What's Going On Here?

Seven months is a long time to go between anything.

Let me bring you up to date. Small Town Boys is on hiatus, in case you haven't guessed. It's not writer's block as much as it is other work -- including real life and my job -- have stepped in to put the story on hold. I do plan to get back to it, but for the time being, things are in stasis with Donny, Eric, Mike, Greg, and the rest of the STB gang. Meanwhile, another work in the form of a short novel has taken over my time. It began several years ago as a short story and, as is the case with a lot of my work, took off on its own. But it is drawing to a close and I hope to be able to get it done before the end of the month. It even has a tentative title -- Namesake.

I also plan to get back to writing here on a more regular basis and writing about writing. That's what this blog was intended to be about in the first place.

By the way, I'm still shilling Can't Live Without You, looking for a sophomore production or even a staged reading. I have hopes to get it done here in Florida -- after all, it does take place here -- but I will send it anywhere for consideration. If you or someone you know is interested, drop me a line.

Okay, enough chit-chat; back to work and back to writing.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 53

Chapter Guide

These Are the Voyages…

“Are you coming in to the office tomorrow morning, or are you going straight to the airport?” Eric wanted to know.

It was a three weeks later and they were finalizing their plans for their trip to Fairview, Colorado. They, Rudy, and Vinnie and Jordan, two of the code talkers, were going to spend a week at the school district familiarizing themselves with the current setup and meeting the people who were going to determine what was needed to get the program running in order to begin to write the company’s response to the formal Request for Proposal. He had not heard from Danny, and he had almost forgotten about Tyler until he spotted a small item in the Times, picked up from the wire services from the Traverse City Record-Eagle, about the Herlingers asking for any information about their missing son.

“Well, since the flight’s at noon, there’s not a lot of point to coming in here just to turn around and go back,” Donny replied. “Matter of fact, why don’t you come over to my place and pick me up in the morning and we’ll go from there?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Trish and Wanda were going to look after the house. Donny had had a meeting with them about Small Town Boys the week after New Year’s and looked at the resumes of some of the screenwriters that Aaron and Jack were “suggesting” he consider. Donny had the distinct impression that he had already been chosen and that this was just a formality. All of them had impressive credits, including one that had been nominated for an Emmy two years before. Samples of their writing were included, and Donny flipped through them. “So, which one does Gina want me to choose?” he said to Trish.

She laughed. “You learn quick.” She handed him the portfolio of Evan Gilmour. He was in his early thirties but already had been the head writer on several prime time series and had worked with Aaron on two projects. “And,” Trish added, “he’s also got a couple of off-Broadway credits. Plus he knows the subject matter.”

“He’s gay, then.”

“Um hm. Best part is he lives in Boulder when he’s not here or in New York, and so you can meet him when you’re in Colorado.”

“Like I’ll have time,” said Donny. “We’re going up there to work, not ‘take a meeting.’”

“Well, at least call him and maybe have dinner.”

“No promises,” said Donny curtly. He was already beginning to think that Small Town Boys was going to be shoved to the back burner as far as he was concerned. Trish and Jack were still working on rounding up investors, and that meant they were pushing back the start date for the pilot to May or June. Meanwhile, Starship Enterprise was beginning to grow almost exponentially. They had already decided to hire an outside consulting firm to handle the training of the school staff and merger with the old system, and the initial proposal had grown from a collection of file folders on Donny’s desk to a row of thick binders labeled Purchasing, Accounts Payable, Accounts Receivable, Grants, Budget, HR, Grades, and the thickest one that Eric had titled Everything Else. The binders spilled off the table and on to the floor, and as they grew, file folders and boxes were added.

“We’re gonna need a U-Haul to get all this stuff up to there,” Eric said as he looked over the pile of paper.

Donny held up a box of floppy discs. “We’ll only need these and a laptop for the RFP.”

“Yeah, okay.” Eric said. “You might as well plan on moving there if we get the job. Not permanently, but…”

“Fine with me,” replied Donny.

Eric looked at him. “Really? Had it with L.A.?”

Donny twiddled the pen he was writing notes with. “Nah, just…”

“Getting burned out,” said Eric, finishing his thought. “Yeah, I know. But hey, we’ll have a good time in Colorado. Do some skiing, maybe, see if there are any hot guys in Boulder…” He grinned mischievously. “Some of those mountain-climber and jogger types can be pretty hot.”

“Thought we were going there to work,” snorted Donny.

“Uh huh.”

Marc came in and dropped a large binder on Donny’s desk. “Here’s the projections you were asking for,” he said, and then caught Eric’s grin. “What’s up?”

“Oh, just teasing Donny about getting a little Rocky Mountain high, that’s all.”

Marc laughed. “Yeah a little motel sex is always fun,” he said. “I should know.” His demeanor had improved markedly since Christmas, and everyone in the office had noticed it. Eric had asked Donny if he knew what was making Marc so happy, not that he had any objections. Donny had shrugged and said it was probably because they’d had a thirty-seven percent increase in sales the last two quarters and Business Week had featured them in a story about business integration software. Eric had agreed, then added, “If you ask me, he also looks like he’s in love. You guys back together?”

“Nope,” Donny had replied.

“Well, whoever it is, maybe we should give him a bonus.”

It was snowing lightly the next afternoon when they arrived in Denver. It was a tight fit getting the five of them and their luggage into the Mitsubishi Galant, but with a little creative cramming, they got the trunk closed. The snow followed them all the way to the Marriott in Fairview. They checked in, and since the hotel was almost full because of a cross-country race, Rudy, Vinnie, and Jordan were in one room, and Donny and Eric were in another. Eric called Gordie Harwell. They were to meet him for dinner that evening at the Elkhorn, a well-known steak place in the middle of town.

Fairview was nestled in a valley in the Front Range of the Rockies, nearly seven thousand feet above sea level. The thin air was noticeable, and Vinnie, the code talker from New Jersey, got a nosebleed. He and his cohort, Jordan, decided to stay in the motel, order in a pizza, and put the finishing touches on the preliminary presentation.

Gordie was a tall, balding man with owl-like eyes and a bushy mustache, the color of which matched his sandy hair. Donny found it hard to believe that he and Eric had been in the same classes in college until Eric explained that Gordie had been in the Army for ten years before coming back to finish his degree and go on to get his Masters in education. Rudy nodded silently as he was introduced, and when they ordered drinks, he ordered iced tea. The waitress wasn’t sure if they had any, it being the end of January, but she said she’d look.

After some small talk, mainly catching up between Eric and Gordie, the conversation turned to the project, and Rudy, who had been silent up to then, started asking Gordie a number of intricate technical questions that left even Eric slightly breathless. But Gordie was able to answer most of them, and Rudy took extensive notes in his pocket notebook. When it came time to order dinner, Gordie recommended the New York cut, and Donny and Eric concurred. Rudy ordered a side salad and a baked potato.

The food was good and Donny had a glass and a half of wine. He was feeling pleasantly light-headed at the end of the meal, and walking out into the cold night air was a nice sharp contrast to the stuffy and smoky air of the restaurant. He took several deep gulps of air before lighting a cigarette. The smoke made him feel even more dizzy.

Eric noticed him swaying a little. “You okay?” he said with a grin.

“Yeah,” Donny muttered. “The altitude, I guess.” He took another drag on the cigarette then tossed it in the gutter.

Eric was a little glassy-eyed, too. He handed the car keys to Rudy. “Here you go; you’re driving.”

Donny felt a little better in the car, and by the time they got back to the hotel, he didn’t object when Eric stopped in front of the lounge and suggested a nightcap.

The bar was quiet except for some tinny piped-in Billy Joel instrumentals. They each ordered Scotch on the rocks and sat at a table under a large print of Longs Peak.

“So,” Eric said, “this is kind of cool.”

“What?”

“Here we are, nailing down a contract to basically re-write an entire government entity’s software system. This could be huge.”

“All we’re doing is plugging a whole lot of patches and modules into an already existing system using our software,” Donny said. “It’s not like we’re reinventing the wheel or coming up with a whole new language like those guys at FoxPro.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know that. ‘Sides, once we’ve got this going, a lot of other places will want to try it.” He smiled at the waitress who brought their drinks. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” replied Donny, “unless we fuck it up.”

“We won’t. You won’t.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to Starship Enterprise…or whatever we call it.”

They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks. Eric smiled at Donny, and Donny felt warmth spreading through him, a pleasant tickle of horniness, made all the more immediate by Eric’s proximity and the faint scent of wool coming off his sweater. Donny gazed at Eric, the dim light from the bar making him look even more attractive, and he had to look away, over to where the bartender, a globular man in his mid-fifties was wiping down the bar and humming along flatly with the music, to try to take his mind off the tightness growing in his crotch.

Eric said something and Donny blinked. “Another?” Eric repeated.

Donny looked down at the empty glass, the ice cubes making little rainbows, and he shook his head. “Nah,” he muttered.

“’Kay, we’d better hit the rack; ‘morrow’s gonna be a long day.” He put a ten on the table, waved off Donny’s offer of cash, and they made their way to the elevator.

The room was dark, and Donny fumbled around until he found the light next to his bed. They wordlessly got undressed, each taking off their sweaters, shirts, and pants at the same time until they were both standing at the end of their beds facing each other in nothing but their underwear.

Eric caught Donny’s eyes and held them, a small smile making his lips part just a little, and Donny felt a roaring surge of passion, nearly making him groan, the thud of blood pounding in his ears and his cock. Eric leaned in a little and put out his hand for a moment, and said, “Man, I gotta take a gnarly piss.”

Donny nodded silently, and Eric brushed by him and went into the bathroom, closing the door. Donny got into bed and was asleep before Eric came back to his own bed.

*

They had an early breakfast and arrived at the school before 8:30, joining in the wave of students who were making their way to their lockers and first classes. Donny had a moment of flashback as the universal scent of high school – a combination of floor wax, pencil shavings, bathroom disinfectant, and the scent of teenagers: hairspray, gym sweat, bubble gum, and sneakers.

There was a large conference room behind the principal’s office and someone had put a large white power strip on the floor next to the movie screen. Donny set up the projector and the laptop while Eric, wearing a sports coat and tie, was introduced to the members of the school administration and two of the school board members. The locals all reminded Donny of people back home; middle-aged, very Republican-looking, the clothes all very business-like with faint hints of western wear: a turquoise brooch here, piping on the shoulder seams there, and all of them looking like they spent a lot of time outdoors. Everyone was very polite as the team was introduced, and then Eric went to the end of the table and flicked on the projector. A picture of a smiling little girl, her hands plastered with red, blue and orange finger-paints framing her face filled the screen. The title at the bottom said, “Making It Work for Her.” One of the ladies let out and audible “aw…”

Eric’s pitch was gentle and off-the-cuff even though Donny knew he had written it, revised it, and rehearsed it for a week. He took the approach that everything that the school system did in the office, be it ordering supplies, reconciling the budget, running the payroll, or even printing out the labels for file folders, was geared towards the kids. “The only reason you and your teachers and everyone else comes to work every day,” he said, “is for her and all the other kids in this school district. That’s it. Anything we can do to make it easier for her to learn and grow up is our goal.”

Donny was watching both Eric and the audience around the table, and he could see some heads nodding, some more vigorously than others, and several people taking notes. Eric paused, then started to go through the slides that outlined very simply what ERP was and how it could accomplish that goal. “In the first place, it would simplify things. That means less confusion, and making the process easier makes things go smoother. You are already using Pelican for some of the work, so all we would be doing is making it available to everyone: teachers, accountants, food service, and maintenance, all under one umbrella that many on your staff already know how to use. There would be very little change in what is already being done. Or,” Eric grinned, “there wouldn’t be much moving of the food dish.” That got a laugh from everyone, and Eric went through the rest of the introductory slides, showing the connections between offices and procedures, until he came back to the little girl. “And,” he said as he put down the remote, “I’d be glad to answer any questions you might have.”

The chairman of the school board, Walt Lyle, raised his hand. He was a solidly built man in his early seventies, his full head of silver hair combed neatly into a small pompadour, his expression and bearing that of a solid Ronald Reagan Republican. He cleared his throat with a deep rumble and said, “It all looks very good, and God knows anything we can do to cut down on the red tape is a good idea. But I would like to know how much this is going to cost.”

Eric grinned slightly and shot Donny a quick look and nod. The week before as they were putting together the presentation, they had both agreed that this would be the first question asked, and so they had come up with an answer, which Eric had honed and practiced as he had the rest of the presentation. He put his hands in his pockets and said, “Mr. Lyle, it will cost as much or as little as you want it to. We’re not proposing to do sell you anything you don’t want or need.” Mr. Lyle nodded but still looked a tad skeptical, which meant he was thinking something along the lines of “But we don’t know what we need, and therefore we don’t know what you’re proposing will be what we need…or just a waste of money.” He looked as if he was on the verge of saying that, so Eric jumped in before he spoke again and answered the question before it was asked. “The reason we are here this week – at no cost to you or the school district – is to find out exactly what it is you want and what you need.” That seemed to mollify Mr. Lyle, and after a few more questions, Gordie stepped in and said he had set up meetings for Vince, Jordan, and Rudy to meet with the people who were currently using Pelican, and Donny and Eric would be meeting with the IT staff. The members of the school board, including Mr. Lyle, smiled and shook hands all around, and when they had left, Eric let out a big sigh and said, “Okay, we made it past the first hurdle: they didn’t throw us out on our ass.”

At 11:30 they broke for lunch and Gordie took them to the school cafeteria where they stood in line with the rest of the faculty and students to get trays and plates of meatloaf, carrots, and mashed potatoes. Donny grinned inwardly at the sense of déjà vu; the cafeteria at this high school was not much different than the one he’d spent his countless lunch periods in back in high school, right down to the elderly ladies in white smocks and hats that ladled out the food. The kids didn’t seem that much different, either; all shapes and sizes – tall, short, big, small, most of them wearing the current fashions of t-shirts and loose pants under hooded sweatshirts or letter jackets. He wondered what they thought this group of strangers were doing in their midst, but if they did, they gave no sign; they probably thought they were new teachers or administrators and therefore not worthy of attention. Donny caught a girl looking at him for an instant. She was wearing a letter jacket that was a few sizes too large for her with “95” on the sleeve, so it must have been her boyfriend’s jacket; the boyfriend, a tall, gangly but athletic-looking kid with longish sideburns and curly hair stood behind her in just a CU Boulder football t-shirt and grey cargo pants. She cast an appraising eye over Donny’s button-down shirt, wool sweater, and khaki pants, then looked right through him as if he wasn’t there. Ten years ago, as a freshman, Donny had gotten the same look from the senior girls.

Gordie led them to a separate part of the dining room set aside for teachers and he introduced them to some of the faculty that were already there. If he didn’t remember the names, Donny remembered the types: the matronly English teacher, the frazzled-looking science teacher, the calm but stern-looking math master, and the art teacher who looked as if she had just gotten back from Woodstock, complete with the peasant blouse, granny glasses, and breathy voice that sounded as if she was always reading poetry. They ate quietly, and Donny looked across the cafeteria, seeing more proof that no matter where or when, the dynamics of the caste system of high school society were alive and well. The tables were clearly designated by groups: the Jocks, the Nerds, the Goths, the Heathers, the Snobs, the Hipsters, the Preps, even the Drama Queens, which consisted of both boys and girls. Donny wondered what it must be like to be gay in a small mountain community surrounded by big trucks, guns, and all the other symbols of masculinity that seemed as natural and as old as the mountains and glaciers that towered over the school. It was probably not much different than what it was like when he was in school, he thought. Anyone suspected of being gay or who did not conform to the stereotype of the average teenage boy was either invisible or preyed on by the bullies like Stan Tasker who lived by the axiom that any boy who didn’t demonstrate full heterosexuality was a threat to them and their way of life. Donny knew that no one questioned his apparent straightness; his years of football and his larger than average build, plus the fact that he had sat at the Jocks table during football season and never said anything was his own acknowledgment of his obeisance to the strict and inviolate culture of being a teenager in high school.

The impression was reinforced an hour or so later when Donny took a bathroom break. The nearest men’s room was down the hall from the administration office where he and Eric were discussing network capacity with Gordie. There was no door; just a tiled entrance that turned sharply to the left and led into an open space lined with sinks on one side, a row of urinals on the other, and two stalls. He didn’t hear anything as he approached, but when he walked into the room he saw three boys by the sinks. A skinny boy with long blond hair parted in the middle, thick dark eyebrows, and a “Les Miserables” t-shirt, was backed into the corner. The other two boys, one whom Donny recognized from the cafeteria by the CU Boulder shirt, towered over him menacingly. They all looked to see who was coming in, and when Donny returned the look, the bigger boys backed away casually, and one went to run water in the sink to wash his hands. Donny went to the urinal, and by the time he had finished, the two had gone, but not before one had hissed, “Such a fag, Whitzler.”

The boy was now at the sink washing his hands, making as much lather as he could with the thin liquid green soap that spurted out of the little plastic globe mounted on the wall. Donny glanced at him for a second and suppressed a desire to say something such as, “You okay?” because he knew what the answer would be: a terse nod of the head and silence. But the boy had a look of defiance on his face, and when they traded glances, he nodded at him as if nothing was wrong. He dried his hands quickly and scurried out of the room, leaving Donny rinsing his hands under the tepid water and thinking how much the boy reminded him of kids he knew in high school, and of Tyler.

*

Donny spent the rest of the afternoon with Bev, the school treasurer, a plump middle-aged woman with tinted hair and a wheezy giggle. She was an expert at Pelican, but when Donny admitted that he had been one of the people who had designed it, she beamed appreciatively and glanced at the pictures of her family that were lined up on her wall, including an Olan Mills glamour portrait of a girl in her early twenties. Donny smiled inwardly, knowing that Bev was sizing him up as husband material for her daughter Kim. Donny didn’t tell her that he was more interested in the picture of her son Will, a well-built redhead about his age, in a cowboy hat and tight jeans leaning against a split-rail fence.

He took pages of notes as Bev went through her routines of record keeping, including accounting and purchasing, and he saw how she used other programs to complement the database. He gently made some suggestions and showed her some built-in tools that she wasn’t aware of – “Well, I’ll be darned!” she said several times – and he wrote down all of her complaints about the program. By the time they had worked through all of his questions and seen the scope of the work she did, the office was empty and it was already dusk. Donny thanked Bev, and she grinned widely. “Come back any time,” she said.

He found Eric in Gordie’s office. “Oh, good,” he said. “Gordie has an idea he’d like to run by you.” Donny sat down, and Gordie steepled his fingers.

“The committee was very impressed with your presentation, and they wanted to know how soon you could start.”

Donny looked at Eric, then back at Gordie. “Start, as in design, build, and go live?”

“Yeah, pretty much. We were going to put off the decision until June, but there’s a huge technology grant out there that we’re up for, and if we can tell the funder that we’ve got a design ready to go, that will go a long way towards us getting the grant and start spending it in July. The grant’s for a year, so go-live would have to be by July of ’96.”

“A year and a half,” said Eric, “to basically build and implement an entire system. I’ve already talked to Rudy and the boys. What do you think?”

Donny flipped through a couple of pages of notes as he gathered his thoughts. Finally he said, “Think I need a beer and something to eat.”

Gordie laughed. “If you say yes, I’ll buy both.”

They went to a small Mexican restaurant on the edge of town. The food was good and the conversation between Eric and Gordie was lively, but Donny paid little attention to any of it. The thousands of details started running through his head, everything from using Pelican to redesigning most of it to finding out how to connect all the systems and upgrading the computers. If any of these thoughts were running through Eric’s mind, he didn’t say anything, and when Gordie dropped them off at the hotel, Eric said, “We’ll give you the answer in the morning, but right now it looks good, doesn’t it, Donny?” Donny nodded silently.

He was heading for the elevator when the desk clerk waved him down and handed him a pink message slip. It said, Please call Evan Gilmour before 8. It took him a few moments to remember who he was, then it came to him: the screenwriter Trish was recommending to take over the writing on Small Town Boys. He had completely put that part of his life out of his head.

Donny looked at his watch. It was 7:35, so he shrugged, found an outside line phone and dialed the number.

A woman answered, but when Donny asked for Evan Gilmour she said “Just a sec,” and put the phone down. He could hear distant water running into a sink, then a voice said “Thanks,” and the phone was picked up. “Hello?” said the baritone voice.”

“Hi, it’s Don Hollenbeck, returning your call?”

“Oh, hi! Hey, sorry to bother you while you’re working, but I’m here in Fairview visiting my sister – she and her husband just got back from a trip – and I wondered if we might, y’know, get together and just, y’know, chat?”

“Sure,” said Donny, thinking that a little chat about the fantasy world of TV shows might take his mind off the spinning universe of functional specs and conversion tables.

“Great. I can be at the hotel in about fifteen minutes; is that okay?”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

Donny went up to the room to drop off his briefcase and put on a sweater. Eric was standing in the hall carrying on a quiet but intense conversation with Rudy, who responded by barely nodding his head. They didn’t even notice Donny as he went by.

He found a copy of the local newspaper on one of the tables in the lobby and was reading about the local high school sports team when a tall man wearing a well-worn Carhart coat came into the lobby. He looked at Donny, smiled, and strode over to him.

