Date: Tue, 2 Oct 2012 23:23:51 -0700 From: Douglas DD DD Subject: The Big Time Chapter 37 Welcome back. In this chapter the boys as high schoolers learn that winning is more difficult than they thought as their fledgling Falcons team keeps finding ways to lose. In the seventh grade story line, Marty has to seriously confront his alcoholism for the first time. The story is mine. Donate to Nifty. Please be 18 to read and please be safe, always. The Mayfield Falcons summer team. Eric-16 (12th grade) 17 on August 3rd Scott-17 (12th grade) Danny-17 (12th grade) Kraig-17 (12th grade) Kevin-17 (12th grade) Hunter-17 (12th grade) Lars-16 (12th grade) 17 on July 4th Noah-16 (12th grade) Justin-15 (11th grade) 16 on August 11 Gavin-18 (12th grade) Carl-17 (12th grade) Chandler-15 (10th grade) Korey-15 (10th grade) Blaine-15 (11th grade) 16 on September 1. Douglas at thehakaanen@hotmail.com CHAPTER 37 INCOMPREHENSIBLE DEMORALIZATION We had another doubleheader on Sunday, playing a team from Vancouver, Washington. The games were non-league and they weren't pretty as we dropped both ends of the twin bill by scores of 7-4 and 4-0. The two losses meant we were off to a 1-5 start after six games. Chandler was the starting pitcher in the first game and was not very effective. Lars pitched okay in the second game, but we ended up with just two hits. There was something missing from this team, and it was more than the graduating seniors. We seemed to be missing some kind of spark. We had practice at the town park Monday evening. It was a good practice and much needed. There had been so much going on that the Falcons hadn't had time to get on the field much since the end of the high school season, which for us ended later than usual because we went to State. Coach Miller worked us hard in a practice that was organized and productive. He pointed out that we had a lot of work to do, but told us not to worry because we were a talented and competitive group. Today was our first league game as well as our first away game. Rain during the week had taken care of what were supposed to be our first two league games. We were playing the players from Harborview High School. They were 7-3 having had more time for practice games than we had. Scott was scheduled to be the starting pitcher with me starting our Thursday league game. Scott was wild, as he often is, but when he got the ball over the plate he was hard to hit. We got our offense clicking for the first time and found ourselves with a 5-2 lead going into the bottom of the seventh. Scott had thrown a lot of pitches as he walked five and struck out eight over the first six innings. Coach Miller decided this was a good time to find out if his pick as closer was up to the job. Since we were behind in all but one of our first six games he hadn't had any opportunity to really use a closer. His choice was Kraig, who relied mostly on his better than average fastball. He had problems keeping it low in the zone and he couldn't really throw his off-speed stuff for strikes, but he was able to overpower a lot of hitters. Kraig didn't fool anybody in this game and after three walks and two hits the score was 5-4 with one out and the bases loaded. It was a tough spot to bring in Blaine, the junior. His nerves were apparent as he walked in the tying run and then gave up a run on a single which saddled us with a 6-5 loss. Blaine had moved to Mayfield as a freshman and never seemed to try to fit in. Still, he was my teammate, and I felt for him. But when I tried to make him feel better he said he didn't want to talk. Losing a three run lead and a game in the last inning is as demoralizing as anything in sports, and this game was no exception. Whatever karma we'd had during the state tournament had fled into the ether somewhere as we found ourselves with a 1-6 record, wondering what we needed to do to win a game. Nobody felt worse than Kraig who had worked hard to become a pitcher. He couldn't get anything to work the entire inning. One thing I did know is that his brothers on the team, Kevin and Korey, were both catchers and that both of them would know how to console their brother and work on his badly shaken confidence. "Maybe we need to reinitiate creating team karma," Noah said after we got home. We were sitting in the home theater at his house watching the video that Nicky had taken of the game. The thirteen year old was talented with a camera and had done a good job with it. "You mean have an all-team circle jerk?" I asked. "An all-team orgy would be better yet," Nicky said. "I could be the judge of who the sexiest guys on the team are and then video tape it to watch later." "Shhh," Noah said, "mom or dad could walk in any time." "Whatever," Nicky said. "It's not like they never heard of sex before." Listening to Nicky I still couldn't believe he and Hurricane Jeff hadn't had wild sex out in the middle of the