talks with his mouth full, saying,
"No shit? I'm still working part-time at Penn Fruit, bagging groceries."
Nodding my head, I try to think of something I can say to that, but nothing
occurs to me. And that's okay because Dean shows up, asking, "Who belongs
to that last slice of pizza?" Jello grabs it, mumbling, "Not you, Morris!
Um, did you get laid?"

Dean sits down, muttering, "Nah, she's on the rag. She copped my joint
though." He punches my arm, "Whassup, Mattie?" Frowning, I ask, "Did she
blow you?" He goes, "Sure. You should have come with me." I'm like, "You
didn't invite me."

We hang around for another hour and then head for home. After Dean drops me
off at my car, I drive to the mall where I buy boots for work using my
debit card. That reduced my bank balance to sixteen dollars but I've got
five dollars in my pocket. At dinner, my parents aren't as excited as I
expected them to be about me getting hired. Mostly they figure out how much
I should pay for room and board now that I graduated high school and have a
job.

After dinner, I'm on my laptop reading blogs about working experiences at
UPS. There are a lot of negative comments but a lot of positive ones
too. Actually, there are so many contradictory remarks they're basically
useless and no help at all. So many things are 'matters of opinion' and,
obviously, everybody has one.

The next morning I'm up early to shower and shave figuring I might as well
look as good as I can for my first day at work. After making my lunch
consisting of two P & J sandwiches and a pack of TastyKakes, I eat a
breakfast of cereal and coffee. I'm nervous, and very much in need of some
encouraging words from my folks but they're bickering about money again.

Finished eating, I put my bowl and cup in the dishwasher. Then, grabbing my
lunch bag, I say, "Well, now I'm off for my first day at UPS." My mom says,
"What's the big deal? This isn't your first job, Mathew," and my dad says,
"No, it's not, but this is a fulltime job, so he better not fuck it
up. Right, Matt?" With my hand on the doorknob, Mom goes, "Did you mention
Peggy Lynch's husband driving for UPS twenty-years?" I lie and say, "Yes,
they were impressed," and dad says, "Look, Matt, what ya wanna do is find
out all you can about how much they'll pay for your community college night
school's tuition in the fall, and remember what Dr, Bloomberg told you to
do. Fake being normal." I nod, mumbling, "I will," and then I'm off to
work... minus words of encouragement.

Hell, I understand, compared to my brother Nick, I'm a huge disappointment
to my parents.

Continued in Chapter 2...

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