“Hi, I’m Evan,” he said. His grip was firm, and Donny was reminded of the actor Treat Williams. He was clean-shaven with a ruddy, wind-burned face, bright eyes, and thick brown hair over heavy eyebrows. He shrugged off the coat to reveal a grey flannel shirt over faded jeans and work-boots. He had a solid build, and as he sat down, Donny caught a faint whiff of a barnyard. Evan seemed to know he was giving off the scent and he chuckled ruefully. “Sorry about that; I spent most of this morning repairing the fence in the corral, and goats can be odiferous.”

“You raise goats?”

“Yeah, my partner and I have about fifteen or so. We sell them for their wool, and occasionally for other things. Once you get the smell in your clothes, though, nothing gets it out.”

“No problem,” said Donny. “I’m from Ohio and I know all about farms.”

“Good.” Evan smiled. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket. “Look, I took the liberty of jotting down a few notes…y’know, some questions I had about the script. You mind if we go over them?”

Donny glanced around the lobby. Other than the desk clerk, it was empty. “Sure, no problem.

“Okay.” Evan smoothed the paper out and then put on some glasses. “Yeah, in the scene where Bobby is in the kitchen….”

It turned out that Evan’s questions were more about the interaction of the characters rather than Donny’s script-writing abilities, and Donny had to think back to what he was thinking about as he wrote them. There were a few questions he couldn’t answer, so he just shook his head and said, “I don’t remember what I was thinking about then,” to which Evan nodded solemnly and went on to the next one. He offered no suggestions as to how he would have written it, nor did he make any kind of indication as to whether or not he agreed with Donny’s answers. Finally he slowly folded the paper, took off his glasses, and looked at Donny with a sober expression.

“Well, I think you’ve a workable idea here, Don.” He paused and Donny wondered if he was supposed to say something, but as he was getting ready to reply with a simple “thanks,” Evan said, “I’m sure you’ve gotten a lot of feedback from people like your agent and stuff, but I gotta tell ya, as one writer to another, I think you’ve given us something to work with. Your dialogue’s great, the characters are believable and likable, and you don’t get into a lot of soap opera drama.”

Now Donny said “Thanks.”

Evan shrugged. “That may be your biggest problem, though. Aaron’s instinct – write what will sell – has proven to be true. People want edge-of-the-seat drama; they want to know what choices the character will make and make them tough enough to stick it out through the commercial break. I think it’s a great idea, treating gay guys as just guys, y’know, with all the usual stuff that people go through every day – work, friends, family – just normal people, that’s all, with all the usual dramas. Get rid of the stereotypes, the flamers, the queens, the disco babies….” Evan shrugged. “Hell, do we really know anyone who really fits into that category?” He stopped himself and grinned. “Well, yeah, actually, I do. But do you want to see them on TV?”

Donny nodded. “No, and that’s why I wrote it instead of Aaron.”

Evan shook his head. “Aaron wrote what he did because he thought he was writing what Jeremy Dixon would do. I hear that’s all over, though. Your deal with getting Jeremy to do the pilot, I mean.” Evan glanced at him. “I hear you had something to do with that.”

“Yep,” Donny said softly, flashing back to the afternoon in the conference room overlooking downtown Los Angeles.

Evan smiled a little. “Good. I hate that prick,” he said, meaning Jeremy. “But the tough part is turning this” – he tapped the paper – “into something that people will watch without turning it into that,” and he pointed to the large TV in the other part of the lobby that was silently showing a car chase from a rerun of The Rockford Files.

“Yeah,” Donny said, “so I’ve been told.”

“So, tell me where you went to school.”

“You mean college? Bowling Green.”

“In Kentucky?”

“Ohio. Bowling Green State University.”

“Huh. Didn’t know they had a film school there.”

Donny shook his head. “They don’t, as far as I know. I took a couple of English and computer classes a few years ago.”

Evan looked puzzled. “So where’d you learn to write film scripts?”

Donny told him about helping Mike out with the scripts for Return to Sender and writing Small Town Boys by following Silver Star from the shooting script. Evan listened silently, then shook his head. “Jesus,” he muttered, “if word ever got out….”

“What?”

Evan looked at him with bemused wonder. “Well, here are all these people who spend all these years in college and grad school learning about how to write the perfect film, and then hustle their ass off just to get a synopsis read at a studio, and you bat out a script in a weekend and are about to start shooting with Jack Magahee’s money.”

Donny replied, “I’ve heard that,” thinking back to the evening in Paul’s office with Aaron in Palm Springs.

“Well, I was all set to give you a hard time as to why – at least according to my agent – I shouldn’t be considering working for a low-budget pilot that’s going to end up on the ass-end of cable TV. But now that I’ve actually read the script….” Evan leaned back a little. “So when do you actually think you’ll get going on this?”

“I’m leaving that all up to Trish,” Donny replied. “I’ve got something a little more involved going on.” He gave Evan a brief outline of what he was doing for the school system and what the future looked like for him as far as Small Town Boys was concerned. “So,” Donny concluded, “for the next year or so, I’m going to be up to my neck in work doing my real job.” He glanced at Evan and added apologetically, “Not that what you do isn’t a real job. It’s just that…”

“No, I get it,” said Evan. “No offense taken. Frankly, I’m a little envious; I could use a steady paycheck rather than what this business pays you. The last steady gig I had got cancelled halfway through the third season because the co-star needed to go into rehab. Not what you call job security. Fortunately I still get royalty checks and I have a partner who comes from a rich family.” He stood up and started to pull on his coat. “Well, if you’re still interested, I’d like to give it a shot.”

Donny stood up and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll let Trish know. She kinda had decided anyway, but….”

Evan grinned a little. “My people will call your people, right?”

“Something like that.”

Evan handed him a business card. “Keep in touch.” He gave Donny an appreciative look. “I gotta say, you’re not exactly what I pictured when I heard about what you do for a living. I had this whole computer nerd thing going; y’know, skinny, geeky, glasses….”

“Yeah, I guess I’m sorta the exception that proves the rule,” Donny replied. He thought of Rudy, Vince, and Jordan. “But hey, we’ve got a couple of them with us….”

Evan laughed. “No, thanks. Listen, if you’re going to be in the area, maybe you could come down to my place for dinner or something.”

"Yeah, sure," he said. "Thanks.

Evan shook his hand, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "Talk to you soon." Donny watched him stride out of the lobby, and a moment later a rather battered Chevy pick-up truck pulled out of the parking lot. He was pretty sure he had just been hit on.

Donny watched him stride out of the lobby, and a moment later a rather battered Chevy pick-up truck pulled out of the parking lot. He was pretty sure he had just been hit on.

Eric was lying on his bed, talking on the phone. The TV was on, but the sound was muted. He had taken off his shirt and pants and was wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He laughed as Donny came into the room, and said, “Oh, I think they’ll go for that. We can write it into the contract as part of the conversion.” He looked at Donny, pointed at the receiver, and mouthed “Greg.” “Oh, here’s F. Scott McStudly now. Yeah, he spent all day charming the staff. Yeah, sure,” Eric continued, then handed the receiver to Donny. “He wants to know when you can move up here.”

Donny took the phone and told Greg about his day with the administrative staff. Meanwhile, Eric took off the rest of his clothes and went to the bathroom to take a shower.

“So,” said Greg, “it’s up to you, Donny. The boys think we can do it and make the deadline. What say you?”

Donny heard the shower start up and Eric started humming, a little off-key. He sat on the bed, still fingering Evan’s card, glanced at the TV with the same episode of The Rockford Files, and said, “Sure.”

Robert Anderson -- 1917-2009

"Years from now, when you talk of this -- and you will -- be kind." - Tea and Sympathy by Robert Anderson.

Robert Anderson, a playwright whose intimate emotional dramas like “Tea and Sympathy” and “I Never Sang for My Father” attracted big names to the Broadway stage if not always substantial audiences to Broadway theaters, died Monday at home in Manhattan. He was 91.

The cause was complications of Alzheimer’s disease, said Nevin Terence Busch, Mr. Anderson’s stepson.

Mr. Anderson was a contemporary of Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, and though his reputation never ascended to the artistic heights that theirs did — his plays often walked a tightrope between realism and sentimentality — he was among the theater’s most visible, serious playwrights of the 1950s and ’60s.

Mr. Anderson also wrote screenplays, including those for “The Sand Pebbles” (1966), with Steve McQueen, and “The Nun’s Story” (1959), with Audrey Hepburn. But he thought of himself as a playwright who wrote movies for money.

I was standing on the terrace of a house called Glencliff in Independence, Kansas. It was the first evening of my first William Inge Theatre Festival in April 1991. I was at a dinner for invited guests, and I was there because I was friends of the Inge family. I walked up to the little bar set up on the patio and asked the bartender, a dapper man in a blue blazer and tie, for a drink. He promptly poured it out for me, smiled, and handed it over. A moment later, the real bartender, a college kid in the appropriate white coat, came back carrying a bag of ice, and thanked the other man, who turned to me and said, "Hi, I'm Bob." It was Robert Anderson, and as it slowly dawned on me that I had been served my first drink at the Inge Festival by one of its first honorees, I stammered my apology for assuming that he was the bartender. He laughed, patted me on the shoulder, and said, "I'd probably make a better living doing that."

I had read all of his plays -- Tea and Sympathy; I Never Sang for My Father; You Know I Can't Hear You When the Water's Running; Silent Night, Lonely Night -- and as we chatted I felt like I was talking to kindred spirit. I knew exactly how Tom Lee felt in Tea and Sympathy, being an "off horse" at a boarding school (although I didn't have the outcome he did during my miserable year), and as I spoke to him about his occasionally tempestuous relationship with his father, I saw how he turned that into a story -- I Never Sang for My Father-- that anyone, even someone who is very close to his father, could understand in the most intimate way.

Bob and I became friends at that first Inge Festival, and we kept in touch by mail during the months between each festival. He came back every year -- something very few of the honorees do after their time in the spotlight -- and he participated in all the panel discussions. He took an active interest in my work as well, and when he asked for a copy of one of my plays, I was beyond flattered. A month later I received a five-page letter telling me how much he enjoyed the play, complimented my characters, my dialogue, my use of space, the depth of the relationships between the characters, and then with gentle guidance he told me what he thought didn't work. He urged me to explore the characters with even more depth -- "I know you can" -- and asked me to keep working on it and let him see what developed. I had never had such a detailed critique of my work, not even in grad school, and he inspired me to keep writing.

Bob became a devoted friend. His letters, always either typed on his old manual typewriter or written in his nearly indecipherable handwriting, were full of stories about his life in Connecticut and his tennis games at the court he shared with his neighbor, Arthur Miller. And when he said, "If you're ever in New York, let me know," he meant it. In February 1993 I went to New York for a teacher's conference, and when I wrote him and suggested we meet up for lunch, he called me immediately and set the date. True to form, at the appointed hour, he was waiting for me in the lobby of the New York Hilton, nattily dressed in a suit and tie. He had walked from his apartment up on Sutton Place. After lunch I offered to get him a cab for the trip back, but he smiled and said, "No, I love to walk." And so we did, up to Central Park, talking about all sorts of things.

Bob never won the Pulitzer Prize or a Tony for his work, and in some ways I think it rankled him that other playwrights that he knew -- and sometimes competed with for production space -- did. But his attitude about it seemed to be philosophical, and his quip, "You can't make a living in theatre, but you can make a killing," pretty much summarized his feeling about those who became famous beyond their worth. Above all, he was always a gentleman and a gentle man.

The last time I saw him was at the Inge Festival in 2001. It was apparent that he was beginning to fade into the long night of Alzheimer's; he remembered me, but did not remember reading a book I'd written and that he had written detailed notes on several years before. I said goodbye to him in the lobby of the hotel that Sunday morning in April 2001 with the sense that we were parting for good. I heard from friends who saw him over the years that he was slipping away, and I was sorry that I would not be able to sit with him in the shade of the trees at the 4-H picnic grounds in Independence and just talk one more time.

I'll keep a place for you at the table in April, Bob.

PS: Can't Live Without You is dedicated to Bob.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 52

Chapter Guide

Gone

It took a lot of phone calls to the airlines and the authorities in several states, but by Thursday they were able to piece together what had happened.

Tyler had arrived in Chicago and was met by an airline agent who was assigned to escort him to the departure gate for the flight to Traverse City. There was a long layover and the airport was having one of the busiest days of the year, so once the agent got Tyler checked in, he was left in the care of the agent at the gate who was already busy with taking care of the passengers who were already there. By the time the plane was ready for boarding, Tyler had vanished. The plane was held for a few minutes while the P.A. system paged him again and again, then the flight left.

In the meantime, a skinny blond kid in a green ski parka with a small blue American Tourister carryon bought an open-return ticket for a flight to Seattle on another airline. The ticket, paid for in cash, was sold to a Mike Lankowski who gave his address as Hinsdale, Illinois, and since he was under sixteen, he was not required to show any form of identification. Mike charmed the youthful male ticket agent out of a free upgrade to first class. The next morning the open-return ticket was exchanged for a flight to LAX. By the time police and the airlines had been notified, he had vanished. The ticket agent in Chicago was put on suspension pending a review.

Mike stopped by the house on his way back from Palm Springs Thursday afternoon after Donny called him and told him what had happened. He spent a over an hour on the phone with Tyler’s father, trying to assure him that they would do everything they could to find him and trying to talk him out of flying out there to look for him. “Clark, I have a lot of people who have a lot of connections with the authorities out here, and I’ll make sure that the word gets out. The only thing you can do out here is sit and worry, and you can do that in Maple City and save yourself a thousand bucks.”

“Who do you know with a lot of connections with the authorities?” Danny asked Mike after he hung up.

He smirked and shook his head. “What did you want me to say, that the kid’s disappeared and is probably hustling in West Hollywood?” He looked at his watch. “I gotta get going; Jason’s meeting me in an hour. We might have something on this sci-fi flick.”

After Mike left, Donny said, “I might know someone.”

An hour later Marc joined them on the patio. He was still in his work clothes, except he had taken off his tie. Donny handed him the pictures that Tyler had sent him with the Christmas card. “Cute kid,” Marc said. “He’ll probably do all right in terms of attracting guys who are into chicken.”

“What’s ‘chicken’?” Danny said.

“Underage guys. Twinks. Old enough to screw but under eighteen. Some guys are into it,” Marc said with a scowl. “Problem is, a lot of the older guys are into rough stuff, too, and it goes without saying there’s a lot of drugs going on, too. Fuckin’ scary.”

“So,” said Donny hesitantly, “do you know…?”

Marc grimaced. “Do I know my way around this trade?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I still get older guys looking for one more trick with young Rusty,” said Marc, looking at Danny as if he was expecting a negative reaction. But Danny just nodded. He picked up the pictures. “Can I hang on to these?”

“Sure. What are you gonna do?”

“Check out the usual hangouts.”

“You want us to go with you?” Danny offered.

“Nah. I’m better off doing this by myself, and if I meet him, he won’t know me.” Marc grinned a little. “Besides, neither of you look like hustlers. No offense.”

“None taken, I think,” replied Danny.

“When are you gonna look for him?”

Marc glanced at his watch. “I’ll go by the bars on the way home. If he’s as enterprising as you say he is, he might be there. Or he might be hanging out on Venice Beach for all I know. Don’t get your hopes up; I doubt we’ll find this kid right away. Chances are he’s gonna hook up with some sugar daddy with a lot of money and a passion for screwing kids. Once he gets tired of him he’ll toss his ass out and get the next number off the bus from Ohio or wherever. That’s probably how Jeremy got his start. Don’t expect me to find him tonight, ‘cause even if the people I know have seen him, they know I’m out of the business and they’re not gonna confide in me. It’s a tight community.” He got up, then looked at Donny solemnly. “You got a minute?”

Danny got the hint. “Good to see you, Marc, and thanks for the help. I need to hit the books.” They shook hands and Danny went into the house.

“What’s going on?” asked Donny.

Marc bit his lip and looked away. “Look, I’ll do everything I can to help you find this kid, but I sure hope that every time you think of a teenage hustler I’m not the first person who comes to mind.”

“Oh, shit. No, Marc. I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought….”

“Yeah, I know. You thought I might know some people. The fact is, Donny, I’d really rather forget about that part of my life.”

“I’m really sorry,” Donny said, feeling the guilt running through him like a knife.

Marc shrugged. “It’s okay, Donny.” He looked back at him. “Speaking of teenage hustlers…”

“What?”

“Barry Kessler,” Marc said simply.

“Barry Kessler…your teacher? What about him? Did he get busted again?”

Marc smiled wanly. “No. He’s teaching in a school outside Simi Valley.”

“Jesus,” replied Donny. “They hired him after all the…?”

“He was acquitted, remember? Besides, he’s old friends with the headmaster there. They take care of each other. And he’s not coaching football.”

“How’d you know all this?”

“He called me up over Thanksgiving. We had coffee. We talked. We….” Marc’s voice trailed off.

“So…”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hated him.”

Marc shook his head. “I was pissed at him for dragging me into that lawsuit, and I told him that. But…”

“So is that what you were gonna tell me back after Thanksgiving?”

Marc looked at him quizzically.

“The morning we came back to work,” Donny reminded him. “Having coffee. ‘Look, um….’ You don’t remember.”

Marc smiled a little. “There was so much going on with Starship Enterprise and year-end. But… yeah, I wanted to tell you that Barry and I were seeing each other.”

“Is it serious?”

“You mean are we gonna live together?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. I’m… He’s got a lot of things to deal with. Beth is bleeding him dry over alimony, he’s barely making thirty-five grand a year and having to live here isn’t cheap. And he’s a little touchy about moving in with a guy.”

“Yeah, I can understand that,” replied Donny drily.

“I just wanted you to know, y’know, so… you and me….”

“Yeah, I get it,” said Donny quickly.

Marc nodded and then said, “Well, if I’m gonna find this kid I guess I’d better be going.”

They walked out to the driveway. “By the way,” Marc said as he got in his car, “what should I do if I spot him?”

Donny stopped in his tracks. “I don’t know; I never thought of that.”

“I’ll play it by ear,” Marc said as he started the engine. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

Donny watched until the car was out of sight down the street. He stood at the end of the driveway staring after it, feeling a sudden sense of loss, regret, and not a little twinge of envy for Barry Kessler.

Marc called as Donny was getting ready for bed. “Nothing,” he said simply. “No sign of him. And I asked at all the usual places.” He chuckled slightly. “I think my bartender buddies must think I’m hot for teenagers now, but screw ‘em.”

“Okay,” replied Donny. “Look,” he began, hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I think it’s great about you and Barry. I mean, as long as you’re happy…”

Marc sighed a little. “Yeah. I shoulda told you earlier, I guess.”

“Nah, that’s okay…you don’t…”

“Well, yeah, I know…but you and me…we were….”

“No problem, Marc. It was … fun.”

“This isn’t gonna get uncomfortable at work, is it?” Marc asked tentatively.

“Huh? Oh hell no,” Donny replied quickly. “We’re good.”

“Okay. Um… I’ll do what I can to help you find Tyler. But L.A.’s a big city. How old did you say he is?”

“Fifteen, sixteen.”

“Damn,” said Marc sadly. “Things must really be rough for him at home.”

Danny was back in the guest room, lying in bed reading out of a black notebook when Donny tapped on the door. Danny shut the book, and Donny told him what Marc had said. He also told him about Barry.

Danny put his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Damn, twin, it’s been an interesting couple of days.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you ready for some more news?”

Donny raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been drafted by the Dodgers?”

“Close. I’ve got orders.”

“Where to?”

“Can’t say. And I mean that literally. I don’t know. All I know is that I report to the base tomorrow night with all my stuff and that it will be for an indeterminate length.”

“Any guesses?”

“Even if I had an idea, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, I got that. So, you want me to keep an eye on the Jeep?”

Danny shrugged. “Maybe I should just sell it. I didn’t need it at the last place, and I can’t see any point in paying insurance and shit on something that’s just taking up space in your garage. Why don’t we just go down to your Chevy dealer and see what they’ll give me for it?”

“I don’t mind keeping it for you. But…” He shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

His brother looked at him with a knowing smile. “Yeah, I know. Cutting the last tie. But we kinda knew this was gonna happen.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Danny got up and hugged his brother. They held each other silently, neither of them wanting to let go until finally Donny heard Danny gasp back a sob.

“C’mon,” Donny whispered, and without a word they went into the master bedroom and just as they had done when they were five years old and a thunderstorm had roared outside their bedroom window, they held each other until they both finished crying and fell asleep on top of the covers.

Promptly at six the next evening an Air Force sedan pulled up to the curb in front of the house and a young corporal trotted up to the door and rang the bell. Danny smartly returned the salute and handed his bags to the soldier. He turned to Donny.

“Well, twin, this is it,” he said, his bright eyes peering out from under the brim of his hat. “I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I’m allowed, but I wouldn’t count on hearing from me for a while.”

“Right,” Donny said. They shook hands quickly, and Danny followed the corporal down to the car. He didn’t look back as he got in the back seat, and the car drove off down the street. Donny went in the house and closed the door.