street somewhere, but I knew they had enjoyed some pretty good sexual rumbles together. "Maybe what we should to is get you and Jeff acquainted with the things you can do in a bed together," I said. "Jeff knows all that." Nicky said. "We do almost everything together. He thinks you're really sexy and wants you to be his first fuck, which is one thing we don't do together. Well, we do, but not the way he wants it. He really wants Marty to top him first, but I guess that isn't going to happen." I couldn't help but look over my shoulder to see if one of his parents was standing there overhearing him. "Why don't you be the first one?" I asked, truly curious as to the answer. "He wants a big boy the first time, like Marty, who is like his big brother and has taught him most of his sex stuff. Marty won't do it because he's all dorky around Jeff's dad, so now Jeff wants you. Then he can have me. Don't worry, he's done me so he knows what it's all about. He's not that big, but it's still fun." "Well, Thursday's game has us in Lacey," Noah said, steering the topic away from sex. "I hear those guys are really good." "So are we," I said, "if we could just get our act together." Noah's parents came into the room. "How's the video?" Seth McCall asked. "Nick did a great job," Noah said, "We played really well for most of the game. But I have a feeling his video isn't going to change the seventh inning." "Too bad. You guys played a great game up until then." He looked at me and said, "I bet you're looking forward to Saturday." "Yeah, that should be a lot of fun." We were playing a non-league double header on Saturday at home against a team from Tacoma. Of course Seth and Coach Miller, who did our scheduling, picked the team that Shelby, Liam, Adam, and Chase played on. I was really looking forward to that. Seth watched the seventh inning collapse with us and then left the room. Nicky yanked down the front of his shorts and revealed his just under four inch, hairless boner. "You guys wanna have a three way?" he asked "Jeez, thirteen year olds; always horny," Noah said. "You're just jealous, Noah." Nicky covered his boner up and asked again about a three way. "I can't think of a reason why we can't have a three way," I said. "What about you Noah?" "I'm good with it." Nicky flashed a wide grin. "Last one between you to Noah's room gets fucked by me," he said, and he was gone before we could say anything. "How about you beat me up there," I said. "You're on." With that we turned off the big plasma screen and headed up to Noah's room, confident that Nicky would be stark naked by the time we entered. ++++++++++ Marty made it to school without a drink on Thursday, feeling confident he had recovered from his partying weekend. He was surprised when Coach Sanders called him out of his morning homeroom just as it was about to end, however. "Hi, Marty," the coach said in an easy friendly manner. "How was your summer?" "It was okay." Coach Sanders led Marty toward his classroom which was just a couple of doors down the hall. The bell ending homeroom rang before they were halfway there. Marty was somewhat nervous since he had no idea what it was his coach wanted. Coach Sanders had first period open for preparing lesson plan. He had his planning the last period of the day during the second semester to accommodate his coaching baseball. They walked into the coach's empty room. "Have a seat at a desk, Marty." The coach closed the classroom door and picked a desk next to the one Marty chose. "Is football going okay?" Coach Sanders asked. "It's alright. Coach says I need to work harder if I'm going to start, but I know I'm better than most of those guys so I think I'll start." "I hear from Coach Kennedy that you showed up for turnouts pretty out of shape and that your work habits have left a bit to be desired, not to mention your attitude." Coach Sanders decided the time for small talk was over. It was time to get down to business. "He's lying. He's got it in for me. I've been working my ass off." "Why would Coach Kennedy have it in for you?" "Because, he just does." "You know, last spring the coaches in this school thought pretty highly of you." Marty said nothing. "Some of us are thinking we're not seeing the same great kid we saw last spring." Marty looked down at the floor and said nothing. "I've heard rumors you've been drinking a lot, maybe even smoking a lot of dope." Marty looked up and said, "Whoever said that is a fucking liar." He didn't bother to excuse his language. "I've heard it from more than one source." Marty went back to looking at the floor and once again said nothing. Coach Sanders tried to get a glimpse of the boy who put his attitude aside and helped lead his JV teammates to a championship last spring. He tried to see the boy who had impressed the coaches enough to present him with the Coaches' Award. He would even be happy to catch a glimpse