He was used to the silence of the house, but as he went into the guest room to close the blinds and turn off the light, he could almost feel it. Danny, in his military fashion, had left the room neat and tidy. The bed was made with clean sheets, the towels folded with military precision, even the dresser top dusted. The only remnant of his visit was a single crumpled piece of paper in the waste basket. It was a Post-It note with firm handwriting on it: HOLLENBECK D.E. 1LT. He went around the rest of the house collecting the trash and took the bag out to the garage.

The empty space where the Jeep used to be parked made a noticeable hole in the garage, even though it meant that Donny could now get into the Mustang without having to back the Tahoe out first. The dealer had offered Danny a low-ball price and it took a little firm wrangling to him to come around, but after an hour they left the dealership with a check. Danny didn’t look back at the Jeep parked off to the side of the lot, and promptly deposited the check into his account. He had taken one last swim, ate a sandwich, packed quickly, dressed in his Class A uniform, and then he and Donny had sat on the patio, waiting for his ride. They said little out loud, but they didn’t need to.

There was nothing on TV, and he was thinking about going out to Blockbuster to rent a movie when the phone rang. It was Mike.

“Hey, how are you?” Donny said.

“Okay. Just wanted you to know that I talked to Clark again. Still no word on Tyler, I guess.”

“Nope.”

“Yeah,” said Mike, sounding somber. “I guess the cops put out his picture, but….” He let the words drift away, then changed the subject. “Hey, Jason got me a guest star part on Law & Order.”

“Hey, great,” Donny replied. “When do you start?”

“Leave for New York tomorrow afternoon. Not exactly a starring role in a feature, but it’s work and if they like me, it might turn out to be a permanent gig. They’re talking about doing some spinoffs.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Hey, you go with what you got, right? Your thing’s still in pre-production, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah, so…anyway, what’re you guys doing?”

“Nothing. Danny’s been called up for duty. Left about an hour ago. Thinking about renting a movie.”

“Want some company?”

Donny knew what Mike meant, and in spite of himself, he grinned a little and felt his crotch swell a little.

“Sure.”

Mike spent the night, falling asleep on his left side, his back to Donny like he always had, his gentle snoring a reminder to Donny of the first night they had spent together in the same bed in the same house but what seemed like a lifetime ago. The alarm woke them and Mike left while it was still dark, giving Donny a quick coffee-flavored kiss before going back to his own place to get ready for his trip east. “Happy New Year,” he said softly. “Got any plans?”

“Nah,” replied Donny. “Maybe hang out with Eric and Greg. Seen one, seen ‘em all. You gonna do the Times Square thing?”

“Maybe. If I do, I’ll wave to you on the TV.”

Donny chuckled. “I’ll be sure to look for it.”

“See ya.” Mike waved, strode out to his car, and was gone. Donny closed the door, and went back to make the bed. It still had the faint scent of Mike’s cologne, and it lingered as he put the pillows in place and drew the comforter up.

What's Going On...

I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.

I have, however, given Small Town Boys a rest for a little while. I am not suffering from writer's block; in fact, I have outlined the rest of the story. But as often happens with me, I have been interrupted by another character who has gently worked his way into my consciousness. His name is Paul Engstrom, and he's telling me about himself, his friends, and his grandfather, Papa Paul. At the moment the story is untitled, but I hope that I will soon finish it and then pick up with Donny and the rest of the gang at Small Town Boys.

It doesn't take a literary genius to figure out the recurring theme in my writing; the exploration of growing up and figuring out things about life and relationships, and Paul is another facet of that exploration. In some ways, Paul is a version of Donny, who is a version of Bobby, and if I really wanted to, I guess I could link them all together with the other characters that have populated by writing from the first stories I wrote forty years ago.

A lot of writers do this. Not to compare myself favorably with the likes of Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, William Inge, or Eugene O'Neill, but even a cursory glance at their work reveals that they also wrote different versions of a character throughout their writing. That's not a criticism by any means; I think it is shows that there is more to a character and a person than just the one side that may be seen in the tale being told. So it is with Bobby, Donny, and now Paul. And if I gain a reputation as the guy who wrote all those coming-of-age stories, then that's fine with me. It's the characters who are telling their stories; I'm just the guy who wrote them down.

Anyway, I have set aside some serious time in the next few weeks to finish up the untitled story, and then finish the latest chapter of the adventures of Donny, Danny, Eric, and what happened to Tyler. And when I do, you'll be the first to know.

Don't Worry...

I'm working on the latest chapter of Small Town Boys, but it's not quite ready for posting just yet. I've also had a recent flurry of non-creative writing activity (moving to a new house, changing jobs, etc.) that have given Donny and the gang time off.

But fear not...they'll be back in a little while.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 51

Chapter Guide

Tyler’s Big Adventure

“Whoa,” said Danny. “Kid’s got some stones.”

Donny had the phone muffled against his chest. “His folks must be freaked,” he said.

“No doubt.” Danny grabbed his keys. “I’ll go pick him up. Meanwhile, you get hold of his parental units and let’em know where he is and that he’s okay.” He glanced at the roast on the counter. “Good thing we’ve got enough to feed him.”

Donny told Tyler that Danny was on his way. “He’s driving a dark green Jeep Wrangler with Colorado plates. What airline did you come in on?”

“United,” Tyler said.

“Okay. Meet him at the arrivals level of Terminal Seven. He should be there in about a half-hour or so. Have you called your folks and let them know where you are?”

There was a long pause. Donny could hear the P.A. in the background paging Mr. Lopez. Then Tyler said, “I’ll be outside looking for the Jeep. I’m wearing a green parka.” The line went dead.

Donny put the phone down. “He’s wearing a green parka. Sounds like he didn’t call his folks.”

“Well,” said Danny, “you do it, then. Meanwhile, I’ll get him back here.”

“You remember what he looks like? From the pictures?”

“Skinny blond kid with a green ski parka. Not too hard to spot.”

The Jeep roared out of the driveway. Donny called directory assistance to get the number of Clark Herlinger in Maple City, Michigan, but the number he got was for the clinic: “Merry Christmas and thank you for calling the Northview Veterinary Hospital. At the present time our office is closed. If this is an emergency, please call the Cherryland Emergency Vet Clinic at…” Donny hung up and thought for a moment. If he couldn’t reach Tyler’s parents directly, he could try getting the number from Mike’s parents. He remembered the card that Mike had given him with the Lankowski’s number on it, and then remembered that he had neatly placed it in his Rolodex at the office. He cursed under his breath, called directory assistance again and asked for Eugene Lankowski, and got the same number for the clinic. Well, he thought, the last resort is to try to get in touch with Mike. He found the number for the Villa on a card in his wallet. The phone was answered on the second ring. “Villa Castelfranco di Sopra,” said a smooth male voice.

“I’m trying to get in touch with, uh, Lance Michaels.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no one here by that name.”

“Um, how about Michael Lankowski?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” replied the voice and hung up.

Donny then remembered that guests were issued passwords when they checked in so that incoming calls wouldn’t be blocked, but Mike had not called to give it to him. He cursed again, then tried calling Paul Jeffries. There was no answer; he too was probably out at the Villa. He thought about calling the Villa again and explaining that it was an emergency, but he knew that the staff was well-trained and wouldn’t put any call through without the password.

Momentarily stymied, he went into the kitchen and started to get the roast ready, all the while wracking his brains about who he could call. Marc? He wouldn’t know the password, and he was in Santa Barbara. He peeled the carrots and chopped them up and was quartering the potatoes and had decided that the only solution was to try the Villa again when the phone rang. It was Trish calling to wish him a merry Christmas.

“Same to you, Trish. Hey, maybe you can help…” He explained the situation, and smiled to himself when Trish had virtually the same response that Danny had had: “Wow, that takes balls.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. I need to get in touch with Mike. He knows how to get in touch with the kid’s parents, but he’s out at the Villa and I don’t know the password, so…”

“The guardians at the gate won’t let you in. How ‘Dungeons and Dragons’ can you get?”

“Yeah, right. Can you help me out here?”

“Hey, I’m your producer.”

“And…?”

“I’ll call you back with it in a few.”

“Perfect.”

Trish was as good as her word. Donny had just put the roast in when she called back. “The magic word is ‘wassail.’”

“Wassail?”

“It’s Christmas. What did you expect; ‘gay apparel’?”

“How’d you get it?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Merry Christmas, Donny. I hope the kid gets home all right.”

Donny called the Villa again and gave the password. “Yes sir, how may I direct your call?”

There was no answer in Mike’s room, and after ten rings the operator came back on and said he could take a message. “Ask him to call Donny at home, please.”

Nearly an hour later and as the aroma of the cooking roast was filling the house, the Jeep pulled into the driveway. Tyler had taken off the parka, but he was still wearing a sweater. He looked tired and a little overwhelmed, as if he had nothing to do with what had happened to him. Danny carried in his small light-blue American Tourister suitcase.

“Hello, Ty,” said Donny. “So, what’s going on?” he added trying not to sound judgmental or hostile.

“Hi, Don,” the boy replied, sounding tired, and noticing the smell of the food, looked around the kitchen.

Donny held out the cordless phone. “Call your parents. Now.” Tyler shook his head, and Donny started to say, “Either you do it or I will,” but Danny interrupted. “Why don’t we get you settled in, Ty? I’ll show you where the guest room is, then you can get cleaned up and we’ll get some chow.”

“Okay.”

Danny glanced at his twin, and Donny nodded reluctantly. A few minutes later Danny came back alone and leaned against the counter in the kitchen. “He’s gonna take a shower. Were you able to get in touch with his ‘rents?”

Donny told him about the phone calls.

“Take it easy on him for now, okay?” Danny said, munching on a stray carrot slice, “He’s carrying around a real bagful of pissed off, and for the moment he doesn’t need to get it from anyone else. Something really heavy’s going on for a kid to run away like that.”

“Did he say what?”

“No, but the first thing he said to me was ‘I’m not going back,’ and he was quite proud of how he pulled off his escape.”

“How’d he do it?”

“His parents are away this weekend a Christian Christmas retreat. They belong to a church that doesn’t go overboard with celebrating the holiday, I guess. They’re supposed to be back tonight, but while they were gone, Ty was spending the time with his aunt and uncle in Traverse City. Yesterday afternoon he told them he was going to do some shopping at the mall, but instead he got on a bus to Grand Rapids, spent the night in the airport, and got on an early flight this morning to Chicago connecting to Los Angeles.”

“Just like that.”

Danny shook his head. “Nope. He bought the ticket three weeks ago with his birthday money and allowance. He knew enough to buy the ticket when it was still discounted. My experience with AWOL’s is that they don’t do it on the spur of the moment; it’s timed out to the last detail like The Great Escape. He got his cousin to cover for him, and my guess is that nobody noticed he was gone until sometime this morning when he was halfway here. And unless the cousin breaks under interrogation, they won’t know where to look for him until he wants them to know.”

“Yeah, well, as soon as Mike calls back, they’re gonna know,” said Donny firmly.

A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Mike. He sounded cheerful until Donny told him why he’d called, at which time his tone changed to all business. “I’ll make the call. You don’t know Clark, and getting a phone call like that from a stranger will only make it worse. For them and for Ty.”

Tyler came into the kitchen wearing clean jeans and a Traverse Bay Christian Academy shirt. His hair was still damp from the shower. Danny went to set the dining table in the sunroom while Donny finished the last of the meal preparations. Tyler offered to help, so Donny had him mix the salad dressing.

“So you guys are twins,” Tyler said, looking out to the sunroom.

“Yep,” replied Donny, preparing the standard answers to the usual questions. But Tyler said, “Wish I had a brother.”

“Only child, huh?”

“I had a sister, but she died,” he said simply, shaking the cruet.

“Oh, sorry to hear that.”

Tyler shrugged. “She was only a couple of month old when it happened. Mom said the Lord needed her in heaven.”

Donny looked at him to see if he was being cynical, but his expression was unreadable. The oven timer went off.

Donny opened a bottle of wine. Tyler had a Coke, and before they ate, Donny raised his glass, much like his father did, and said, “A Merry Christmas to all near and far. Good to have you here, Danny. You too, Ty.” Tyler nodded, then folded his hands together in prayer and murmured a sotto voce grace. The twins waited respectfully until the boy looked up again and smiled a little. “Thanks for…having me,” he said.

They ate slowly, the conversation a little strained because Danny couldn’t talk about what he was doing other than to say he was a first lieutenant in the Air Force, and Donny’s work on the Starship Enterprise project wasn’t really that interesting to anyone outside of the business, and he decided not to bring up Small Town Boys, fairly certain that he didn’t want Tyler going back home and telling his parents that he had spent his time in L.A. with the executive producer of a TV program about gay men.

They were just finishing up when the phone rang. Tyler looked stricken. Donny got up from the table and took the call on the cordless in the living room. It was Mike. He had spoken with his parents, who had gotten in touch with the retreat center where the Herlingers were staying in Houghton Lake. They would be home at six o’clock Eastern Time. Donny looked at his watch; that wasn’t for another couple of hours at least. “Call your folks back and give them my cell phone,” Donny said, “just in case, okay?”

“I already did,” Mike said. “I know how this town works.”

Donny went back to the table and told a visibly relieved Tyler that his parents weren’t home yet. “So, before they get there, whaddaya say we give you a little tour of Southern California while you’re here. I don’t think we’ve got time to go to Disneyland, but we can at least see some of the sights.”

They cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen quickly. Donny backed the Mustang out of the garage. It was a nice sunny afternoon, so he put the top down.

There wasn’t much traffic on Christmas Day, so they went up Santa Monica Boulevard to Beverly Hills, past some of the more notable mansions, then east to Hollywood. They stopped in front of the Chinese theatre and walked along several blocks of the Walk of Fame. Tyler seemed to enjoy it, but he admitted that he hadn’t seen a lot of movies since his parents didn’t approve of most of what came out of Hollywood.

“Where’s your gym?” Tyler asked.

“We can drive by there, but it’s closed today,” Donny replied.

“Oh, okay,” Tyler said, sounding disappointed.

They drove back to the house, and Tyler asked if he could go in the pool. “I brought my trunks.”

“Sure,” Donny said. “We’ll join you.”

Tyler emerged from the guest room in faded shorts that hung almost to his knees. Danny pulled on his AFA suit and sweatshirt and Donny put on his most modest surfer jams. The air was still cool, but sitting in the sun took the edge off. Donny swam some laps at first, then Danny found an old nerf ball left over from a previous tenant and they played a rousing game of keep-away, Tyler diving and plunging for the ball, at one time nearly climbing on Donny’s back to get it away from him.

When he finally tired of the game, Tyler sat on the steps in the shallow end, the water lapping around his chest. “I can’t believe I’m in an outdoor swimming pool on Christmas Day,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m in California.” All Donny could say was, “Yeah, well.”

It was almost dark when Clark Herlinger called. Tyler was in the living room watching TV. His voice was measured, almost cheerful, and he thanked Donny for taking care of Tyler. “I can’t fault him for getting in touch with you as soon as he got there,” Clark said.

Donny walked out to the patio, leaving Tyler in the living room. “Not a problem. I’ll make the arrangements to get him back as soon as possible.”

“Let me give you my credit card number,” said Clark.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s the least of your worries. I guess you want to talk to him,” said Donny, looking through the sunroom into the living room. Tyler was staring back at him.

“Yes, please,” he replied, and Donny beckoned to Tyler. He came outside to the patio, but before Donny handed him the phone Tyler said, “Is he mad?”

Donny covered the phone. “I don’t know, Ty. He’s your dad.” He handed him the phone. “Talk to him.”

Tyler took the phone reluctantly and sat down in one of the plastic chairs by the patio table. “Hi, Dad,” he said almost mournfully. Donny went back into the house and made a point of not looking back. He went into the office where Danny was setting up his new computer. Twenty minutes later, Donny looked out to the patio. The lights were on in the bushes and in the pool. Tyler was still sitting in the chair, his back to the house, but Donny could see that his shoulders were shaking, and as he approached the door he could hear him talking. Donny went into the kitchen, got a couple of beers, and went back to the office.

A few minutes later Tyler came in, holding out the phone to Donny. “He wants to talk to you again,” he said. He had wiped his face, but it was obvious that he had been crying.

“Hello, Dr. Herlinger,” Donny began.

“Please call me Clark. I just wanted to say again how grateful Stephanie and I are for you taking care of him, and it goes without saying that I’ll reimburse you for any expenses, including the airfare.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Donny. He wrote down the Herlinger’s home number. He felt an overwhelming urge to say something, anything, hoping to let Clark know that he hoped they wouldn’t go too hard on their son when he got home, but he knew it wouldn’t mean anything coming from him. So all he said was, “I’ll call you in the morning with the flight information.”

“Thank you, Don. Good bye.”

He had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang. It was Eric. “So are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” said Donny.

“Twins day out. Remember?”

“Oh, shit, that’s right.” Donny took the phone into the office and closed the door. He quickly explained the situation.

“Holy shit. That explains why your line’s been busy forever,” said Eric. “Well, if you don’t want to do it…”

“No, it’s cool. We gotta keep him entertained until we ship him back Tuesday morning; might as well make a day of it.”

“Sure, what the hell,” replied Eric. “Wow, the kid ran away all the way from Michigan. What’s up with that?”

“I have no idea,” said Donny. “He’s definitely got some problems at home, though. So tomorrow let’s just be cool and not give him the third degree.”

“Say no more,” said Eric. “See you in the morning.”

Donny went back to the living room. Tyler had the TV on again, flipping through all the channels on the cable. “I guess you don’t get as many channels up in Michigan,” he said.

Tyler shook his head. “We don’t have cable.” He scanned past a few more, including ESPN, Univision, and the Weather Channel.

“I don’t watch that many,” Donny said. “Mainly the networks and HBO.”

Tyler turned off the TV. “I have to go back,” he said, as if there was any doubt.

“I know. I’m going to get on the phone to the airlines in a few minutes and see what we can do about that.”

Danny came into the room and leaned against the doorjamb into the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest, looking at Tyler with studied interest, the way a teacher watches a student taking a test. “Well, Ty,” he said casually, “you told me how you got here… So you want to tell us why?”

“They’re gonna send me to a boarding school.”

“Your folks?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“I’m supposed to start right after New Year’s.”

“Where is it?” Donny asked.

“Somewhere in Tennessee. It’s run by the church.”

“Well,” replied Donny, not sure what to say. “What’s…?”

“Any reason that they’re doing that?” Danny interrupted.

“They want me to spend more time on my schoolwork and serving the Lord,” Tyler said hollowly.

“What’s wrong with the school you go to now?” said Danny, indicating the shirt.

“It’s…nothing. I like it there. Got a lot of friends.”

“Grades okay?”

Tyler shrugged. “Not bad. B’s, mostly.”

“So why send you away?”

Tyler was silent for a moment. “My mom thinks there are too many… distractions. Too many temptations that lead away from …”

“And sticking you in a boarding school will put an end to that.”

Tyler nodded and whispered, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, I can think of a couple of hundred ways of dealing with the situation better than how you did it,” Donny said.

“I just… I just don’t want to go to that school. I don’t know anyone there and it’s…so far away.”

“Los Angeles is a lot further than Tennessee, and you don’t know anyone here, either.”

“I know you,” Tyler said, looking at Donny hopefully.

“So,” Danny said, “what’s your plan?”

“My plan?”

“Sure. You got to L.A. Now what? What are you gonna do?”

Tyler shrugged. “I dunno…”

Danny looked at Donny. “See, twin, that’s the trouble guys with going AWOL. They plan the escape down to the last detail, but once they’re over the wall, they haven’t a clue what to do next, so they usually get caught pretty quick because they don’t have a plan. The MP’s know this, so they look in the most obvious places; a local bar or cat house or back home. Back on base and into the brig in less than twelve hours; forty-eight if they’re especially resourceful.”

Tyler looked stricken. “I don’t want to go back.”

“What choice have you got? What are you going to do out here? How old are you?”

“Fifteen, almost sixteen.”

Danny looked at Donny. “You’re the expert in H.R. Can a fifteen year old kid get a job here in California?”

“Flipping burgers, maybe,” Donny replied.

“I’ll do it.”

“The minimum wage is $4.25 an hour, Tyler,” Donny said. “That’s eight grand a year. You can’t live on that. Hell, you can’t live in Michigan on that, let alone L.A.”

“I could work for you. I know stuff about computers.”

Danny snorted. “Tyler, you’re not going to work for him. That’s not gonna happen. You’re gonna get back on a plane tomorrow or the next day and go back to Michigan, and if you’re lucky, your parents won’t send you off to one of those schools where they put ankle monitors on you and lock the windows at night.”

Tyler ducked his head and whispered, “I know.”

Donny looked at his brother, knowing that it was his turn in this impromptu good cop – bad cop routine. “You never really told me why your parents decided to send you off to this school.”

“Yeah, I just did.”

“Well, no. You said your mother wanted you to avoid ‘temptation.’ What exactly did she mean by that?”

Tyler stared at the blank TV screen, glanced at the twins, then bowed his head. “She found my magazines,” he said quietly.

“What magazines?” said Donny.

“Playboy? Girlie stuff?” said Danny.