of the fun loving boy who mooned him and Phil at Noah's pool. But he couldn't see any of what he was looking for. "I have asked Miss Emerson to chat with you. You're a great kid, Marty, and we all want to help you." Miss Emerson was the middle school counselor. "Miss Emerson is an old bi...witch and I won't see her and I don't need anybody's help." "Marty, if you have a problem we can help you with it." "I don't have a problem, it's you that got the problem." Marty got up from the desk. "So just leave me the fuck alone!" He opened the door and left the room. Coach Sanders considered it a minor victory that he didn't slam the door. Since Marty never got a note from Coach Sanders excusing him for being late to first period he decided to skip the class and sit in a bathroom stall. He sat in the last stall, wishing he'd brought one of remaining bottles of vodka to school. He decided he needed to buy some of those little airplane bottles from Randy. He sat there for awhile thinking about how the entire world was ganging up against him. Coach Sanders, Coach Kennedy, his father, his mother, his brother, Rich, Connor...the list was endless. It was no wonder he drank having to deal with all of the bullshit around him. He decided he couldn't just sit there for the whole period doing nothing. He pulled his pants and boxers down to his ankles, took off his shirt, jammed it into the toiled paper holder, and started playing with his dick and balls. He was as good as naked and it didn't take him long to get himself hard and start jerking off. He thought about the gray haired jogger in the park, the one he was sure wanted to give him a blow job. He thought about the man paying him for sex. While the thought of doing sex for money intrigued him he realized it didn't really turn him on. Instead he thought about what girl he wanted to be in bed with, but as he jerked off his mind flipped over to Rich and to Rich's little brother Mikey, and then to Eric and jerking off with him, and finally latched on to Royce and Lance. He ended up shooting his teen cum over his belly and pubes as he thought about getting stoned with them and sucking their dicks. He dressed himself, not bothering to wipe off, furious with himself for cumming while thinking about boys instead of about a girl. He left the bathroom just as the bell ending first period rang. He hoped that whoever was sitting next to him in second period would be able to smell the cum on him. Football practice was a drag again. He managed to ignore most of his teammates. Connor was the only one who said much of anything to him, giving him grief for being stuck up and not talking to anybody. After practice Marty didn't bother to shower; instead he headed straight home, grabbing his second to last bottle of vodka to take to the park. Marty changed into a t-shirt and the shortest, tightest shorts he owned. He hoped the gray haired jogger would come by and ask him for sex. He also carried a hoodie with him since the evenings were starting to get cooler. Marty sat on the same bench as before. He opened up the bottle he brought. He had tucked it inside of the paper bag he'd stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie. He took a drink of the warming fluid, waiting for the warmth to hit his brain and calm him down. He knew that when it hit him things would be better for him, that he would feel the way he was supposed to feel. He wished there was a way to keep that feeling inside of him permanently. He could see a boys' soccer practice at the other side of the park. He wondered if it was the team Kraig and some of the other seventh graders played on. He was tempted to get up and watch, but he was afraid of missing the jogger. He wondered about the jogger. He knew the guy looked at him as he ran by. His gray hair interested him, because in his mind he looked much younger than a guy whose hair was all gray should look. He drank off and on for almost an hour. The soccer practice was breaking up and he was hungry. He hadn't eaten since lunch. The alcohol on his empty stomach was giving him what he felt was a good buzz, but in reality he had gotten pretty drunk. He closed his eyes for a moment and instead of getting up like he'd planned, he fell asleep. He only dozed for fifteen minutes or so, but to him it seemed like forever. He looked around for his paper sack. He was afraid he might have knocked it over and spilled its precious fluid, but he saw it on the ground, the bottle standing upright. He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. He realized he was drunk. Even so, a thought went through his head that almost sent him into a state of panic. He thought about what he had told his father and his brother and anybody who would listen that he wasn't an alcoholic. He'd said that he knew he wasn't because everybody knew that an alcoholic drank out of a paper sack and slept on park