Tyler shook his head vigorously, his head still down. “No. Weightlifting stuff. Muscle and Fitness. Stuff like that”

“What’s wrong with…?” Donny started to say, but Danny interrupted. “She doesn’t want you working out?”

Tyler shook his head again. “She says it’s vain and ungodly. I tried to tell her that a lot of guys who work out are Christians and that they’re trying to live up to their potential and that working out tests your resolve to sacrifice for the Lord, but…” He put his hands over his eyes for a moment, then continued. “She says it leads to ‘unnatural thoughts’ and sin.”

“Unnatural thoughts?”

“She says that looking at men like that leads to….” He struggled with the word for a moment, twisting his mouth, biting his lip, and finally whispering, “homosexuality.”

Donny shifted in his chair and said, “Look, Ty, there’s nothing in those magazines you can’t learn from just working out with your coach or what I wrote out for you, so there’s no sense in forking over all that money when you don’t need to. Trash ‘em; you’ll make your mom happy and you’ll save a few bucks.” He got up suddenly. “So, anybody want a sandwich or something?”

Donny spent over an hour on the phone trying to book a flight for Tyler out the next morning, but every airline was booked solid through every connection out of every airport within the Los Angeles area. The earliest direct flight was 9:15 Tuesday morning. “I’ll take him,” Danny offered. “I need to go out to the base anyway.”

“You can’t take me?” Tyler said to Donny.

“I have to be at work first thing Tuesday.” Donny saw the disappointment on Tyler’s face, so he tried to cheer him up a little. “Hey, tomorrow some of my friends are coming over. We’ll go check out some more sights, okay?”

They said good night in the hall, Donny making sure the guest room door was closed, then went into the master bedroom and closed the door. Danny was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. He undressed slowly and settled in to the left side of his bed, leaving enough room for Danny. “When was the last time we bunked together like this?” Danny said as he pulled the covers up.

“Boynton Beach, I think,” said Donny quietly.

“Oh, right, the Sea Breeze,” he chuckled softly. “Sand, sun, and Lucy…what was her name?”

“McMillan. From St. Louis.”

“Wow, you remember.”

“Yeah,” replied Donny, wondering what happened to Benji Rubenstein, the well-built boy from Great Neck.

Danny flicked off the light, the curtains letting in only the faint glow from the outside lights around the pool. “Well, this was an interesting Christmas,” he murmured. “You know that kid has a major league crush on you, don’t you.”

“Gee, ya think?” said Donny sarcastically. “You do realize that he was bullshitting us on the reason he ran away, too. No way he’d take off just because his mom found some muscle mags. There’s gotta be more to it than that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But it’s something serious and he’s not telling us.”

“Think he’s gay?”

Donny let out a deep breath. “He’s a kid. Kids get crushes on older guys; teachers, coaches, that sort of shit all the time. You saw that in the academy, right?”

“I see it all the time with new recruits and their CO’s.”

“Well, there you go. Doesn’t mean they’re gay.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not” replied Danny. “How old were you when you started messing around with Craig?”

“Fifteen.”

“Did you know you were gay?”

“Hell, I just knew I liked getting off. Didn’t think about it being gay or anything.”

“Well, whatever, gay or not, that kid has it bad for you. You’re gonna have to find a way to let him down slowly. And gently.”

“I know,” Donny sighed.

Danny settled his head against his pillow. “G’night, twin. Merry Christmas.” It wasn’t long before Danny was asleep, his breathing settling into the pattern that Donny knew like his own heartbeat.

*

Eric and Greg arrived the next morning a little after eight. Donny introduced Tyler to them as a friend from Michigan, and neither Eric nor Greg raised an eyebrow. After some good-natured arguing about what to do, Danny turned to Tyler. “Hey, ever seen the ocean?”

“No. Well, except for when we were coming in for the landing.”

“That settles it,” said Eric. “To quote the immortal Brian Wilson, ‘if everybody had an ocean….’ Good thing I packed my swimsuit.”

It took them a few minutes to gather up the beach stuff, but soon they piled into Donny’s Tahoe and found a parking spot near Venice Beach. It was not very crowded for the day after a holiday, but there were still people jogging, roller-blading, and even some brave surfers in wetsuits were paddling around waiting for the waves.

Tyler, his hands plunged in his jeans pockets, plodded across the grayish sand, his sneakers making small craters. They followed him down to the edge of the water. The sunlight was a little watery from the haze, but the sky was mostly clear and the air smelled of salt with a touch of smoke from the hot dog stand up the beach.

“Next stop, Hawaii,” said Danny, pointing off to the southwest.

“Wow,” said Tyler.

“Yeah, it’s a little bigger than Lake Michigan,” said Donny. He looked back up the beach to where he had first sat and chatted with Mike and where he and Eric had sat and watched Greg and Danny play football with the high school kids. This time there were some boys flipping a Frisbee back and forth while their dog – in violation of beach rules – ran back and forth between them.

“You come here a lot?” Tyler asked.

Donny thought back to the last time he’d been to the beach. It had been almost two years since he and Eric had come down here and sat on the sand. “No, not really. When you live here, you kinda forget that you live this close to it. It’s mostly for the tourists.”

They walked up the beach past the lifeguard stand. “Sorry,” said Eric, “I guess they gave Pamela Anderson the day off.” Tyler nodded as if he got the joke, but Donny doubted that he was familiar with the cast of Baywatch.

They set up camp close to their favorite spot, and Eric peeled off his shirt, revealing his lean but muscular torso and six-pack abs. Tyler looked at him and said, “You work out a lot?”

Eric grinned a little as he undid his belt and dropped his jeans, revealing his faded Ocean Pacifics. “Yeah, some,” he replied and then nodded at Donny. “Nothing like Schwarzenegger over there, but, y’know, enough to stay in shape.”

“I’m working out, too,” said Tyler, self-consciously plucking at his t-shirt.

“Good for you. Start early and you’ll be huge by the time you’re twenty or so.”

“Hope so,” said Tyler, “but I’d settle for looking as hot as you.”

Eric chuckled. “Thanks, kid,” he replied and shot Donny a quick look.” Danny nudged Donny privately and muttered, “Uh huh.”

They sat in the sun for a while, then Eric announced he was going to see how cold the water was. “Any other takers?”

“I’ll go,” said Tyler promptly.

“You’ll freeze your nuts off,” said Greg, who had already ventured down to the waterline and waded in up to his ankles.

“Nah,” he replied. “C’mon, Donny, you wanna go?”

He shrugged, snubbed out his cigarette, and followed them down to the edge of the water. It was not cold, but as he waded in, Donny didn’t feel like going in all the way, so he just went as far as his knees. Eric, however, took a running start and plunged in with a whoop, then jumped up and clutched his elbows. “Wow! Man, that’s…wild!” After a moment of hesitation, Tyler waded in up to his knees, then took a deep breath and dove in, coming up immediately and shoving his fists in his eyes. “Ow!” he exclaimed, “that stings!”

“Yeah,” laughed Eric, “salt water’ll do that to ya!” He splashed some water at Donny. “C’mon in, you big goof!”

Donny went back up to the waterline. “Nah, this is fine. You guys have fun, okay?”

“Wuss,” Eric snorted, then dove again like a porpoise, coming up a few yards further out.

He went back to his chair. Danny was telling Greg about Tyler’s adventure.

“Jesus,” Greg said, looking at Tyler splashing in the water with Eric. “You think there’s some serious shit happening at home?”

“Has to be. Teenage rebellion is one thing, but…”

Greg said to Donny, “You think he’s gay and his parents found out?”

Donny was watching Tyler and Eric horsing around in the waves. Tyler had grabbed Eric around the shoulders and was trying to climb on his back, practically mounting him from behind. “Something like that,” Donny mused. “Who knows.”

For lunch they got some very overpriced tacos and nachos, then joined in a game of ultimate Frisbee with some other people down the beach. By four o’clock they were all sticky and gritty from the sun and the sand and Donny suggested they go back to the house, clean up, and then go get some dinner. Eric and Tyler went off to the public restroom down the beach to change out of their swim suits. When they came back, Greg said to Tyler, “A little different than Michigan, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Tyler with a grin. “I like it here.”

They got ice cream cones and walked back to the car. “’Course,” Donny said, “you’ve only seen the good side of L.A. There are parts of it that pretty much resemble a war zone.”

“And the people are basically crazy,” said Danny.

“That too.”

“So why did you move here?” Tyler asked, licking the vanilla runner off the side of the cone.

“I got tired of the cold,” Donny said. “I really didn’t plan on staying. A month, tops. But I got the job and…”

“I could do that,” said Tyler.

“Yeah, but I was twenty-one, Tyler. I could sign a lease on a rental agreement. I had some money saved up. I had some marketable skills. And my parents knew where I was going when I left.” Donny started the car, made a sharp U-turn, and they drove back to the house.

They ordered take-out from the Great Wall and ate quietly on the patio. Donny noticed that Eric was mostly silent throughout the meal, and when they were done he helped Donny clear the table, leaving Danny, Greg, and Tyler chewing on their fortune cookies.

As he was dumping the boxes into the trash, Eric looked out to the patio. “So Tyler’s going home in the morning,” he said quietly.

“That’s the plan.”

“Good.” Eric closed the lid on the trashcan.

“Why do you say that?” Donny asked.

“’Cause he tried to hit on me.”

“He what?”

“He came on to me, Donny. When we were changing clothes at the beach in the restroom. He pulled off his trunks, whipped out his cock and asked me if I wanted to suck him off.”

“Holy shit.”

“Or he could do me. Either way.”

“What did you do?”

Eric glared at him. “I fucked him in the stall, Donny,” he said sarcastically. “What the hell do you think I did? I laughed it off, said no thanks, and got the hell outta there.” Eric looked out to the patio again. Tyler was sitting with his back to the house. He was talking about snowmobiling. “He was sending out vibes all day, Donny. When we were swimming, I swear he tried to grab my balls, and when he kept tackling me in the water, he kept pressing himself against me. That kid looks all sweet and innocent, but I’ve seen kids like that before, usually hanging around bars or pickup spots in West Hollywood. Get him home, Donny. He’s trouble.”

Eric and Greg left a little while later, and Donny told Eric he’d be in the office a little late; he was taking Tyler to the airport. Eric said he understood, said a perfunctory “nice to meet you” to Tyler, and waved to Danny as they backed out of the driveway.

It was still early, so they watched some TV, Tyler flipping through the channels until he found a movie on HBO. The three of them watched it in silence, and when it was over, he said, “Okay, time for bed. You’ve got an early flight.” He glanced at his brother. “And change of plans; I’m taking you to the airport.”

Tyler shrugged. “Cool.” He got up and went into the guest room and closed the door. Donny turned off the lights and set the alarm from the inside.

Danny was already in his shorts and getting into bed. “Something you want to tell me?” he said quietly. Donny told him what Eric had said. Danny shook his head. “I had a feeling about that little bastard. I’ll go with you and make sure he gets on that plane. We’ll walk him to the gate if we have to.” He plumped his pillow, rolled over and was asleep in a moment. Donny turned out the light and stared up at the ceiling.

He was at the quarry. The sun was blazing hot, and after an hour of catching sunfish and letting them go, Craig tilted his head wordlessly toward the sheep shelter. The air was a little cooler but still stifling under the splintered roof, and after they smoked a cigarette apiece Craig pulled down his jeans, fumbled with the zipper on Donny’s cutoffs, and buried his face in the damp cotton of his jockeys.

Danny was motionless in his sleep, probably from years of sleeping in barracks and close quarters with other men. Donny looked at the alarm clock. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since lights out, but sleep was no closer. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, thinking of sitting on a beach and watching the clouds, but nothing worked. He thought about getting up and taking a couple of aspirin; his mom had said that was what helped her.

He quietly got out of bed and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He found the Bufferin and shook out a couple of pills, washing them down with a sip or two of water. He was halfway across the room when he heard the faint click of the guest room door opening. Soft footsteps padded down the hall to the other bathroom. Donny listened by the door. A little later he heard the toilet flush, then the footsteps went down the hall, but past the guest room. Donny opened the door a crack. The hall was dark, but the lights from the back came in through the sunroom and showed Tyler in silhouette standing by the couch. After a moment, the TV came on, the glow filling the room. The sound was instantly muted, and Tyler sat on the couch, the cushions wheezing slightly.

Donny made sure that he made a little noise as he came out of his room so as not to startle the boy. The TV went off, but Tyler did not move. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. Tyler shook his head. “Me neither.” He turned on the light on the end table. Tyler was wearing a t-shirt and jockey shorts. Donny sat on the other end of the couch, leaving an empty cushion between them. The only light in the room came from the lights in the yard coming in through the sunroom, leaving them in semi-darkness. Donny turned on the lamp to the lowest setting, and Tyler blinked several times.

“Where’s your brother?”

“Asleep.”

Tyler nodded. “So, does he know you’re gay?”

Donny looked sharply at the boy. Tyler’s expression was unchanged, but there was an edge to it, almost a smirk. “Yeah,” Donny replied cautiously, “of course.”

Tyler nodded. “Yeah, I kinda figured, you being twins and all.” He absently drew a line down his thigh with his index finger, then looked at Donny again. “’Course, I knew, too.”

Donny shrugged. “It’s no big secret. Not like I’m in the closet.”

Tyler shook his head and smirked. “Yeah, and I pretty much had you pegged when you showed up at Mike’s house for Thanksgiving, ‘cause we all know about him, too.” Donny glared at him, and Tyler held up his hand. “Hey, it’s cool. I mean…” Once again he drew his finger up his thigh, this time resting his hand on his crotch. He looked at Donny and grinned broadly. That said it all, and in an instant Donny got up from the couch and didn’t know where to go. He looked at Tyler again, who had now spread his legs, his hand on the pouch of his briefs, slowly massaging it. Donny paced over to the sliding patio door, staring intently through the glass out to the pool. “Eric told me you came on to him.”

“Yeah, he’s hot, isn’t he? Ever do him?”

“No,” replied, Donny, not turning around.

“You know how I got the money to come out here?”

“Danny said you saved up your birthday money and stuff.”

Tyler chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I tell people. I earned it. You wanna know how I really got it?”

“Not really.”

“Guys pay to suck me off,” Tyler continued as if he hadn’t heard. “First time it happened I was in a store in the mall. I went into the GNC looking for vitamins and this guy was telling me what to take and stuff, and then he says he’s got some other stuff in the back room. So he takes me in there and says he’ll give me twenty bucks if he can do me. He was about your age; big like you. So I let him, and then he says he’s got some friends, and…” Tyler grinned slyly. “They’re all straight – so they say – but they like young dick.”

Donny did not move; he felt frozen in place. “Why are you telling me this?”

Tyler shifted a little on the couch, leaning back, stretching his body. “Well, I thought…”

“No way,” Donny said firmly.

Tyler sat up. “All right, that’s cool.”

For a moment Donny stared into the dim light of the lamp. Neither of them moved, and then Tyler got off the couch and started to go back to his room. Donny said, “Is that why you took off? Your parents found out?”

Tyler snorted. “Fuck no. If they knew…. No, I just had to get outta that place. I hate it there with all their church bullshit and holy rolling. They’re all so fuckin’ boring, and….” He leaned against the wall. “I just had to leave.”

“Are you gay?” Donny asked.

“What difference does that make?” He looked at Donny, his expression softening a little. “Straight or not, my folks’d kill me if they knew.”

“So why me? Why here? You didn’t think I’d call your folks the minute you showed up here?”

Tyler shrugged and blinked a couple of times. “I thought you’d know what I was going through. I thought you might…understand.”

For a moment Donny almost believed him, and then he smiled wanly and shook his head. “Nice try, kiddo. I’m not buying it. You probably thought you could sponge off me, maybe even try to blackmail me into not calling your folks because you would tell them that I tried to seduce you or something, and then… well, I don’t know what you’d try next, and neither do you. All you thought about was getting out here.” Tyler gave him a wicked grin, his expression completely devoid of his boyish innocence, and Donny had a flashback to his last encounter with Jeremy Dixon. “Tomorrow you’re getting on that plane, and you can sell your story to your folks. And to be perfectly honest, Ty, I don’t care if you tell them I fucked your brains out. They’ll know who to believe.”

Tyler gave him an icy scowl and went back to his room, slamming the door. Donny let out a long breath, and then went to the front door to make sure the alarm was set from the inside so that any opening of a door or window would set it off, just in case Tyler got the idea he could run away again. But the rest of the night passed in silence, and at six-thirty when Donny rapped on the guest room door, Tyler responded with a polite “Come in.” He was dressed in his TBCA t-shirt, clean jeans, and he had his parka out ready to put on when he got back to cold weather.

“Breakfast in a few,” Donny said curtly.

“Okay. Listen, sorry about last night.”

Donny shook his head. “Yeah, okay. Get your stuff out to the car. Traffic’s gonna be hell getting to the airport.”

The ride to the airport was silent, the morning rush hour slowing to a crawl in some places, but they got to the airport and parked with time to spare. Danny, in his blue Air Force uniform, hefted Tyler’s suitcase and strode ahead of them into the terminal. By the time they caught up with him, he was already at the ticket counter, and Donny saw him pull out his wallet with his military ID. The ticket agent was nodding, and then she pointed in the direction of the concourse. Danny stood up at attention for a second, said a curt “Thank you, ma’am,” and then led Donny and Tyler along the concourse to the security area.

“All right, here’s the deal. I convinced the airline to take Tyler as an unaccompanied minor, and I got permission for us to escort him to the gate and make sure he gets on the plane.” He showed Tyler his ticket and boarding pass. “Once you’re in Chicago, the airline will escort you to the connecting flight to Traverse City. Once you’re there, you’re in the hands of your parents. You got that?” Tyler nodded sullenly. “All right. Forward march.”

The ticket agent had contacted airport security, and once they showed their ID’s and Tyler’s boarding pass, they were passed through the metal detectors without any questions. When they got to the gate, Danny presented the boarding pass to the agent.

Donny had been watching Tyler the whole time. He looked tired and resigned to his fate, and as they waited for the boarding to begin, he slumped in his seat, his long legs sticking out into the aisle, tapping the toes of his large white basketball sneakers absent-mindedly.

The agent opened the boarding gate and Tyler got up. “Well,” he said softly, “I guess this is it.” He put out his hand to Donny. “Thanks. I’m…sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Tell it to your parents,” Donny interrupted. “They’re the ones you need to talk to.”

Tyler shuddered a little, then shuffled to the gate.

“Good luck,” said Danny.

Tyler lifted his hand in a half-hearted wave and gave his ticket to the agent. Another agent, a tall man with a serious expression, escorted Tyler down the jet bridge, and the last Donny saw of him was as he gave a quick glance and a grin back at him as he made the turn to get on the plane.

They waited until the door was closed and the jet bridge was pulled back.

“Good luck, kid,” Danny repeated. “You’re gonna need it.”

Danny dropped Donny off at the office, telling him to call him when he was ready to be picked up. Donny called Dr. Herlinger and told him what flights Tyler was on. After he hung up he thought about telling Marc about Tyler, but Marc was buried in getting ready for year-end, and Donny had enough work to occupy him. It wasn’t until he took a quick lunch break with Eric at two that he thought of Tyler again, and only because Eric asked him if he’d gotten him to the airport.

Donny called Danny at six, telling him to come get him, and they had cold roast beef leftovers for dinner. They were finishing off the last of the pie when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Don? It’s Clark Herlinger.”

“Oh, hi,” Donny replied, looking at his watch. It was almost eight-thirty; plenty of time for Tyler to have gotten home. “Tyler get there okay?”

“Well, that’s why I’m calling,” Clark replied, his voice sounding tight and on the verge of panic. “What flight did you say he was supposed to be on?”

Scenes from the Play

I received over 300 photos of the Manhattan Repertory Theatre's production of Can't Live Without You in January and February. Here are just a few of them.

The cast of characters:

Will Poston as Bobby and Tom Pilutik as Donny


Gary Mahmoud as Nick and Rachel Charlop-Powers as Anna


Mary Fassino as Barbara

Moments:

Barbara tells Donny he can make a fortune by turning his romance novels into movies.


Bobby asks Donny how he can write "romance literature" and leave him in the bottom of the desk drawer.


Nick shares his pride and joy with Anna.


"Lance" and "Miranda" live out the fantasy of romance novel readers everywhere.


Bobby forces Donny to come to terms with his true self as a writer.


"I can't live without you."


Donny gets back to work on Small Town Boys


Donny tells Anna about his choice and their future.


Anna looks for a happy ending...


...and makes her choice.


Bobby Cramer ponders his future.

Photos by Tamas Szalczer and Web Begole.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 50

Chapter Guide

Christmas Presence

“Trish Owens on Line 1.”

Donny picked up the phone, holding up his hand to Rudy, who was in the middle of explaining why all the security protocols in Pelican would have to be rewritten. It was a little after ten the next morning.

“Nice to finally talk to you. Lunch?”

“It’ll have to be quick,” he replied.

“I’ll brown-bag something. See you around noon.”

Trish’s idea of “brown-bagging” turned out to be avocado and bean sprout sandwiches on whole wheat bread, a side of cole slaw each, and bottles of Orangina from the local natural foods store. They sat at Donny’s conference table, shoving aside the stacks of papers and binders. By the time Donny had finished his first half of his sandwich he had told her about his meetings with Eric and Gina.

“Christ,” Trish said, wiping her hands on one of the brown-paper napkins from the bag, “this is what you get for going out of town for a week. Do you ever check your cell phone for messages?”

“What?”

Trish held out her hand. “Gimme your cell phone.” Donny handed it to her. She glanced at it and pushed a few buttons. “What’s your password?”

“1-9-7-0”

She keyed it in. A tinny little voice said, “You have four new messages. To listen to your messages, press 7.” Trish played them back; they were all from her, all increasing in urgency, asking him to call her. She erased them, handed the phone back to Donny, and glared at him. “For someone who works in the computer business, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“I don’t get it. When did you call?”

“The day after Thanksgiving, then the next day and the next. I thought you were avoiding me. See that little envelope icon? That means ‘you’ve got mail.’” Donny looked at the little screen on the cell phone. He had never paid attention to it before. “I set the ringer so that it goes off when you get a message.” She shook her head.

“So why were you calling me?”

“Because I was trying to tell you that I am the producer of Small Town Boys.”

While Donny gaped at her, she explained that Jack had wanted to appoint one of this regular producers to oversee the project, but they were either all too busy with other things or weren’t interested. Trish had volunteered, and over the last two weeks she had secured commitments from several other backers and had begun laying the groundwork with a studio and several casting directors. “I’ve been doing this out of Jack’s office, but it’s all the way downtown. I’ve been thinking about renting a small space closer to home.” She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Here?” Donny said. “We don’t have any empty spaces, and besides, I don’t think it’d be all that good an idea to mix my moonlighting with my real job.”

Trish shrugged. “Well, then, how about that little office you’ve set up in your house? All I need is a desk and a phone, and besides, you could probably write it off on your taxes as a business expense. And it’s perfectly located; it’s half-way between my place and downtown and I don’t have to fight the traffic. Oh, and the production company will pay rent, too. So you actually will make something off it besides what you’ll be making as the executive producer.”

“Is this how it works?”

“Are you kidding? Some of the best movies in Hollywood have been produced out of someone’s empty bedroom. Oh, we need to come up with a name.”

“A name?”

“For the production company.”

“I thought it was Magahee Associates.”

Trish shook her head. “No, Jack’s company never appears on the production credits. Every project gets set up as a corporation for the purposes of making the project. That makes it separate from the main corporation and shields them – and you – from personal liability. That way if anyone sues you, you’re not personally on the hook. Once the production is finished, the corporation is liquidated. That’s why you see all those cute little names at the end of a TV show or the beginning of a movie; ‘Birdbath Productions,’ or ‘The Samantha Corporation,’ named after the executive producer’s kid or their cat. So whaddaya want to call it?”

Donny shrugged. “You can call it ‘Old Potato Productions,’ for all I care.”

Trish chuckled. “I think we can do better than that.” She finished her sandwich. “Well, okay, then. I’ll call the phone company and get a line set up, and I’ll stop by your place after work and drop some stuff off.”

“I’m probably going to be working late, and then I’m going to the gym. But Mike’ll be there.”

Trish’s eyes widened. “Mike’s living with you?”

“Just until his condo’s ready. Then Danny’ll be back for Christmas in a couple of weeks.”

“Your brother in the Air Force?”

“Yeah. He’s got a little leave; gonna come in and pick up his Jeep.” Trish started to gather up the remains of the lunch. “So,” Donny asked, “if you’re doing all the producing work and hiring all the people, what exactly is my job as executive producer?”

“Well, you’ll see. It’s more like an honorary position, but you do have some power; f’r instance, you can fire people. Of course, you won’t do that unless we – the rest of the producers and the director and everybody else – think you should. But you’re the one who gets to do it. And you’ll make a lot of money.” She hitched her purse over her shoulder and grinned. “Not to worry, Donny. We’ll go over it all.” She held out her hand. Donny, unsure what she meant, shook it tentatively. Trish laughed. “Okay, if that means we’re formally in business, fine, but what I really need is the spare key to the house and the alarm code.”

Donny went back to work, and it wasn’t until he was pulling in the driveway after going to the gym that he remembered his lunch with Trish; her car and another behind it were parked out front. It was a little after eight, long past sunset, and the Christmas lights on the house down the street were lit. Even after all this time, it still seemed funny to him to see twinkling lights in a palm tree. Mike’s Range Rover was not there.

A long phone extension cord ran from the table in the living room into the office, and Trish was on the phone. Another woman was with her, standing next to the desk and writing things down on a pad. Trish nodded at him and ended the call. “Hi honey, how was work?” she said with a giggle. Donny played along. “Fine; where’s my dinner?” he replied, and they all laughed. Trish introduced him to Wanda. “She’s on loan from Jack. She’s going to be the production associate, which means she will be the one who really does all the work around here.” They shook hands. Wanda was an attractive Latina with large brown eyes, a nice smile, and as they exchanged pleasantries, Donny learned that she had worked for some very big names in the industry. He was impressed that she would take a job on such a small production, and said so.

Wanda smiled and nodded. “There are no small productions; just short pay.”

Trish got up from the desk. “The phone company will be here tomorrow to install the two extra lines, and we’re having another desk and stuff sent over from Jack’s so Wanda will have a place to work.” She pointed at the empty corner. “Should fit there, don’t you think?”

“You got the phone company to come tomorrow?” said Donny with amazement. “It took us a week to get them to set up an appointment for us.”

Wanda smiled knowingly. “I know people,” she said.

Trish nodded. “She does. Anyway, we’re off to take care of some stuff, but we’ll be back first thing in the morning. What time do you leave for the office?”

“’Round seven-thirty,” Donny said. “Say, has Mike shown up?”

“No, but he called about ten minutes ago,” Trish said. “Kinda surprised him when I answered. He said he was going out to meet with some people and wouldn’t be home ‘til late. Hope you don’t mind me answering, but I was expecting a call.”

Donny shrugged.

“Oh, and just so you know, I’m meeting with Aaron tomorrow to interview some writers. Be nice if you could join us.”

“Writers?”

“Yeah. Just to polish up your script and make it film-ready, and besides, if it becomes a series, you can’t be expected to write every episode.”

“When?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“It’ll have to be after work and after the gym if you want me there.”

Mike came home around ten. Donny was already in bed, on the verge of sleep, when he heard the back door open and Mike’s “whoops” as he caught his foot on the phone cord. Donny opened his bedroom door and blinked in the bright light in the hall.

“Hey,” said Mike. He looked a little glassy-eyed but not falling-down drunk. “So what’s up with…?” He indicated the office.

“Trish is setting up a production office here. She’s the real producer for the project.”

“Cool,” Mike murmured. “Makes it easy for you, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, since I’m ass-deep at work.”

“Hope she’s better than the idiot Paul hired for Back Home Again. Which, by the way, will be on in two weeks.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There’s talk of making it a series if it does well. Jason’s really pushing that.”

“Would you do it?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, I thought you were tired of ‘that shit.’”

“Work’s work.” Mike turned on the light in the guest room and clumsily kicked off his shoes.

“So, how’s it going?” Donny ventured. He really hadn’t spoken much to Mike in the last couple of days.

“’S’kay. Lotsa stuff out there, all I gotta do is … y’know….” He tugged off his shirt and tossed it on the bed. “Meeting tomorrow with some more people. Casting directors and shit. By the way, haven’t heard from your people yet.”

“I’ll tell Trish.”

Mike undid his belt and carefully pulled off his pants. “By the way,” he said again, “when does Danny get here?”

“Right before Christmas; why?”

“Just want to know when I need to get outta here. If there’s nothing shakin’ after Back Home Again goes on, I might just take off for Idyll-weird and stay there.” He waved at the bed. “Unless you get another bed in here, ‘cause much as it would be fun, I don’t think Danny’ll want to sleep with me.”

“No, I don’t think you’d be his first choice,” Donny replied. “Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.” He looked at Mike, standing there in his underwear, and in spite of his slightly inebriated state, his tousled hair, and the fact that he might be hiring him to work on his project, he felt the warmth growing in his chest, leading down to his groin. “G’night,” he said and went back to his room. “G’night,” Mike replied distantly.

*

Donny’s days at work became twelve to fourteen hours long, and Friday, the day of the board meeting, he left the house at six-thirty to help collate the preliminary presentation on Starship Enterprise, finally wrapping it up at ten-thirty that night. Other than the little reminders of something else going on in his house when he was gone – a Dunkin Donuts bag in the trash in the kitchen, the door to the office slightly ajar – it was like there was nothing else going on except dizzying long hours working with Rudy, Eric, Ellie, and the three new “code talkers,” as Eric called them. Donny barely remembered their names; they spent all their days in the war room with Steve and Brany. Marc spent most of the days working on the finances element with Cathy. Donny hardly had a chance to even say hello to him, and the brief “look, um…” was forgotten.

The only pause came on the Saturday night before Back Home Again was shown. Paul had gotten a video of it and invited Donny, Eric, Mike, Aaron, and some other people – twenty in all – to watch it on his big-screen TV. Cocktails and snacks were served in the living room, and Donny garnered some attention as the executive producer of, as someone called it, “the next big thing.”

Paul herded them into the little theatre and dimmed the lights. The score, a solo piano variation on “Simple Gifts” and “Back Home Again in Indiana,” led to an establishing shot of a bucolic view of a farm and a wheat field, and the title, in simple script, faded in. The audience applauded politely, and since Jeremy Dixon was not there, when his name appeared in the credits, someone in the room chuckled ruefully. Donny couldn’t see who it was. When the writing credits rolled, it said “Screenplay by Aaron White,” which got a smattering of applause, as did the producing credit for “Eric McKay.” He was sitting next to Donny, and he whispered, “I’d like to thank the Academy….”

Donny watched the film with a new-found critical eye, having read the script as it was being filmed. It was pretty much as he remembered it, but Aaron, who was sitting behind him, kept whispering to himself and scratching notes on a copy of the script. At one point both Jeremy and Mike appeared shirtless as they baled hay with their father, their muscles highlighted by the sweat and dirt, and this got an appreciative murmur from the audience. Mike, who was sitting next to Donny, chuckled self-consciously and slumped a little in his seat.

As the final credits rolled over the freeze-frame of the brothers hugging each other in the “snow” in front of the family home at Christmas, the audience applauded long and loudly. Paul stood up and beckoned to Mike, Aaron, and Milo to come forward and take their bows, and they did, Aaron nearly tripping over his feet as he walked down the aisle. The audience rose to their feet and gave them a standing ovation.

As they were getting ready to leave, Aaron came up to Donny and nervously plucked at his sleeve. “I’ve, uh, I’ve been talking to, uh, Trish, and she wants me to meet with you as soon as possible. About the writer.”

“Okay,” replied Donny. “I’m really in the weeds at the office, but I think lunch or something sometime.”

“We’ll call you,” replied Aaron, adjusting his glasses.

“Hey, good job on this,” said Donny, nodding at the theatre. “Turned out great.”

Aaron shrugged. “Oh, well, you know… good people and all that.”

Donny looked around to see if anyone was in earshot. “And you were right about Mike,” he said quietly. “He blew Jeremy off the screen, so to speak.”

Aaron nodded tightly. “Right. Is he going to be in yours?”

“Don’t know yet. The casting people haven’t gotten back to us,” he replied, slipping into the plural and suddenly conscious of it. “We should know in a couple of days. Trish’ll let you know, I guess.”

Aaron nodded again. “You’ll like the writer I’m lining up.”

“Tell me again why you’re not working on it?”

Aaron gulped and smiled mechanically. “Well, I don’t really have a whole lot of insight to the kind of things… the world… you’re writing about. I suppose I could, y’know, fake it, but I think what it needs is… well, the real touch, that’s all.”

“You didn’t know a whole hell of a lot about growing up on a farm in Indiana, either.”

Aaron nodded as if he hadn’t heard that and went to get his coat.

Mike came over to Donny. “Hey, you think you can snag a ride with Donny or someone? I’m gonna hang out here for a while, y’know… touch base.” He nodded in the direction of Paul and some of the other producers.

“Sure, no prob,” Donny replied.

It wasn’t too far out of the way for Eric to drop him off and then head back to Greg’s. “That was pretty good,” said Eric, talking about the movie. “So, is Mike gonna be in your project?”

“Don’t know yet. He might be.”

“So that’s why he’s sleeping in the guest room?”

Donny looked at Eric, who was grinning broadly. “That was subtle,” he deadpanned.

“Well, hell, Donny, I figure the only reason you’re not sleeping with him is because he might end up working for you. Make things awkward, y’know, in case you have to fire him or something.”

“That’s not it.” Or was it? Donny wondered to himself.

“I just wondered, ‘cause, y’know, you flew across country at the drop of a hat and then drove all the way back with him.” They came to red light and Eric looked at him. “C’mon, Donny, what’s up with you two?”

“What’s it to you?” he replied genially.

Eric tapped his thumbs on the wheel. “Well, maybe I want to invest in your little project, too. Maybe I want to be sure that I’m not betting on a bad deal.” The light changed. “And maybe I just want to know if you’re getting laid on a regular basis.”

“You serious?”

“About which, the investing or getting laid?”

“Investing, you horn dog.”

“Yeah, I might be. That Magahee guy called me while you were out of town, told me to talk to you or Trish about it. She’s, what, the producer now?”

“Yeah. She’s also Jack’s niece.”

Eric chuckled. “Damn, this town. Fucking incestuous.”

“So you think you will?”

“I might buy a share or two. Bart Blumberg called the other day about something else and managed to let me know that Jim McGruder was going in on it. But you knew that, right?”

“Right,” replied Donny. He made a mental note to ask Trish the names of all the investors.

They got to Donny’s house a little before eleven. They went out to the pool and Eric pulled a small joint out of his pocket. The pot smelled good in the cool night air. “So,” Eric said as he took a short toke, “tell me about your trip.”

Donny told him everything, even down to describing what they had for dinner at the Mexican restaurant in Perrysburg, and Eric listened attentively. When he was done, he lit a cigarette, the tobacco a harsh taste compared to Sky’s golden leaf.

“Wow,” said Eric. “His dad, your dad, Scott…. Hell of a week.”

“Yep.”

“So, you think you’ve got his dad’s blessing to marry him?”

Donny snorted a little. “Naw. Just be his friend …”

They lapsed into silence. Finally Eric said, “You love him, though, don’tcha?”

Donny thought for a while. “Guess so.”

Eric nodded. “That’s good. We all need that.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, Eric, you. You need somebody to love.”

Eric smirked. “Thank you, Jefferson Airplane.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m good. I got my…”

“Your what?”

He held up his hand. Donny snorted. “Not good enough.”

Eric leaned back in his chair and stared up into the night sky. “Yeah, well, until we get this ERP thing launched and until you get your…”

“My what?”

“…movie done, I guess neither of us is gonna get any action.” He slowly sat up. “Okay, I’m tired, so…I guess I’d better get going.”

“You okay to drive?”

“Oh, sure. I had one drink at Paul’s and a joint here. I’m fine.”

They walked together slowly out to the garage door, and in the darkness Eric gave Donny a hug, lightly brushing his groin against his thigh. It was hard. Eric grinned a little, waved, got in his Suburban, and was gone before Donny had the door closed.

Mike came home a little after midnight and was gone the next morning before Donny got up, leaving a note that said “Breakfast mtg w/ Jason C-ya.” The entertainment section of the Sunday Times had a picture and a blurb about Back Home Again, and the pre-review called it a “potential holiday classic.”

*

That was the last weekend of relative calm. Donny hardly saw Mike the next week. Back Home Again had won the time slot and Jason was sending him a ton of scripts, so he was out at casting interviews and meetings nearly every day. Donny hardly noticed, though; the war room became his second home, and he got used to getting up in the dark and coming home after ten. He remembered ruefully the cold January mornings working for Frank where he would be driving across the frozen fields to a jobsite, the heater in his truck droning at full blast, the radio weatherman cheerfully talking about highs in the mid-twenties and snow flurries. At least, he thought, here in California it’s warmer than that in the pre-dawn darkness.

It was suddenly Friday, December 23. Danny’s plane arrived at noon, the holiday rush traffic clogging the approach to the arrivals level so that Donny had to wave and honk at his brother who was standing at nearly attention next to the Super Shuttle with his green duffel bag at his feet.

He had gotten his hair cut very short and it looked as if he had bulked up, his shoulders bulging out of his dark blue sweater. They hugged each other powerfully, then Donny tossed the duffel into the way-back.

“Damn, you’re almost as big as me,” Donny said, admiring his brother’s arms.

“Whaddaya mean, almost? I’m benchin’ 225 now.”

Donny grinned. “Two-forty.”

“Shit. I’ll catch up.”

They went back to the office and everyone came out to greet Danny; Ellie gave him a lingering hug, which Donny noticed with interest. Marc shook his hand and smiled, asking how things were going, and Danny nodded and said things were good. He was introduced to the new people, including Rudy, who seemed fascinated by the idea of identical twins; Donny noticed that he was looking closely at each of them in turn as if he was trying to discern the difference between them on a molecular level.

They had arrived just in time for the informal potluck that Irene, Lily and Cathy had put together, and for the first time in three weeks they all sat together and listened to music, ate, and talked about nothing that had anything to do with work. Danny deflected all questions about his duty with a modest “just your average duty assignments for a junior grade Air Force officer,” and let it go at that.

They closed the office early, everybody lugging leftovers out to their cars. Donny asked Marc when he was going to Santa Barbara with the intention of inviting him for dinner that night, but Marc said he was leaving that afternoon, but thanks. “I’ll call you when I get back on Tuesday,” he said. “Good to see you, Dan.”

“You too,” Danny replied. After Marc had left Donny’s office, he said, “What’s up with him? He’s barely said two words since I got here. Still freaked about Jeremy?”

Donny shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so. We’ve been slammed since this whole Starship Enterprise thing started, and most of it’s on him. And me.”

“Huh. Come up with a better name than ‘Starship Enterprise’ yet?”

“Nope. Nominations are still being accepted, and the winner gets a free ham.” Eric rapped on the door jamb. “We still on for twins day out on Monday?”

“Sure. Whatcha got planned?”

“Beach if it’s nice, wing it if it’s not,” Eric replied breezily. “I’ll call you. Good to see you, Dan.”

“You too.”

Donny was going through his mail. He came across a handwritten card-sized envelope. The return address was a post office box in Maple City. He slit it open. Inside was a Hallmark Christmas card with the nativity scene from, a folded note, and several photographs. It was from Tyler.

Dear Don: Thanks for the advice on weightlifting. I’ve started the program you showed me and it’s helping. Here are some pics of me. Merry Christmas see you soon, Your friend, Tyler.

The pictures were Polaroids of Tyler, trying to strike a muscle-flexing pose. He was standing in front of what appeared to be a bookshelf in his wood-paneled bedroom, his shirt off, his long basketball shorts hanging on his narrow hips, the cuffs below his knees, the flash washing out his skin to a pale pink with little contrast and giving him a bad case of red-eye. He was awkwardly flexing his right biceps, making little more than a slight swelling, his fist balled up like a knot, the hair in his armpit barely more than light fuzz. The other picture was from a slightly different angle, trying to pump up his chest, his eyes looking away from the camera, a study in adolescent awkwardness. Donny showed them to his twin.

“This the kid you told me about? What is he, fifteen?”

“Something like that.”

“Gotta start somewhere.”

“Were we ever that scrawny?” Donny asked.

“You were, twin. Not me.”

They drove home, the traffic thick with last-minute shoppers. Mike’s truck was in the driveway. The reunion was quick; Jason had gotten Mike an interview with the casting director for the Emmerich/Devlin sci-fi movie as a last-minute replacement for one of the second-tier stars playing an Air Force officer, and he was in Palm Springs for the holidays. “So, I’m heading out there right now,” he said as he stuffed his suitcase. “Perfect timing for you, Dan; you get the bedroom all to yourself.”

“For once,” Danny replied. “If you get the part, let me know and I’ll tell you what the script got wrong.”

“It’s a deal.” He zipped up his bag. “Well, I’ll see ya.”

“Where are you spending Christmas?” Donny asked.

Mike smirked. “At the Villa. I hear they have a hell of a Christmas buffet.”

Donny handed him a small package. “Merry Christmas.”

Mike hugged him. “Yours is on the couch, since you didn’t bother to set up a tree or anything.”

Donny shrugged. “What’s the point? It’s not like when we were kids and my mom and dad went completely nuts over the holidays, putting up wreaths and lights and roping and making Toledo Edison rich.”

Donny showed Danny the office, the two desks side by side, the floor stacked neatly with cardboard boxes serving as makeshift filing cabinets. Trish and Wanda had left before they had gotten home, but there was a stack of resumes and headshots that bore a pink Post-It that said “Plz revue thx T.O. Merry Xmas See you Tue.” “Hooray for Hollywood,” Danny said.

They spent Christmas Eve day getting the Jeep running, changing the oil and rotating the tires, going to the gym, and relaxing by the pool. Donny started to ask his brother what he was doing now, but Danny held up his hand and said, “Twin, I can’t talk about it, and I have to report any questions anyone asks me about it, so get me another beer and shut up.”