benches, which was what he has just done. That's bullshit, he thought to himself, just total bullshit. I was just taking a nap, not sleeping. He was about to get off of the bench when he saw someone standing a few feet away, looking right at him. It was the gray-haired jogger. Marty knew the time had come for action—he just hoped he wasn't too drunk to do anything. "You look like you might be in need of help," the man said. "Yeah, you can suck my dick an' help me," Marty slurred. "Twenny bucks you can suck it and I suck yours." "I was thinking you might need help getting off of that bench. You appear to be drunk." "I'm not drunk cuz I'm no allaholic like they all say. Wassh, I'll prove it." Marty got off the bench and staggered over to the man who was around ten feet away. The man made no attempt to move. The man saw a boy, who stood maybe 5'6, with a mop of light brown hair hanging across his forehead in front, down to his ears on the side, and around his collar in back. He had a face coming into adolescence, not that of a boy or that of a man, with a rounded nose, eyes that couldn't focus, and pouty lips. Under different circumstances the man might have thought him a cute, maybe even a handsome boy. But right now he was a mess. When Marty got to the man he fell to his knees in front of him. He looked up at him. He could see inside the legs of the man's running shorts and saw that he was wearing white briefs. He knew exactly what the man wanted from him and was ready to give it to him, but as he reached up to pull down the man's shorts he felt a wave of nausea come across him. Instead of yanking down the shorts he puked over the jogger's expensive running shoes. The man moved out of the way, then bent down and held Marty's head. When Marty finished he uttered a long, low "fuuuuuuuuuck" and passed out on the grass. Marty had no idea where he was when he woke up. His head hurt and his stomach was churning, which left no doubt in his mind that he was suffering from yet another horrific hangover. Just opening his eyelids hurt, but he had them pried far enough apart to know he was in a strange bed in a strange room. He sensed a presence in the room and moved his head enough to see the gray-haired jogger sitting on a seat next to the bed. This time he wasn't in his jogging garb. He was wearing a dark green polo shirt and crisply pressed slacks. The worst of Marty's fears surfaced as he realized he must have had ended up in bed with the man and had sex with him. He was wearing a pair of oversized pajamas, which made him wonder how he got into them. As occurred almost all the time when he got drunk, he could remember none of what happened, but there was no question in his mind that he had done exactly what he'd planned to do with the man. He wondered if the man had agreed to pay him. If he had then whatever happened last night would be okay, but if the man thought he was getting free sex with a boy then Marty decided he would be very angry. "Good morning," the man said. He gave Marty a kindly smile. "My name is George Bednarzyck, but you can call me George, or Mister B." Marty said nothing, waiting to see what else the man had to say. "I know you're Marty. I met your mother and father last night. We all felt the best thing for you was to spend the night here. You were pretty drunk, which I'm sure you know." Marty said nothing, but he was a bit confused. If the man, George, had talked to his parents, then maybe he didn't have sex with him. Or maybe he talked to his dad to cover up what his real intentions were. "You don't have to drink again," the man said simply. Marty finally spoke. "I know I don't have to drink again," he said in a sullen raspy voice. "I drink because I like it not because I have to." He was already disliking this man. He didn't like his looks, he didn't like his easy manner of speaking, he didn't like how carefully and neatly he was dressed, in fact he didn't like a single thing about him. "What you're saying is that you like sitting in a park drinking vodka from a bottle that's in a paper bag, getting drunk in public, and then vomiting all over a man's shoes." "I didn't say that. That was a one time thing." "Getting drunk in the park certainly wasn't. I've been aware of you all week. And I know that getting that drunk is nothing new this week. In fact it's pretty common." "So, what do you care? It's my life." "Do you like how that life is going?" Marty glowered at the man. He didn't want to talk to him, but the man's approach had him letting down his guard. "No, not when everybody hates me and I hate them." "And they all hate you because?" "Because they're all fucking assholes." George dropped his interrogation for the moment. "I had quite a time getting you here. You're a big heavy kid." Marty once again said nothing. "But I got some help from a couple of friends. My wife helped get you in bed, I talked to your