They had Christmas Eve dinner with their Aunt Barbara and Uncle Ron in Whittier, and Ron, who had served in the Navy, knew what Danny was talking about when he said he was under strict orders. “Say no more.” They called their parents on the speakerphone in the den before it got too late, their voices sounding hollow and tinny.

Christmas Day was quiet. They slept in, opened their presents, taking turns in the family tradition. Donny got Danny a portable CD player that would fit in his BOQ bookshelf and a laptop computer. “You can get e-mail,” Donny said. “I called Colonel Brownwen, your old commanding officer, and checked.”

Danny handed his brother a small box. “Not a computer or even a microchip.” Donny opened it. It was a signet ring with DFH on it. Inside it was inscribed Together Forever. “Yeah,” shrugged Danny, “it’s corny, but it fits. You shoulda seen the look the jeweler gave me when I told him what to put on it. I had to show him our picture to reassure him that he wasn’t asking and I wasn’t telling.” The ring fit perfectly. “Well, it should. I had ‘em size it to my Academy ring.” Danny glanced at his new stereo and laptop, “Look, I know…” but Donny cut him off, knowing what he was going to say.

“Forget it,” he said, looking at the ring. “Based on our comparative incomes, you spent more than I did.” He hugged his twin tightly, tears prickling his eyes.

Their parents called at ten, and the twins assured them that the shirts and sweaters fit fine and thanks again for the traditional stocking-stuffers – candies, little toys, and funny pictures – had arrived safely. They thanked him for the dozen grapefruit and the avocados, and said they were going to have a great feast that night.

Donny had planned to make a roast for their Christmas dinner; it was easy to do and he could watch the football game that afternoon while it cooked. He was in the kitchen getting it ready when the phone rang. He grabbed it, thinking it was his mom calling about something she’d forgotten to say. “H’lo,” he said tersely.

“Uh, is this Don? Don Hollenbeck?” said a young voice.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Ty. Tyler Herlinger. From Thanksgiving…?”

“Oh, yeah, hi. Hey, thanks for your card.”

“Sure. Um, merry Christmas.” Tyler’s voice sounded hollow and distant, and there was a lot of background noise, like he was calling from a shopping mall.

“Same to you. How’s things up there in Michigan?”

“Um, okay, I guess. But… I’m not there.”

“No? Where are you?”

“At the airport.”

“The airport? Which one?”

“The one here. In Los Angeles.”

“Oh, you and your folks out here for Christmas?”

“Uh, no. I…I’m here by myself.”

“Yourself?”

“Yeah.” There was a long pause, and then Tyler said, “I ran away.”

Small Town Boys - Chapter 49

Chapter Guide

The Next Big Thing

Eleven and a half hours after leaving the Gateway, Donny pulled into his driveway. He had driven all the way from Needles and Mike had been asleep since Barstow. Donny nudged him. “We’re home.”

Art, the neighbor from across the street, had collected his mail and put it in a bundle inside the screen door; it was mostly bills and grocery coupons. The light on the phone machine was blinking. There were four messages; three hang-ups and one from Trish. “Donny, it’s Trish. Call me when you get back. Bye.” He dialed her number, got her machine, and said, “It’s Donny. Phone tag, and you’re it.”

They ordered a pizza and went to bed, Mike taking the guest room. The next morning he left before seven to meet with Jason. “I’ll call you this afternoon,” he said as he gave Donny a quick hug. “Thanks for everything.”

“No problem.”

“I mean it. It was… really sweet of you.”

“Any time. You spending tonight here?”

“If I can. The condo might not be ready yet.”

“Sure. See you after work, then.”

“Just like old times.”

“Yeah.”

Donny got to the office before anyone else. Lily had piled the mail on his desk; mostly applications for the warehouse job. He went through them quickly, sorting the possibilities from the no-chances until he heard a knock on the door. It was Marc.

“Hey,” he said, “how was it?”

“Had a good time.”

“How’s Mike?”

“Fine. Meeting with his agent as we speak.”

They went to the break room and waited for the coffee maker to finish. Marc looked like he’d gotten some sun and he’d gotten his hair cut practically down to a crew cut. He looked preoccupied, so Donny asked, “So how was your holiday?”

“Nothing special,” Marc said as he rinsed out his mug. “Mom had some friends over, I hung out with some of them, and…oh, yeah, I took Monday as a personal day ‘cause I decided not to fight the Sunday night traffic. Slip’s on your desk.”

“Okay,” Donny replied, catching a hint of something forced in Marc’s voice. “I’ll find it under all the rest of the crap that’s piled up.” He sipped his coffee. “So, I got a call from Eric the other night. What’s goin’ on?”

Marc put a finger over his lips. “I’m sworn to secrecy, and even what he’s told me doesn’t tell me a lot. We’ll find out soon enough, I guess, at the pep rally.”

That was what Greg was calling this year’s annual staff get-together. Eric had driven down with the staff from Palo Alto on Monday and put them up at a nearby hotel. The annual party for the whole company, including wives and children, was going to be held there, and then the board meeting would be held on Friday.

Marc poured his coffee slowly, then looked at Donny. “Look, um…” he said, but before he could say anything more, Margaret came in with a watering can. She said good morning, asked Donny about his trip and told them about her weekend with relatives, all while she bustled around filling the watering can with plant food and pouring a cup of coffee. Donny looked at Marc at one point during all of this; he was grinning tightly and sipping his coffee. The rest of the office staff drifted in and Donny went back to his office where Lily presented him with a stack of phone slips. Two were from Gina, and one was from Trish.

A moment later Eric and Greg came in together. Eric strode into Donny’s office, full of energy and grinning like he’d just won the lottery. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Donny! Great to see you! How was Michigan?”

“Good,” Donny, almost laughing himself.

“Great. Listen, we gotta talk. I’ll call you in a few.”

“Talk about what?”

Eric grinned broadly. “You’ll see.”

“Sure…” He was going to ask more, but Eric was already gone. He could hear him talking excitedly to someone in the hall, then his door closed.

He spent the next twenty minutes returning phone calls. He put the notes from Gina and Trish aside, deciding that he would call them back over lunch or after work. He was down to the last three when the intercom buzzed. “C’mon in,” said Eric, hanging up before Donny could reply. He went into Eric’s office. “Close the door,” Eric said.

Fifteen minutes later Eric opened the door and Donny went back to his desk. He stared out the window for a good five minutes before Lily buzzed him and said the meeting was starting.

The whole software development team was gathered in the war room. Sky, in his trademark Hawaiian shirt, looked a little greyer, but the life in Palo Alto obviously agreed with him; he’d lost some weight and even added a little muscle. Brany, who was in the last weeks of his doctoral program, looked like he hadn’t slept for a while, but he was smiling and sipping coffee as if coming into the office actually was a break for him. Steve and Diego were hunched over a notepad and discussing something in geekspeak, and Ellie, who had just returned from two weeks of training in Seattle, came over to Donny and asked him if Danny was coming to L.A. for Christmas. “Last I heard, yeah,” he told her, and wondered to himself why she cared.

Eric rapped on the table. “Where’s Rudy?”

Diego looked puzzled. “Last I saw he was having breakfast at the hotel. He said he’d get a cab and come by himself.”

Sky chuckled. “Good luck. You know how directionally challenged he is.”

Eric shook his head. “I shoulda picked him up myself.” He grabbed a phone and dialed a number but before it rang through the door opened and Rudy came in, looking a little flustered but trying not to look it.

It was the first time Donny had seen him, but Eric’s one-time description wasn’t far off: “Spock – the Teenage Years.” He was tall and thin with a bowl-like haircut, wispy pointed sideburns, a sharp nose, and prominent ears. He was dressed in a plain black suit with a plain white shirt underneath and a grey tie. His fingers were long and thin, and he moved slowly and deliberately, taking a seat at the end of the table. He opened a portfolio and took a pen out of his coat pocket, examining it carefully before setting it down on the pad and folding his hands in front of him. His face was expressionless as he looked around the room, his dark eyes taking everyone in as Eric introduced him. His eyes rested on Donny for a moment, and he returned the look with a nod. Rudy nodded back, and looked away.

Eric grinned a little and said, “Okay, so…here’s the plan.”

*

“Three months,” repeated Donny, sipping his beer.

“That’s the plan,” said Eric. “First week of April we finish it up here, smoke test it, and then on June 1 we make the presentation, seal the deal and….” he shrugged blithely, “we’re off on a whole new adventure.”

They were sitting on his patio, the remains of take-out from the Great Wall scattered about. “You sound so fucking sure of yourself,” Donny muttered. He ran his eyes over the thick binder that was on the table. Inside it was the specifications, schematics, and overview of what had been tentatively dubbed the Starship Enterprise. It was, as Rudy had so calmly pronounced it, perhaps the most ambitious undertaking that a software company could propose. Or, as Greg had called it, the biggest gamble since Lady Godiva put everything she had on one horse.

Starship Enterprise was McKay-Gemini’s first attempt at enterprise resource planning. It meant that all aspects of a customer’s operations would be channeled through one software package, combining everything from personnel, inventory, finances and accounting, supply chain, sales, customer service, even building operations and maintenance.

“This is everything we’ve been working for, Donny, for the last three years. This is what we do. And you can do it. I have no doubts at all.”

Donny snorted genially. He thought back to the meeting in Eric’s office that morning. After the door had closed, Eric had uncharacteristically come right to the point. He had tossed the binder on his desk and said, “Did I ever tell you about Gordie Harwell?”

“No, who’s he?”

“Guy I went to college with. He was a grad student, actually. Smart as hell. He’s now the head of the computer systems for a school district in Colorado. He’s been using Pelican since the day we launched it to run their business office, and now he wants us to come up with an ERP system to run the entire school district.”

Donny had picked up the binder and leafed through it. “How big is it?”

“Around a thousand students in three schools and a central administration, plus the usual stuff like food service, transportation, and maintenance. Not a lot bigger than some of the companies we’ve set up and linked up over the last year or so. But this will be everything, not just inventory or finance. Everything, Donny. We’re gonna integrate it all.” He paused for a moment. “And we need someone to run it.”

“Okay,” Donny had said, “I’ll get on the horn to Brickner and see if they can head-hunt us someone with that kind of experience.”

Eric had laughed. “Forget it. We’ve already got the guy.”

“Who?”

“You.”

It was at that point that Eric’s phone rang and Donny had gone back to his office to stare out the window until the meeting began.

It had lasted all day. Lily had ordered in sandwiches and they never left except for quick trips to the bathroom. Marc had come in for a couple of hours of intense discussion about the financial program. Donny had glanced at him occasionally, wondering what his “look, um” that morning in the break room was leading up to, but Marc was all business, and when he was done he left the room without any extraneous comments or looks to anyone else in the room. The meeting broke up after the secretaries had left and the cleaning crew was going around picking up the trash. Eric had come by Donny’s office. It was already dark outside.

“So, you wanna grab a bite and…?”

“And…see what my answer is?”

“Well, no, but…yeah.”

Donny flipped through the new phone messages that had piled up during the day. “I was thinking about going to the gym; I haven’t been in like a week and I’m feeling like I’m getting outta shape. ‘Sides, aren’t you supposed to go with the gang and have dinner at the hotel?”

Eric laughed scornfully. “I’ve spent the last six month with them, plus last night and all day today. I haven’t seen you since Santa Barbara. So how about I pick up some Great Wall and meet you at your place when you’re done slammin’ the grams?”

“Sure,” he had replied, and looked at the three new messages from Gina. He did not return them.

Donny finished his beer. The soreness from working out was beginning to creep into his arms and legs and he grunted slightly as he got up to clear the table. He had gone straight to the gym from the office and mercilessly piled on the weights as if the sweat and the strain could block out the dizzying array of flowcharts and pages of code that he and the rest of the team had spent all afternoon deciphering and sometimes arguing over.

Eric followed him in to the kitchen. “Y’know, we’re gonna need to hire some more people, including someone to replace you in HR. And fast; we need to get this going like yesterday.”

“Do you want me to move to Palo Alto?”

“Nah. In fact, I’m thinking about coming back here and leaving just the sales people up there. Sky doesn’t care where he lives and Rudy wouldn’t know the difference.” Eric sat on the edge of the kitchen table. “Y’know, you still haven’t answered the question.”

Donny noisily dumped the cartons and beer bottles into the trash. “You mean, will I do it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have to ask?”

“Apparently,” Eric replied with a note of frustration. “So far all you’ve done is ask if you’d have to move and stuff like that. I haven’t heard you say, ‘Wow, this is a really great chance for my company to make a name for itself among the big boys and – oh by the way – I’m gonna get a huge promotion and make a shitload of money doing it.’”

“Do you really think that’s gonna happen?”

Eric looked at him intently. “Yeah, Donny, I do. I believe in what we’re doing and I believe in the people I work with. I really think that if we make this work, this is it. We’re gonna be the ones. And you’re the natural choice to run it, too.” Eric counted off on his fingers. “You’ve worked in every department, you know how the company works, you know how to write the code, and most of all, we all trust you.”

A car pulled into the driveway. It was Mike. Donny let him in the back door, and he smiled when he saw Eric. They gave each other quick hugs, and Donny noticed that both of them looked at him as they exchanged greetings.

“So, you got the place?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Mike. “Jason’s got me this really nice place, completely furnished right down to the cereal in the cupboard in the kitchen. All I gotta do is hang up my clothes. Except there was a screw-up on the timing and the people in there won’t be out until the end of the month, so….” He raised his eyebrows, and Donny knew what he was asking.

“Oh, yeah, sure, that’s cool. You can stay here,” he said, and Mike grinned. “Thanks. And Jason’s meeting with Jack’s people tomorrow to talk about your script, and apparently they’ve lined up some people…but you know all that, right?”

“Well, actually, I haven’t had the chance to talk to anyone about it since I got back…we’ve been pretty busy at the office.”

“Well, it looks like they’re ready to get things rolling. So, what’s going on down at McKay-Gemini?”

Eric gave him a brief synopsis, ending it by saying that Donny was the new captain of the Starship Enterprise. “Except we’re not gonna call it that when we come out with it. Paramount Pictures probably has that under trademark, so we’ll get some marketing guru to come up with something appropriately catchy.”

Mike looked at Donny with interest. “So you’re really moving up in the world? Well, great.” He nodded his head vigorously. “Cool. Well, listen, it’s been a long day for me, so I’m gonna crash, okay?”

“Sure.”

Mike gave Donny a quick kiss on the cheek – he caught a whiff of Scotch on his breath – and said, “G’night. Good to see you, Eric.”

“You too,” Eric said.

Mike went down the hall to the guest room and closed the door. Eric looked at Donny. “So, you guys…?”

“Just friends,” said Donny. The last time they had slept together had been the motel in Joplin.

They went back out to the patio. The lights were on, but it was dark enough that when Donny clicked his lighter, the brightness made him blink. Eric waited until Donny had smoked most of the cigarette before he spoke. “That’s it, isn’t it,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Small Town Boys. That’s what’s bugging you.”

Donny snubbed out the cigarette and leaned back in the chair, making the plastic creak.

“Y’know,” Eric said quietly, “it’s your choice, but you’re a partner in the company, Donny. You can’t just decide for yourself now. This is the big league and a lot of people are counting on you to be a part of this venture. What you do affects all of us.” He leaned forward and looked at Donny intently. “So we need to know.”

Donny found himself looking deeply into Eric’s eyes, holding his gaze, remembering the first time they met, the long nights working on Pelican and getting dizzy from the dry-cleaning fumes that seeped up from downstairs, the days working in the cramped offices and the hundreds of little daily crises that came across their desks every day; the little victories and the jokes, the lunches and the nights like this at the old house when it was just them before Danny moved in or the earthquake or Marc spent the night or Mike came back; he thought of all the times he’d walked past Eric’s empty office since last summer, and how he leaped to grab the phone when the direct line from the Palo Alto office rang to his desk and he knew it was him calling; the weekend in Santa Barbara when they shared the room and Eric had stumbled into his bed and the warmth of him lying next to him. His cock tingled, and Donny snapped out of it. He blinked, grinned a little, then looked around for a second. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Eric leaned back and let out a sigh and a chuckle at the same time. “You had me going there for a second.”

He left a few minutes later, giving Donny a tight hug as he left. Donny picked up the phone. It was a little before nine, which meant it was just before midnight in Florida, but he knew Danny was still awake.

*

Donny called Gina the next morning.

“So I hear you’re busy,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, while you were gone, things have taken off. That’s why I need to talk to you.”

“Taken off how?”

“Jack Magahee’s word is gold in this town, and don’t ask me why or how, but word about your little kerfuffle with Jeremy Dixon has gotten out and people are saying that this Don Hollenbeck guy is not to be fucked with. Jack has put together enough money and technical support to get this script into the hands of some very important people, and I got a call yesterday morning from HBO. Even network hacks are starting to talk about this as being the gay version of Beverly Hills 90210.”

“Gina…” Donny started to say.

“Listen, doll,” Gina interrupted, “that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that people are talking about it at all. Look, have a drink with me after work and we’ll go over all of this. What time is good for you?”

Donny shuffled through the papers on his desk looking for the Enterprise calendar that Lily had handed him when he walked in. It was buried under the resumes for the interviews he had scheduled. He finally found it and saw that he had a sketch-out meeting with Sky at four, followed by another with Greg at five. “Six, six thirty, maybe,” he said, wondering if he could get to the gym after.

“I’ll pick you up at six.” As was customary, she hung up without saying goodbye.

She took him to the Cantina. It was still warm enough that they could sit on the back patio. She ordered a scotch rocks. Donny asked for a draft. Gina had asked him about his trip on the ride over, but once their drinks arrived, the small talk was over.

People were lining up around the block to get in on this project. Big names, too. So the most important thing was to get the backing lined up, get the production people signed up, get the cast signed, and get the script into shape. “This all has to happen in the next six weeks,” Gina said as she stirred her drink. “So we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Donny was about to speak, but Gina’s cell phone chirped, and she held up her hand. “Just a sec. Yeah,” she said the phone. The caller went on for a few seconds, the voice barely audible, before Gina cut him off. “Doll, it sounds great, but I gotta call you back.” She ended the call. “So anyway….” She took a sizeable gulp of her drink.

Donny took a deep breath. He’d been dreading this since he’d hung up the phone with her earlier, and it had been in the back of his mind all day, including the first team meeting that morning in the war room, through the screening of the new applicants, and even through the crisis in the office when the copier ran out of toner and the guy from the supply company showed up with the wrong replacement cartridge. “Look, Gina, I have a job at McKay-Gemini. In fact, I just got handed a huge project that’s gonna take over my life for the next six months, maybe even longer.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“What I’m saying is that I have a commitment to my partners and the job I have that is paying me. I can’t just drop everything for the next six weeks.” He felt a shiver run through him and he stared at the dark ring of condensation that was spreading out from his beer glass onto the little green cocktail napkin.

Gina blinked twice, then slowly lifted her glass and took a sip. When she spoke her voice was calm but almost brittle. “So what you’re saying is that you don’t want to do the project anymore.”

Donny tried to reply as calmly. “No, I’m saying I can’t spend the next six weeks doing all those things you just told me I have to do. And besides, I don’t know how to do any of that stuff. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Gina took another sip. “Don, I’m not sure you understand what is happening here. Small Town Boys has become the buzz of this town. There are people who are turning down parts in other projects because they are hoping to get a shot at it. Directors, writers, everybody. Gay is very hot now, and you’ve got the property. It’s all yours. You just can’t walk away from it because of some…computer project.”

“It’s not ‘some computer project,’ Gina, it’s the future of the company that I helped start. I’ve got a lot invested in it, not just because they pay me. I really believe in it. I wrote that script on a bet from Jeremy Dixon. But I’m just a …”

Gina stared at him. “Who said you had to? You’re the executive producer. You don’t have to do any of that. You have a producer that does that.”

He was about to reply when Val Kilmer walked by, saw Gina, and nodded at her. “Hello, Val,” she said, and he stopped. He asked her how she was doing and glanced and nodded at Donny. Gina said she was never better, then turned to Donny. “Val, this is Don Hollenbeck.” Donny stood up and they shook hands.

“Don Hollenbeck,” said Val as if he was remembering a name. “You’re the guy with Small Town Boys?”

“That’s right.”

Val nodded. “Good luck with that. Sounds like a winner.” He smiled a little. “Good to see you, Gina. Nice meeting you,” he said to Donny, and left.

“He’s just wrapping up that new Batman,” said Gina. “See, the buzz is out there, Don. Val Kilmer.”

“You think he’d…?” Donny asked.

Gina shrugged a little. “He’s not a TV kinda guy, but…you never know. He’s not too old, either, and he’s still got it.”

It was a little after seven when Gina dropped him off back at the office. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow,” she said as he got out. “This is just the beginning.” The car started moving before he even got the door closed.

He went back up to his office. The nightlights were on, but Eric’s office door was open and music was playing – Jethro Tull’s Aqualung.

“Hey,” Eric said looking up over his glasses from the laptop. “How was it?”