parents, and here we are." "What time is it?" "Almost eight." "I'm late for school." "I have a note signed by your father excusing your tardiness. The shower is across the hall, your clothes are on the chair, and your books are downstairs. I assume you didn't do any assignments, but the books are there. Take a shower, get dressed, and meet me in the kitchen. There will be some breakfast for you." "I don't feel like eating." "It's good for a hangover and for whatever else ails you." "What the fuck would you know about hangovers?" "I've had more of those than you've ever dreamed of having." George got out of his chair and looked down at Marty. "You don't ever have to drink again," he said for the second time, and left the room. Marty dragged himself out of bed and into the hall, trying not to trip over the legs of the oversized pajamas. He went into the bathroom and realized he should have brought his clothes with him. He was about to turn around to grab his clothes when a pint-sized boy with blond hair that seemed to consist of endless cowlicks came in. He was dressed only in a pair of tight fitting white briefs. "You must be the drunk boy," he said. "No, kid, I'm the fucking tooth fairy." The little boy ignored Marty's sarcasm and babbled on. "I'm Jeffrey. I'm seven. You can call me Jeff if you want." "I'm Marty," Marty said with a resigned voice. "I gotta pee and then get dressed so I can have breakfast and go to school. I'm in the second grade." "It's your bathroom. Go ahead and pee. I'll wait outside." "We can pee together. Me and Sam do. Sam's my brother. Me and my friend Stanley do too. This isn't my bathroom. Mine is upstairs where my bedroom is, but I wanted to see what the drunk boy looked like." "I'm not your brother or your best friend." Marty was not ready to carry on with the little bundle of energy standing in the bathroom. All he wanted was peace and quiet. "I know that. You're the drunk boy." Jeffery pulled his briefs down to his knees, revealing a little white ass which contrasted to his still tan legs and torso, and a little nub of a cock sitting on top of a tiny ball sac. "Come on and pee." Marty sighed. He really had to pee badly, so he opened up the pajama bottoms, which were barely staying up, and let them fall to the floor, and stepped out of them. He was now dressed in just his boxers. Marty noted that whoever put the pajamas on him hadn't stripped him naked. He stood next to Jeff and the two of them took care of their business almost simultaneously. Marty went on longer than Jeff, who watched Marty with intense curiosity, his briefs still down at his knees. "You have hair down there," Jeff observed as he saw what was sticking out of the pee slit in Marty's boxers. "It happens when you get older," Marty said, wishing the little boy would go away. Jeff pointed to his bare pubic area, touching it and rubbing his finger around it as if to make sure Marty knew what he was talking about. "Me and Stanley and Sammy don't got any there." "I didn't either when I was seven." Marty was reminded of the time he had been accosted in the bathroom in the morning by Rich's brother, Mikey, back in the spring. Mikey had been a bit older at ten and Marty was horny and some sexual play happened between the two. This morning was different as the boy was obviously too young, he was not horny, and there wasn't time to do anything anyway. "I like you drunk boy, I hope you come back." Jeff pulled up his briefs and left the bathroom to Marty. Marty saw that Jeff was curious and not horny. He tried to remember if he got horny when he was seven. As far as he could remember he didn't get aroused by anything sexual until he was nine, and then it was rare. After showering he dried himself and scooted across the hall with his towel wrapped around his waist. He dressed and went downstairs, feeling a little better after his shower. He found Jeff and Mr. B at the kitchen table eating breakfast. "There's a big pot of freshly cooked oatmeal on the stove," Mr. B said. "It's good for what ails you." "I like it, so you should, too," Jeff said. Marty filled a bowl with oatmeal and sat where there was a spoon and a glass of apple juice set out. "I thought you had two kids," Marty said. "The wife already took Sammy to pre-school." Jeff finished his oatmeal and gathered his stuff. The doorbell rang. "That's Stanley," Jeff said. "Bye drunk boy, I hope you come back." "His name's Marty," his father admonished. "Bye Marty, I hope you come back." And with that Jeff was out the door. "I would apologize for Jeffery, but he is what he is. We call him Hurricane Jeffrey because he roars around like a big storm. Thank heavens his brother is a much calmer sort." He glanced at the clock on the kitchen stove. "Looks like we won't have you too late for school." "I don't feel like going," Marty said. "That's the best time to do something, right when you don't want to