Donny leaned on the door frame. “Great,” he said, “I just have to decide if I want to shit or go blind.”

Eric grinned and closed the laptop. He leaned back, stretching his arms. “Wish you were back in Ohio pounding nails?”

“Never realized what it was like to have people fighting over me.”

“Did you tell her that you’ve got something else going on?”

“Seems like it’s going forward whether I like it or not. I don’t know how to get out of it.”

Eric got up and turned off the desk lamp, leaving the nightlights in the hall as the only illumination. “Well, you’re gonna have to do something about it,” he replied seriously. For a moment they looked at each other in the dim light. Eric finally said, “C’mon, let’s go grab something to eat.”

“Thanks, but I’m going to the gym.”

Eric smiled wanly. “That’s one thing I gotta do when I move back here. See you in the morning.”

Mike was already home, sitting in the living room reading a script. “What’s that?” Donny asked.

“Some sci-fi thing about invaders from space that Roland Emmerich and Dean Devlin are working on. Sounds like remake of War of the Worlds.” Mike closed the script. “So, how’d it go with Gina?”

“Does everybody in town know what I’m doing?”

“She called Jason this morning and said she was gonna meet with you, that’s all.”

“She told me there’s a shitload of things that need to get done in the next six weeks.” He went outside to the pool. The air was chilly, but steam was rising off the water, and he dipped his hand in. It was warm and inviting, so he stripped and swam ten laps to loosen up from the gym. When he stopped Mike was sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. He handed him a towel.

“What are you going to do?”

Donny dried off, shivering a little as he pulled on his boxers and shirt. “Make a sandwich.”

Merry Christmas from Donny Hollenbeck

This is a repeat of my post from last year, but I'm really busy working on the script for the movie of Small Town Boys and you know what it's like working on a deadline, not to mention this new project we've got going at McKay-Gemini. I told Mustang Bobby to just put up the same thing and maybe I'll be able to have something more to say at New Years. - DH

Mustang Bobby asked me to say a few words, and since he's the author and I'm just the character, I don't have a choice, do I?

So, I just want to say thanks to all of you who've been following my life story -- such as it is -- this year. It's kind of interesting to look back to all those years ago and remember what was going on back in L.A., and I hope you're enjoying it. It brings back a lot of memories.

I know MB's been a little slow in putting up the chapters. That's my fault, actually; you just don't spill your guts all at once, and so I've been stringing him along a little. Don't worry; I'll let him pick up the pace after New Year's.

Anyway, Merry Christmas from me, Danny, Eric, Greg, and the rest of the gang at Small Town Boys. Thanks for looking in on us, and keep in touch, okay?

Dramatic News

I can now cross one more thing off my Life Goals list.

The Manhattan Repertory Theatre of New York has selected my play, Can't Live Without You, for its Winterfest 2008 series. It will open on Wednesday, January 23 with additional performances on Friday, January 25 and Saturday, January 26. Tickets are $20 (with a complimentary beverage) and are available through their website or by calling 646-329-6588.

What this means is that I will be a New York-produced playwright.

A lot of the credit goes to Rachel Charlop-Powers who read the play at the William Inge Theatre Festival last April and fell in love with it. She's been the driving force behind this production, and I will be eternally grateful to her.

Oh, yes, I'm going to see it, and if you're in the New York area, please come and see it.

As a little background, this play merges two characters from my works -- Donny Hollenbeck of Small Town Boys and Bobby Cramer of Bobby Cramer -- into one story. I started working on Can't Live Without You in the winter of 2001 when I was having a writer's block on Bobby Cramer and hadn't yet resumed work on Small Town Boys. So the Donny who is in the play isn't the "same" Donny in novel; he's a writer living with his girlfriend in the Florida Keys. But in a lot of ways, they are similar; they're both going through life almost oblivious to things around them until something startles them to the point of waking up and seeing their life from the third person.

Can't Live Without You is a romantic comedy in two acts and I had a lot of fun writing it. I've been trying to get theatres and producers to read it and even workshop it since I wrote it, but this opportunity at the Manhattan Rep came out of Rachel's efforts and I am very happy -- and fortunate -- to have a friend like her with such enthusiasm and love for the story.

Anyway, if you're in the NYC area, I hope you'll come see it, and I hope that you like it.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 48

Chapter Guide

Cross-Country

Traffic was heavy on southbound I-75, but it kept moving. Mike was silent as he drove, occasionally muttering at the slower drivers. Donny dozed off after a while, the steady thrum of the tires and the bumps in the road lulling him into a semiconscious state, the music from the radio adding a weird background layer to his dreams; Paul McCartney’s “Comin’ Up” kept playing over and over.

They were just south of Wapakoneta (“Home of Neil Armstrong, first man on the moon”) when Mike suddenly said, “You never answered my question.”

“Huh?” replied Donny, snapping awake. “What question?”

“Why’d you get an agent?”

Donny sat up slowly, his back aching a little. “I told you. It was Jack’s idea,” he yawned.

“Well, you didn’t say no.”

“No, I didn’t. No skin off my ass, and if this thing takes off….”

“You talk to Eric or Greg about it?”

“No. Why should I?”

“They might like to know that one of their partners is moonlighting as a screenwriter and producer.”

“I don’t really think they give a shit. They get their money’s worth out of me and I haven’t missed any work because of it.”

It was starting to rain. Mike put the wipers on intermittent. A semi went past, throwing a spray of water from the wheels. “It’s not like being a producer is a part-time job, Donny. You’ll be called on to make a lot of decisions.”

“Like what?”

“Lots of stuff. Casting, directing, design, what studios to approach, where to shoot, how much to spend on stuff, working with the unions…” Mike glanced at him. “Who to hit up for money. This doesn’t fall from the skies, Donny. You’ve gotta find a bunch of other people who’ll sign on to put up the dough. How much are you putting up?”

Donny shifted in his seat again. “I don’t know yet.” He actually hadn’t thought about it.

“Well, you’ve gotta come up with a business plan. Jack Magahee may open a lotta doors for you, but you’re gonna have pay the admission. And even if Jack is behind it, that doesn’t mean that a lot of people will fall all over themselves to put up an investment. You talk to Paul about this?”

“No.” Donny couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to Paul Jeffries. It had been at least since the weekend at Palm Springs.

“Might not be a bad idea. He knows the nuts and bolts of the business. He’s the one who got Back Home Again up and running.”

Donny nodded and settled back in the seat. Mike lapsed into silence. The radio station started to fade, so he punched the seek button until he found another one. They were close to the Indiana border before he spoke again. “I really liked the script,” he said suddenly. It was the first time he’d said anything about it.

“Thanks,” Donny replied.

“You open to suggestions?”

“Sure.”

“You know that it’s gonna go through a ton of rewrites before it’s done, right?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And you’re ready for that.”

“Like they say, writers are one step above the kid who gets the coffee.”

“And don’t get paid as much,” Mike said with a snort.

“Right.” Donny glanced at him. “You have some ideas?”

Mike shrugged, glanced in the rearview mirror, and passed a semi that was slowing for an exit. “Just a couple of thoughts, that’s all.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, so far it’s just the four guys, right? Eric, Greg, Bobby, and Scott, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What about adding, say, some other characters? Maybe like a boss or a parent or something? Some connection with the outside world, so to speak?” He shot Donny a quick look. “Just a thought.”

“Okay,” he replied and stared out the window.

They stopped on the western side of Indianapolis for lunch at a McDonald’s, then Donny took over the driving. Mike reclined the seat and fell asleep almost instantly. The interstate wore on, the terrain changing little as they passed farm fields, small towns, billboards, and exits. The radio stations changed locations on the dial but still put out the same music and the same commercials; even the news didn’t change much.

As they neared St. Louis the traffic started to get heavy. Mike awoke with a start and sat up. “Where are we?”

“Coming up on Saint Looey,” said Donny. “Grab the atlas and let’s see if we can avoid going through the middle of town.”

Mike pulled the Rand-McNally out of the door pocket and flipped through it. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine. We’re gonna need some gas soon.”

“There’s an Amoco at the next exit.”

“Great. I need to take a leak.”

“Me too.”

They took turns in the men’s room, then Donny pumped the gas while Mike went in and paid. He came out with a couple of Snickers, Cokes, and two packs of Camels. “I had the weirdest dreams,” he said as he popped the top on the Coke. “You and me and Jeremy Dixon…”

“A three-way? No thanks.”

“No, it wasn’t like that. We were sitting on some set like we were shooting a movie or something. He was being all nice and sweet about it, too.”

Donny screwed the gas cap on. “Sounds like a dream.”

Mike walked away from the gas pumps to light a cigarette. “You thought about who else you’d like to see in it?”

Donny shrugged. “Sure; Matt Damon, Chris O’Donnell, Jason Priestley…”

Mike chuckled. “I’m talkin’ about in the project, not in the hot tub.”

“Not really. I just figured that the casting people would figure that out.”

“You might have a say in it.”

“Well, then…I don’t know. I guess it all depends on who shows up. Jack said he had a bunch of people who were interested.”

“Did he say who?”

“No.”

Mike finished his cigarette. “That’s the thing. If you get a big name, the rest’ll come running. That’s why I was thinking that if you had a part for an older character, you might be able to get a big name. And since the older character doesn’t have to play a gay character it might be a good enough draw to get the names to play the gay parts, even if they – the actors – are straight. Kinda takes the stigma off it.” He opened the driver’s side door. “C’mon, let’s see if we can hit Joplin tonight.”

As they got back on the interstate, Donny said, “Y’know, you haven’t said you’d do it.”

Mike grinned a little. “Have your people talk to my people.”

Five hours later Mike pulled off the interstate where the signs indicated a Comfort Inn near the highway. They were just east of Joplin. Donny went into the lobby and registered since Mike didn’t want to run the risk of being recognized and be seen checking into a motel with another man. When he got to the space where the form asked for his car’s registration, he jotted down the plate from his Tahoe. They dumped their bags in the room – it had two queen size beds – and went across the parking lot to the family restaurant next door. It was almost empty, but Mike still sat with his back to the rest of the restaurant. The waitress brought them water, handed them menus, and left them alone.

Donny scanned the menu, decided on the chicken breast dinner, and stretched stiffly. He looked around. The only other patrons were an elderly couple several table over – the husband was reading Reader’s Digest while his wife filed her nails – and a table of four teens – two boys and two girls – at the other end of the room. “So,” Donny mused, “who do you think will watch it?”

“Watch what,” said Mike, still looking at the menu.

“The show. Small Town Boys.”

“I dunno, Donny. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m just wondering…look around. You think the folks in Joplin, Missouri, are gonna watch a series about four gay guys?”

Mike closed the menu and glanced over his shoulder. “Well, my guess is that if Jack Magahee thinks it will sell, he’s probably right. He’s from around here, y’know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Lebanon, Missouri. We passed it a ways back. His dad was in the dairy business. Still is, I think. Anyway, he has the knack, and if he thinks it’ll sell in Joplin, he may be right. Who knows; this town could be the gay capital of the Ozarks.”

Donny looked at the other customers. The teens were laughing over something and one girl loudly but laughingly protested; “Stop that, Wayne!”

“I kinda doubt it,” Donny said.

They ate quietly and went back to the room. Mike stretched out on one of the beds, turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. There wasn’t much on, so he left it on The Weather Channel as they got undressed. “One bed or two?” Mike asked with a shy grin. Donny pretended to think about it for a moment, then said, “One.” Mike chuckled, reached over, and tugged on Donny’s belt.

They were awake the next morning before dawn. They had pancakes and sausage at the restaurant, now crowded with truckers and locals, and were on the interstate as the sun was coming up through the remainder of the fog that had settled overnight.

Oklahoma became Texas without much notice from the vantage point of the interstate, and at mid-afternoon they stopped in Amarillo for a late lunch. They crossed the Texas-New Mexico border, passing a sign that told them that they were now one thousand miles from Los Angeles.

Sixty miles east of Albuquerque they stopped for gas. Donny got out and stretched. There was a small motel across the way and further into the town he could see a row of stores and buildings. He remembered seeing a billboard for a restaurant called The Tumbleweed that promised STEAKS. He looked at his watch; with the time change it was still early, but they were in no hurry.

“Whaddaya say we stop here for the night?” he said to Mike.

He looked around and shrugged. “Yeah, we’re still an hour from Albuquerque and the middle of rush hour. What the hell.”

The motel room was small but clean and neat with twin double beds and a TV on a stand in the corner. The under-window heater/air conditioner rattled a little but it warmed up the room, and after settling in they drove down the main street, past the bank, a storefront café, several antique shops, a pharmacy, a gas station, and a feed store.

“I think I’ve been here before,” said Mike.

“You’re kidding. When?”

“When we were shooting Silver Star. A bunch of us took a day trip from Santa Fe; came down here, stopped for lunch, prowled around the antique shops. It was fun.”

The bar at The Tumbleweed was busy, but the dining room was almost empty and they got a table right away. They ordered drinks; a beer for Donny, scotch on the rocks for Mike. When the drinks arrived, Mike raised his glass. “Here we go; back to work.”

“We’re still about a thousand miles out of L.A.”

“Yeah, well, almost there.” He took a large gulp of the scotch. “Wow, first drink I’ve had in a long time,” he said.

Donny sipped his beer. He noticed that Mike was a little on edge; he was nervously tapping the menu with his fingers as he scanned it.

“Has Jason got anything lined up for you when you get back?”

Mike shrugged. “The usual. It’s getting to be that time of year when producers and studios start putting pilots together for next year, so I’m sure there’ll be casting calls and shit when I get back. Not that I’m in a great hurry to jump into another loser.” He looked up guiltily. “No offense.”

“You haven’t said you’d do it.”

Mike grinned tightly. “You’re right.” The waitress came back and took their orders for salads and steaks. Mike ordered another drink. He rubbed his hands together and looked around the dining room, gazing at the old license plates on the wall. “Y’know,” he finally said, “maybe I’m not right for it. Most of those guys are in their twenties, right? It’s kind of a stretch for me to pull off that, dontcha think?”

“It doesn’t really say how old they are,” Donny replied. “They’re out of college, but that’s about it.”

“Yeah, but come on…who’s gonna watch a bunch of middle-aged guys? The audience is gonna want to see young and hung, not old and saggy.”

Donny chuckled. “You’re nowhere close to middle age, Mike, and you’re still hung.” Mike smirked. “And besides, weren’t you just saying it needs an older character?”

“Yeah, for contrast. Someone like…I dunno, Tom Skerritt or someone like that.”

“Think we can get him?”

“Who, Tom Skerritt? I doubt it; he’s still doing Picket Fences. But the guys are younger than me.” His fresh drink arrived and he took a sip.

Donny looked at him for a moment. “You have a problem with playing a gay character?” he said quietly.

Mike gazed at his drink. “Well,” he finally said softly, “once you’re pegged as a certain character, you can carry that with you for the rest of your life. Look at Bill Shatner. He’ll always be Captain Kirk; same with Leonard Nimoy as Spock. That show ran for three seasons and got such lousy ratings they almost cancelled it after one. But they’re both gonna die with Star Trek as the first line in their obits. I’m not sure I want to go out with ‘Lance Michaels, who played the lead role in the gay drama Small Town Boys, died today after being eaten by squirrels.’” He grinned a little. “I guess I just don’t want to get tagged with the gay label, that’s all. You saw yourself how scared people like Jeremy Dixon are by that.”

Donny remembered the lunch with Jack and Aaron how he had told him that Mike was already tagged as gay by some people. He sipped his beer and was very glad to see the waitress approaching with their salads.

“So,” Donny said, changing the subject, “you’re gonna stay in Idyllwild for now?”

Mike shook his head. “Jason’s lining up a condo for me over near where Greg lives, as a matter of fact. Already furnished and everything. Hit the ground running first thing next week.” He stabbed a forkful of salad and munched it. “Jason’s gonna land me something really good. You watch. Have you met Jason yet?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“He’s good. Nothing like Marty. He’s not gonna let me get pegged. No more of these second banana parts like the sleaze on Capitol Hill or the chickenshit deputy in that movie. No more retro sitcoms for no-name networks or cable channels, no more soaps. Good stuff.” He grinned tightly and Donny could feel the table tremble a little.

When their dinners arrived Mike ordered a glass of red wine and by the time they had finished he had had another and his eyes were a little glassy. But he paid the check and signed his name firmly to the credit card slip and walked steadily, if a little slowly, out to the parking lot.

“Want me to drive?” Donny asked, but Mike shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he said, getting behind the wheel. Donny glanced up and down the street to see if there was a cop around, but there was no traffic and it was a straight shot up the main street to the motel. Mike drove slowly and carefully back to the motel parking lot, the only sign of his state being that when he pulled into the space in front of the room he hit the concrete parking bar a little hard. “Whoops,” he muttered.

It was still early – not even nine o’clock – but it was dark outside and they’d driven all day. Mike undressed slowly and got in bed, rolling onto his side and pulling the blankets over him. “’Night,” he mumbled.

Donny brushed his teeth, set the alarm on his watch for six, and got in the other bed. Mike was already snoring. He was almost asleep when his cell phone rang. He jolted out of bed, yanked it off the charging cord, and stumbled into the bathroom by the third ring.

“Hey,” said Eric, “where are you?”

“East of Albuquerque,” Donny replied, trying to keep his voice low but loud enough to be heard.

“Okay. So you’ll be back, what tomorrow night? Wednesday?”

“Something like that. What’s up?”

“Nothing special; just wanted to check in. Say, you heard from Marc?”

“No, why?”

“Well, Greg was looking for the receivables report today and Marc took a personal day.”

“Huh.” It was unlike Marc to miss a deadline.

“Turns out he e-mailed it to Greg last week,” Eric continued, “but…”

“D’you call him?”

“Nah. Not a big deal. Just curious.”

“Well,” Donny said, remembering a chat with Marc the week before, “I think he said something about going up to Santa Barbara for Thanksgiving. Maybe he just decided to stay an extra day.”

“Okay. So, how’d it go? Have a good time?”

“Yeah, it was… nice. I’ll call you and tell you all about when we get back.”

“Cool. I’m in L.A., y’know.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“Listen, I’ve got something cooking that might be interesting for you.”

“Not a movie deal, I hope.”

Eric laughed. “No such luck.”

“What is it?”

“Enh….I’ll save it for when I see you.”

“Okay.”

“So how’s Mike?”

Donny glanced at the closed bathroom door. “He’s good. Ready to come back.”

“Okay. Well, listen, I’ll see you when you get here. Have a safe trip.”

Donny turned off the light and quietly opened the door. He was getting back in his bed when Mike said, “Who wazzat?”

“Eric. Just checking in.”

“Mmmph,” he replied, and a moment later was snoring again.

It took a while for Donny to get to sleep. He wondered what Eric had cooking, and he wondered about Marc; he had never taken a day off without planning it far in advance. Finally the steady roar of the heater lulled him to a fitful sleep with dreams of driving across the brown desert at twilight.

The next morning around seven they drove into town and parked across the street from the Gateway Café. The wind had picked up and little clouds of dust followed them as they crossed the street. There were a few other customers, mostly construction workers, gathered in one booth sipping coffee and smoking. The waitress, in her forties with thick glasses and a tinted perm, smiled and said, “Sit anywhere you like.” They took a booth halfway towards the back, and the waitress brought them coffee without them asking for it. Her nametag said her name was Eva.

Other than the usual bleary eyes of waking up, Mike seemed his usual self. He sipped the coffee and decided on a green chile and cheese omelet with whole wheat toast and hash browns, and grinned when Eva asked if he wanted extra chile on the side. “Sure, what the heck.” Donny ordered pancakes and bacon.

Mike looked around the café, taking in the pine paneling, the prints of cowboys riding the range, the Georgia O’Keeffe posters of cow skulls, and the little signs above the cash register that said “In God We Trust – everybody else pays cash” and “We reserve the right to refuse service to anybody, and that means you, Larry” – an apparent reference to a favorite customer. The kitchen exuded the aromas of bacon and biscuits mixing with the underlying scents of cooking oil, cigarette smoke, and cleaning solvent. Mike stretched, flexing his arms, and rested his elbows on the table.

“Ever notice that there’s a little place like this in every small town in America?”

Donny smiled. “Well, I haven’t been in every small town in America.”

“You know what I mean. Change the pictures from cowboys to duck hunters and you have the Northwoods in Maple City, right down to the waitress and the guys sitting around shootin’ the shit before going to work.” Mike took a sugar packet and shook it. “There must be a place like this in Perrysburg.” Donny nodded; he remembered Frank and some of the other guys on the crew would hang out at a place like this in town. It had a name, but it was known generically as “the coffee shop.”

The cowbell over the door rattled and two more men came in; a muscular young man with blond hair and Nordic features, followed by a short and wiry Hispanic in a jean jacket and cowboy hat. They sat at the booth with the other men, and Eva took two coffee mugs and the Bunn carafe over to the table.

“Morning, boys,” she said as she poured the coffee. They murmured and wrapped their hands around the mugs. “Where you goin’ today, Bobby?”

The blond replied shyly, “Out Old 66 to patch some holes near Green Pastures.”

One of the other men said, “That’ll take all day if you’re lucky.” The rest chuckled. “You like that shit, don’tcha, just you and the road and diggin’ holes, huh, Bobby?”