do it. Sometimes that's when you get the most out of it." "If you drop me off there I won't go in." "Like many things in life that's your choice, and like most choices you end up having to live with the consequences of what you do." Marty said nothing, which had been his reaction to much of what Mr. B said. The gray-haired man didn't seem to mind the silence and he sat and said nothing as well. Marty decided he had to know the answer to a question, so he was the one who broke the silence. "Did I...um...did I like do something...you know, stupid, last night?" From the things Marty had muttered the night before, Mr. B. knew where Marty was coming from. "Rest assured that other than vomiting over my shoes you didn't do anything stupid, at least if you are referring to the things you kept mumbling about." That gave Marty a sense of relief, although he did feel embarrassed about the things he knew he'd said. He was certain now that he had not been seduced while he was drunk and blacked out. "What kind of work do you do? You have a nice house." "I'm a lawyer." "Oh. Don't lawyers wear suits and stuff?" His host was still wearing his green polo shirt instead of a dress shirt and tie. "I don't have any appointments this morning, so I took the morning off to get you put together for school." "Why are you helping me like this?" "Because you need it." "Well, okay, thanks. But I won't need your help any more." "Like I said, you never have to drink again." Marty was getting tired of hearing that line. "For the rest of my life?" George Bednarzyck gave the young teen a long look. "Nope, that's too long to think about. You don't drink for the rest of the day and go from there." "That's it? Then tomorrow I can start over and drink again?" "Tomorrow you can start over and not drink for the day. And you do the same the day after that, and the day after that, and for one day at a time until they all start piling up, and it becomes simple, knowing you don't have to drink again." "That sounds kinda lame." George chuckled. "It is a bit lame now that you mention it. But trust me, it works. We can all handle one day at a time. But the rest of one's life? That's a pretty tall order." "How do you know this all works?" "Because it's worked for me since I was nineteen. You thought puking on my shoes was bad, try doing it on your high school principal at the Senior Ball." "You got drunk at the Senior Ball? You were drunk all the time like me?" As quickly as he said them Marty wished he could take those words back. He'd just revealed something he didn't want anybody to know. "I got drunk the first time at an eighth grade party when I was thirteen. I totally fell in love with alcohol on that day. It made everything that seemed wrong to a thirteen year old boy suddenly become unimportant. I finally quit when I was a freshman in college. I tried to quit a few times, but I wasn't willing to go to any length to do it. I wasn't willing to surrender myself to a higher power. I wasn't willing to become a spiritual person. It wasn't until I met a fellow traveler in college that I realized there was another way—that I truly never had to drink again. It started by my admitting I was powerless over alcohol, which was the unvarnished truth. That was almost twenty years ago." Marty did a quick calculation in his head. "You mean you're only 39?" George couldn't help but laugh. Out of the mouths of babes, he thought. "I am only 39, gray head not withstanding. I call it my Sparky Anderson look." "Who's he?" "You can look it up, but we both have prematurely gray hair and our first names in common." Marty surprised George by cleaning his breakfast dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. "You don't need to drive me to school, I can walk there. But thanks again for your help." "I'll give you a ride. It will give us a chance to talk some more." That wasn't what Marty wanted to hear, but he didn't argue. The ride to the school was a short one. Mayfield was a small town, after all. When they stopped at the school, Marty gathered up his stuff and opened the door. "Thanks again. Maybe I'll see ya around town or in the park or something." Marty didn't want to talk to Mr. B any more. "Marty, if you truly don't want to drink any more and are willing to go to any length to take a road that will insure that, be at my house at eleven tomorrow." George handed Marty a card. "If you think you need help before then, my cell phone number is on the card. You can call that." Marty closed the door and decided that as long as he was at the school he might as well go in. He also decided that there was no way he would be at the man's house on a Saturday morning. Marty struggled through the day at school, his hangover never really going away. He was sluggish in football practice, incurring the wrath of the coaches more than once. All he could think about during the last part of practice was getting home, having dinner, and getting some beers out of the refrigerator. He thought he still had a bottle of vodka in his stash, but also thought that might have been the one he drank last night. If so, he didn't want to touch it when he had his dad's beer available. His dad was never home on Friday nights, so who was going to stop him? His mom cooked up hamburgers and fries along with canned beans. It wasn't a great dinner, but it was good enough to suit Marty. He was hungry when he got home and wanted to eat as quickly as possible. After dinner he and John helped clean the kitchen, knowing their dad would just mess it up again whenever he got home from the Roadside Inn or whatever tavern he was in that night. After John left the kitchen, Marty pulled out three cans of beer and took them up to his room. He stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt and booted up his computer. As he ate dinner he decided that after all the talk about his drinking he would have only the three beers and just get himself a little buzz. He picked up one of the cold cans, but before opening it he set it back down. He got out of his chair and moved to his bed and flopped down on his back. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Words from various sources flashed through his head: "An alcoholic is somebody who drinks out of a paper bag and sleeps on a park bench." "I admitted I was powerless over alcohol." "You never have to drink again." "We can all handle one day at a time." "It takes one to know one." The memory of waiting for the jogger so he could offer himself for sex ran through his mind. Sleeping naked in the same bed with Randy's father and the dried cum on his back ran through his mind. Connor telling him how he tried sucking everybody's cock at Steve's party ran through his mind. But the loneliness that went away when he drank the magic elixir also went through his mind. Marty looked at the empty spot on his shelf and found that he couldn't stand the emptiness. He went downstairs, not bothering to dress. John and Tanner were watching television as he walked through the living room to the kitchen. "Are we going out in our underwear to drink now?" John asked, with more than a touch of sarcasm. "Shut up." Marty didn't even slow down. He left the house and crossed over to the garage. He set up the step ladder and reached up into the opening under the rafters. His hand found the plastic bag he had hidden in there. He pulled it down, opened it, and took his ragged teddy bear out of it. He knew John would give him shit for having it, but at that moment he didn't care. After reentering the house he tried to sneak past his brother and his friend, but was unsuccessful. "I thought you threw that thing away," John said. "I didn't, so there." "You gotta grow up sometime, bro." "Ask me if I care." John shook his head and went back to watching TV. Tanner didn't say anything. He had learned to stay out of the spats between the two brothers. Marty set Mortimer, the teddy bear, back in its honored spot on his shelf. He decided to put it well under the bed when he left the house. "Welcome back, Mortimer." He grabbed one of the cans of beer and lay back on the bed. But he didn't open the can. He knew he was tired of waking up with hangovers, tired of going places and waking up in strange beds, tired of not having any friends, tired of catching shit from everybody who said he was drinking too much. He set the can down, took the bear off the shelf, tucked it tightly to his body, and fell asleep. Marty was at Mr. B's front door at ten-thirty the next morning. A youngish looking woman opened the door and gave him a big smile. "Hello, Marty." She acted like she knew him, but Marty couldn't remember her at all. "Hi," he said with unaccustomed shyness. "Do come in." Marty entered the foyer. "You're a bit early. Have you had breakfast?" "Yes, thank you," Marty said with unaccustomed politeness. "Well, have a seat in the sunroom. George will be with you in a few minutes. He's upstairs showering." Marty took a seat on an overstuffed chair and looked out of the large windows at the well-tended yard in the back. His heart was thumping as he wondered what it was he was doing there. But he didn't get to think for long as his thoughts were interrupted by a loud yell behind him. "Marty, you came back!" It was Hurricane Jeffrey. Before Marty could say anything, Jeffrey landed on his lap. The little seven year old was wearing only a t-shirt, a pair of Spiderman briefs, and white socks. "I'm glad you came back," Jeff said. "I guess I'm glad, too." "I got something for you. Don't go away." The boy left Marty's lap, gave him an innocent kiss on the cheek, and dashed out of the room. He was back within seconds carrying a large sheet of paper with a drawing on it. Jeff stood next to Marty's chair and handed him the picture. "I drew this just for you." While the picture was obviously the work of a young child, it was more than a stick figure picture. The artist seemed to have some talent. The person in the picture had wild looking hair and a big smile. He was wearing brown pants that seemed to be too long and a brown top that also seemed too long. The person's hands and feet were covered by the top and bottom of what Marty deduced were the pajamas he had worn the night before. "That's you in dad's pajamas," Jeff said, confirming Marty's guess. "That was when you were drunk boy, but now you're Marty." He giggled a sweet little boy giggle. "You can keep it and take it home if you want." "Oh, I want. Thanks, Jeffrey." "You're mucho welcome. You can call me Jeff if you want, except when I want to be called Jeffrey." "How will I know when that happens?" "I'll tell you." Marty nodded as if that made sense. "I can't wait to see your wiener again," Jeff said. "It was big and had hair and it had a lot of pee." As sexual a boy as Marty was he still couldn't help but be surprised by Jeff's forwardness. He was thinking of something wise to say when George walked into the room. "It looks like you've made yourself a friend," he told Marty. "Yeah. He's a pretty cool little kid." "Marty liked my picture," Jeff said. "He said he was going to keep it." "Very good, Jeffrey. Now, how about you run up to your room and get dressed. Marty and I have some things to talk about." "So he doesn't get drunk again, right?" George shook his head and gave his son a light swat on his cute little butt with his open hand. "Go." Jeffrey giggled. He loved getting swats on his butt. "Okay, daddy. I love you." "I love you, too son." "I love you, Marty." Jeff gave Marty another peck on the cheek and dashed out of the room. "Thanks for being patient with him. He's incredibly bright and talented and hyperactive. That can be a combustible combination." George B. was seeing a lot to like in the thirteen year old boy in his living room now that he wasn't drunk or hung over. He knew that the boy was still toxic with the poisons of alcohol, but he could see a boy who was well worth saving. "It's okay, I like him." All of the fears that the winds of the seven year old hurricane had blown out of Marty returned with a vengeance. "Um...I guess I need to ask why I'm here." "Because you decided to be here, for one. Today I want you to meet somebody. But only if you promise me something." "Like what? Promise not to drink ever again?" "Nobody can promise that and I would never ask you to," George said. "No, what I want is for you never to tell the things you learn about this person today. He's going to share some very personal things with you and you must promise not to tell a soul—not your mother, your father, your brother, your girlfriend (Marty cringed a little when George said that), not your best friend, not a soul." "I suppose I could tell Mortimer," Marty said quietly, mostly to himself. "I tell him everything." Thinking of his loyal stuffed animal was his way of assuaging his fears. "I don't know who Mortimer is, but whoever he is, you can't tell him." Marty stared out of the large window and the green expanse. He wanted to get up and leave and not tell the man anything else. Yet, in a way he didn't understand, he trusted this man who took him out of the park, treated him with patience and kindness, and saved him from what would probably have been big trouble. In an even quieter voice he said," Mortimer is my teddy bear." "I didn't hear what you said." The often sullen young teen swallowed every piece of his pride, if only for a moment, and said a bit more loudly. "I said Mortimer is my teddy bear." George Bednarzyck watched the young teen stare out of the window, but he didn't see a troubled, haughty adolescent. Instead, he saw a vulnerable little boy who was still able to find solace in a stuffed animal. It was at that moment that he felt a surge of protectiveness that he hadn't felt for anybody except his two sons. It was then that he was sure he was ready to help this boy trudge the road of happy destiny, the one that led to sobriety. He was certain that he was an individual worth saving, and that he was a boy he could easily love and care for. What he knew was that he had found the boy in a state of incomprehensible demoralization. His father had steadfastly refused to send him to a drug and alcohol rehab facility (George had recommended one in Olympia) saying there was no way he was the father of an alcoholic. The direction he was going with the boy now was the only one George could think of, but they would be traveling down a road he knew well. Marty would not be the first alcoholic he'd worked with, and while none of their paths had been easy, working with every one of them had been gratifying. He had a feeling in his gut, however, that this might be the roughest road he had yet to trudge. Next: Coming Out-1