“S’okay,” he replied with a shy grin. “Beats fartin’ around with you jokers diggin’ out some arroyo full o’ tumbleweeds ‘n scorpions.” Everyone laughed at that, and Mike said quietly, nodding at Bobby, “There you go. That’s you. The strong silent type.

The cook in the kitchen put two plates in the window and banged the bell. “Order up!” She looked through the window. “Gene! Where the hell’s my potting soil?”

The Hispanic hollered back, “It’s on the truck coming today from Albuquerque! I swear, Celeste!” Everyone else at the table laughed.

Eva brought the plates and topped off the coffees. A few more customers came in and the place got busy. Mike and Donny finished and paid their bill at the register. Eva smiled and said, “C’mon back any time.” As they left Gene looked up at Donny for a second and gave him quick nod.

As they got back to the Land Rover, Mike looked down the street. “Nice little town, isn’t it?” he said. “Be nice to find a place like this and just…settle down.”

“What’s wrong with Idyllwild?”

Mike chuckled cynically and got behind the wheel. They checked out of the motel and were back on the interstate by eight. Mike drove silently until they got to the crush of traffic in Albuquerque where he barked impatiently at the slowdowns in the construction zones. But they got across the Rio Grande without incident and were soon in the desert again, passing through between the mesas and rolling plains dotted with juniper and sage. It wasn’t until they were near Laguna that Mike said, “So, what did you and my dad talk about?”

Donny had been wondering when Mike would get around to asking. He smiled to himself. “Just…stuff. Gettin’ to know you, that kind of thing. What about you and my dad?”

Mike grinned. “Same thing. I guess you haven’t told them much about me.”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno, I guess… I never really talked about stuff like that with them.”

“Stuff like what? Your friends ? Your sex life?”

Donny shook his head. “Nope. And definitely not my sex life. Do you?”

“Well, I don’t give them the details, but… Dad knows what’s going on. I never really could keep anything from him. Mom’s a different story.”

“So you told your dad about you being gay?”

“I told you that story, didn’t I?”

“No, I kinda think I would have remembered that.”

“I was at MSU. I’m pre-vet but every chance I get, I’m taking an acting class, trying out for plays. Then fall semester of my junior year I get cast to play McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest…the Jack Nicholson part, y’know? Well, there’s this other guy in the cast named Everett, and we hit it off at rehearsals and pretty soon…. You get the idea. Ev’s a last-semester senior, though, and he’s all hot to go to L.A. in January to become the next Tom Cruise, and he says that if I go with him….” Mike looked a little sheepish. “Anyway, I went home that Christmas and told my folks that I was going out to L.A. Mom had a fit, but Dad….” Mike laughed hollowly. “He took me into his study and said, ‘You must really be in love with this fellow.’”

“How’d he know?”

“He and Mom had come to see the play. Dad said he could tell the minute he saw us together after the show that it we were more than just buddies.”

“Was he pissed?”

“No. Well, yeah. He said he wasn’t, but he kept saying he wasn’t over and over, so I knew he was…He said he was disappointed and worried that I was giving up on college so easily, but…. He knew he couldn’t stop me. But the deal was that they would pay for my college, and so I was on my own. ‘Course, if I ever decide to go back and finish my degree, he said he’s still willing to pay for it.”

Donny watched the scenery go by for a moment. “But you never said, ‘Dad, I’m gay.’”

“Nope. Did you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Funny how they know anyway.”

They had passed the Acoma exit before Donny asked, “So, what happened with you and this Everett guy.”

Mike chuckled. “Remember those Hardee’s commercials?”

“Yeah.”

“We were both up for it. I got it. He didn’t. Things got a little tense. Then he met some other guy at a casting call, he gave me a week to get out, and I ended up on the couch of a friend of my freshman year roommate who was a flight attendant and had a place out by LAX. Then I met Paul Jeffries. Last I heard Ev’s back in Saginaw.”

The interstate wound on, gradually rising to the Continental Divide, which was barely more than the crest of a hill. Donny said, “He said he loves you and he wants me to know that.”

Mike nodded. “That’s what your dad said to me.”

The road wound through the red desert landscape, the distant hills fading to the horizon. They crossed the Arizona border, passing into the Navajo nation, the radio popping and fading away until Mike punched the seek button and found KTNN, the station out of Window Rock. They listened for a few moments to the strange but melodic syllables of the broadcast in Navajo, then Mike switched it off and they drove on past the Painted Desert and Flagstaff, the only sound the rhythm of the tires and the occasional passing semi. The sky was a brilliant blue.

They did a drive-through lunch at a McDonald’s in Williams. As they waited for the Suburban ahead of them, Mike said suddenly, “I’ve always felt like I let him down, that’s all.”

“Your dad.”

“Yeah.” He opened the window and smiled at the clerk. “I know he loves me. But I know he couldn’t ever get his head around the idea that this… would be the kind of life he thought I’d lead.”

“What does he want for you?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know.”

“Neither does he, I’ll bet… other than just to be happy…”

Mike laughed hollowly. “That’s the hardest part.”

“Being happy?”

“Yeah. Pretty fuckin’ tall order in this business.”

Several miles went by before Donny said, “Then why don’t you just quit?”

“Quit what?”

“Hollywood. ‘The business.’ All this. Just quit.”

“What would I do?”

“Whatever you want. Get a regular job.”

“Doing what?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Mike. That’s the least of your worries. You’ve got money. You own income property. You don’t need to work for a while at least.” Donny grinned a little. “You could come work for me. We’re advertising for warehouse help.”

“Ha ha.”

“Well, what then? Why can’t you quit? You’ve said it enough times, Mike. ‘I hate this town. I hate this business. I would give it up in a heartbeat.’ So do it. Tomorrow morning tell Jason that you’re sick and tired of all the bullshit, all the ass-kissing, all the deceit and crap and that you’re going to find an honest job that pays twenty bucks an hour and has health insurance. I can get you the paperwork.”

Mike gazed ahead down the road for another mile or so. “That’s the problem, Donny. I can’t imagine doing anything else. It’s all I ever wanted to do. From the time I was old enough to know there was such a thing as acting and performing. It was make-believe and imagination and … something other than what I was.”

“What’s wrong with who you are?”

Mike was silent for a moment. “Didn’t you ever want to be someone else?”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know, Donny… just someone other than who you are.”

“Like what, an imaginary friend?”

Mike shrugged. “No, I mean wishing you weren’t you.”

“Not really. Besides, it’s kinda tough when you have a twin.”

“So you’ve always been happy with yourself. Never imagined being anyone else.”

“Can’t say I did, Mike.”

Mike grinned a little. “So where did all those guys in Small Town Boys come from? Eric, Greg, Scott, Bobby…? Eric, the cut-up, the one with the crazy sense of humor; Greg, the serious and cynical one who never expects anything good to come from anything; Scott, the flirt who’s always on the prowl for a quickie but secretly wants to find Mr. Right, and Bobby, the quiet one who has no clue that he could have anyone he wants and just goes through life trying not to bump into the furniture. Tell me that there’s not some of you in all of them? I’ve seen you be all four of them. Mostly you’re Bobby, but still…they’re all you.”

“You over-think things, Mike,” Donny said.

“That’s Greg talking.”

Donny snorted. “So that’s why you’re an actor. You wanted to be somebody else.”

“Yeah. Instead of being Mike Lankowski from Maple City, I could be … Biff Loman, or Hamlet, or Tom Wingfield or Stanley Kowalski…”

“If I remember my high school lit classes, none of those guys are really happy, either.”

“It’s not about being happy, Donny. It’s about learning about them so I can understand being me. And if I do that, maybe I can bring it out in the characters I play and reach the audience…touch them in some way.”

“So what don’t you like about yourself?”

“Aw, c’mon, Donny, I’m not gonna play shrink-rap with you.”

“No, I really want to know, Mike, ‘cause as far as I’m concerned, you’re a nice guy and I like being around you. So if you’re gonna base your entire life’s work on looking for answers to stuff like what’s wrong with you, I think that’s your only problem. Most people don’t worry about shit like that.”

“Actors aren’t ‘most people.’”

“So you’re telling me that all the people in show business are doing it to find themselves? Jesus, no wonder it’s so fucked up.” He shook his head. “But how does that explain someone like Jeremy Dixon?”

“Jeremy Dixon has a pretty face and a big dick and he knows how to use both to get what he wants, which is a lot of money and a lot of sex. I don’t know why everybody else is in it, Donny. Now you’re over-thinking things.”

“So tell me this, Mike. Is it worth it?”

“Compared to what? How many people get to do what they want and get paid for it and …?” Mike fidgeted in the seat a little. “Do you love what you do, Donny? Do you love going into your office every day and sitting at a desk and … doing whatever it is you do all day? Do you? Do you think you’re making a contribution to something other than your account at Bank of America or your partnership agreement?” His voice tightened a little and he gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Are you doing what you wanted to do ever since you were old enough to think about a job beyond being a spaceman or a fireman or whatever it was you wanted to be when you were eight years old? Is being the VP of HR at McKay-Gemini what little Donny Hollenbeck wanted to be? I know what Danny wanted. He wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to serve and he wanted to be … whatever it is that he is in the Air Force. But you’ve never told me what you really want…and if it makes you happy.”

Donny looked at Mike, his mouth slightly agape. A large semi from McDonald’s roared past them, the huge painted French fries looking like gargantuan remnants from the crumpled bag on top of the center console. “Jesus, Mike,” Donny finally said, “now I know what you and my dad talked about.”

They stopped for gas in Needles, just across the California-Arizona border. The sign said “Los Angeles 255” and the red hills faded into the desert.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 47

This has been the longest I've gone between publishing chapters of this story; nearly three months. My apologies for this long absence, but this chapter is one of the longest in the story and it covers some issues that, frankly, were hard for me to write about. I hope you will find it worth the long read. I've also moved the chapter guide up to the top of the page to make it easier for you to catch up on what you might have missed. - MB

Chapter Guide

Fathers and Sons

As if by magic, Back Home Again suddenly became a hot property. A week after the meeting in Jack’s office CBS announced that it would show the film as a holiday special the weekend before Christmas, bumping the rerun of A Very Brady Christmas. The network publicity department got a freelancer in Michigan to do an interview with Mike over the phone, and Jeremy actually went on Entertainment Tonight to promote it.

The script of Small Town Boys was delivered to Mike by Fed Ex. The next day Donny was in a meeting in Greg’s office when Lily buzzed through telling him that Mike was calling. Donny went back to his office.

“You wrote this,” said Mike.

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

“Is that good ‘holy shit’ or bad ‘holy shit’?”

“Jesus, Donny, this is really good. I didn’t know you were a writer.”

“Oh, so all that stuff we did on Return to Sender was just jerking off?”

“No, but I mean...” Donny could hear pages shuffling. “This is....wow.”

“So you’re gonna do it?”

“Well, we’ll definitely talk about it when I get back.”

“When’s that?”

“Um,” Mike said, sounding a little more sober, “there’s still some things going on here that I’m dealing with, so probably not before Thanksgiving.” His voice trailed off, then suddenly he said, “Hey, I got an idea. Why don’t you come up here for Thanksgiving and then we can drive back together? Y’know, take some time off and maybe even stop off in Ohio and see your folks before heading back?”

Donny grabbed his desk calendar and flipped ahead to the week after Thanksgiving. There was nothing pressing, but just to be sure he put Mike on hold, buzzed Lily and asked her if there was anything major on the calendar the last week of the month. There wasn’t so he went back to Mike’s line. “Sounds like a plan,” he told him.

“Think you can get the time off?”

“Yeah. I know the personnel guy.”

“Great. Call me when you have the reservation.”

He buzzed Lily and told him to get him a one-way flight to Traverse City as close to Thanksgiving as possible. After he hung up he tried to remember where he’d put his winter clothes.

*

Lily managed to get him the last seat on a flight out of LAX the day before Thanksgiving. It was in first class, but it would have to do. The plane was packed with holiday travelers, and so was O’Hare; the K concourse streaming with hundreds of people rushing in all directions, the P.A. system squawking out announcements, children crying, and above it all the general noise of a busy airport.

He had a couple of hours to kill so he bought a horrendously overpriced sandwich and beer at a restaurant and watched the people go by. He tried to think if he knew anyone in Chicago, and then remembered Scott Welles. He hadn’t heard from him since the last time they’d hooked up three years ago, just before Scott had moved to Chicago, and the last he’d heard anything about him had been the town gossip that Danny had brought back two years ago.

He thought about calling him. Across the concourse was a bank of payphones, and after he finished eating he went over and found one with a phone book that hadn’t been shredded. There was lots of “Welles” in the greater Chicago area, and quite a few “Welles S” and even seven or eight “Welles Scott,” some with middle initials, some without. He didn’t know Scott’s middle name, and he didn’t feel like calling to find out. Besides, he wouldn’t know what to say if he called him, anyway. He stopped at a newsstand, picked up a late edition of the Chicago Tribune, found the gate for the flight to Traverse City, and settled down to do the crossword.

After a while he looked up to see the gate area was beginning to fill up; a middle-aged couple with matching tote bags were sharing a sandwich; a teenager in a bulky ski parka stared intently at the screen of his Game Boy, tiny electronic sounds blurbling from it periodically. A businessman in a grey overcoat paced as he talked on a cell phone, gesticulating with a rolled-up copy of Forbes, and a woman who appeared to be in her thirties wearing an MSU t-shirt under a zippered sweatshirt was reading a paperback. From the picture of a muscular blond man embracing a ravishing woman on the cover, Donny guessed she was reading a romance novel.

Another teenager, wearing a letter jacket from a well-known New England prep school and carrying a bag from McDonald’s, came and sat next to the other teen. The second boy looked a little older and was leaner than the other, but there was enough of a resemblance that Donny guessed they were brothers heading home from school for Thanksgiving break. The older boy wordlessly offered some French fries to the game-player, but he shook his head curtly and concentrated on the little screen in front of him.

They all looked like typical Midwesterners, as Donny did in his jeans, Nikes and winter jacket that had a window manufacturer logo over his left pec. It was a far cry from the multicultural crowd that had gathered in LAX for the flight to Chicago; no one here was speaking in Spanish, nor was there the group from India travelling together, the men solemnly dressed in impeccable suits, the women in floor-length dresses and headscarves. Here there were no crying children; the only baby in the gate was fast asleep in his stroller parked next to the young couple sitting across from him. The father, in his worn jeans and suede leather jacket, didn’t look much older than Donny, and the mother, who barely looked old enough to have a child, read from a bible, occasionally glancing at her sleeping child. Completing the impromptu nativity scene was a cat carrier on an empty seat from which an occasional meow was heard.

This was the “flyover” crowd that Trish had talked about. These were the people that D’Angelo wanted to reach with the sitcom version of Small Town Boys. But would any of these people watch a TV show about four gay guys living in a house in L.A. if it wasn’t a sitcom? What if he was to ask them? Not outright, of course, but to casually engage them in conversation, and then off-handedly ask them what they thought of the idea?

The teenagers would laugh nervously, cross their legs, and make fag jokes once Donny was out of earshot. The young couple with the baby wouldn’t approve; the bible being a giveaway to their reaction. The middle-aged lady might nod thoughtfully, but the husband would not answer. The businessman didn’t watch TV, and the woman reading the romance novel might watch if it wasn’t on against her other favorite programs. Donny slouched in his seat. Then again, he thought, you really don’t know. After all, no one knows I’m an executive producer of a new TV series. I probably look to them like just another college student waiting for a plane.

More passengers filtered into the gate area and the gate agent began to make preparations to board the flight. They trooped down the stairs and out onto the tarmac, the cold wind catching Donny by surprise, reminding him how long it had been since he’d been in really cold weather. Flakes of snow flurried by.

The plane was stuffy and hot, making Donny sleepy, and once they took off he dozed most of the way, only coming fully awake when the landing gear was lowered. He looked out the window, but all he could see was clouds and snow whipping past the window until the plane actually hit the runway. It slowly taxied to the ramp, the darkness cut by the streetlights over the parking lots off in the distance and the greenish glow of the lights over the gate. The airport itself seemed to be only half-lit.

Donny trotted across the tarmac, his shoulders hunched against the cold, and up the gate escalator into Cherry Capital Airport. It was colder here than Chicago and he was grateful for the sweater he had pulled on that morning. It had been uncomfortably warm even with the air conditioning on in the car when Marc dropped him at the departure level at LAX. “Have a good time,” Marc had said, “and say hi to Mike for me.”

“Will do,” he’d replied, pulling his duffel out of the back seat. “See you in a week or so.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“I’ll be back way before Eric gets here.” Eric was coming down in ten days for the year-end planning meetings.

“Hope so,” Marc had said. He waved, checked the mirrors, and cut back into traffic in front of the Super Shuttle.

Mike was waiting outside the security checkpoint. Like a lot of the other men in the waiting area, he was wearing the requisite hunting coat and cap, heavy boots, and a flannel shirt and jeans. If anyone recognized him as a movie star, they didn’t show it, and when he grabbed Donny and gave him a big brotherly hug, no one seemed to notice.

“So how’s things in Tinseltown?” he said as they strode to the baggage claim area.

“’Bout the same as it was when you split,” Donny replied. “How’s things here?”

Mike nodded. “Good. Okay.” He grinned quickly, almost nervously. “Quiet, compared to out there.”

“Colder, too.”

“Yeah, you forget what it’s like.”

One of the teenagers from the plane was staring at Mike. Donny nudged him and Mike nodded. “I get that here sometimes,” he murmured. “They’ve seen me somewhere before, but they can’t place it. I was shopping at Meijer’s the other day and the checkout girl thought I was Matthew McConaughey.”

Donny chuckled. “Better than Matt Frewer.”

“Tell me about it.”

The baggage carousel began moving and Donny’s duffel appeared. Mike grabbed it and they headed for the parking lot. The Land Rover was covered with road dirt and, aside from the shiny white California license plates, looked like just another SUV in northern Michigan.

“I made a reservation at the...” Donny started to say, but Mike cut him off.

“I know. I cancelled it. You’re staying out at our place.”

“How did you...?”

“I called your office this morning to find out what time your plane was getting in, and when your secretary told me about your reservation, I told her to cancel it. C’mon, Donny, that place was miles from the house. How were you gonna get back and forth?”

“Rent a car.”

“Fuck that shit, Donny.”

“I didn’t want to impose.”

Mike snorted. “Not a problem. We’ve got a guest room. Dad’s looking forward to meeting you.”

They were driving along the lake shore. The streetlights on the parkway were bright enough to illuminate some of the beach and catch the whitecaps of the waves as they came ashore. “So what have you told your folks about me?”

Mike gave him a wicked grin. “That you and I have been hot lovers off and on for the last couple of years as well as the executive producer for my next project and you’ve come here to meet the parents and ask for my hand in marriage.”

“Ha ha.”

“That you’re just a friend.”

“Okay.”

“Would you rather I’d gone with the hot lover line?”

Donny shrugged. “Probably more believable than the executive producer bit.”

“Yeah. You don’t exactly look like Louis B. Mayer.”

They went another mile or so, past boatyards and marinas, the lots full of tarped hulls and cabin cruisers. The traffic was light, and they turned off onto M-72 heading west, following the arrow pointing toward Empire. “So this is the plan,” Mike said. “Thanksgiving tomorrow, then Friday morning head to Toledo, see your folks, then head for L.A. Get there by Wednesday night, early Thursday. How’s that sound?”

“Good,” replied Donny. He was looking out the window at the houses passing by, lights in the windows glowing warmly. They all had the high-pitched roofs characteristic of the area. By Christmas the snow would start accumulating, and this part of the state often got more than fourteen feet over a winter. “So, what have you been doing for the last month or so?”

“Not much, really.” He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “The thing is...Dad got diagnosed with prostate cancer back in September. I....”

“Jesus,” said Donny, “I’m sorry to hear that. Is he...?”

Mike smiled wistfully. “Oh, he’s doing pretty well. They caught it early. Despite the backwoodsy look of the place, they’ve got a hell of a good hospital in Traverse City. State of the art, really.”

“So don’t you want to stick around?”

“He doesn’t want me to. He said it’s not like he’s gonna go next week, so he said to get the hell out.” Mike chuckled softly. “Dad’s fighting mad and he’s gonna beat it. He’s also not the kind of guy who gets all sentimental. That comes from being a vet and knowing that at some point he has to put someone’s dog or cat to sleep. Life goes on. So when Jason called about your project, Dad’s first question was when was I leaving?”

They turned north through the evergreen forest until Mike slowed and turned off the highway into a gravel driveway. The black mailbox by the road said LANKOWSKI. The drive wound through the cedars until a modern log home, brightly lit by floodlights hanging from the eaves, emerged from the night. The drive circled around to a low deck, the headlights flashing past the carved front door. “Here we are,” Mike said.

The front door opened and a tall man in his mid-fifties stepped out onto the deck. He looked like an older and leaner version of Mike with steel-grey hair and the same features. He was wearing a red-checked flannel shirt and jeans, and Donny suddenly thought of the man on the Bounty paper towel wrapper except without the mustache. A golden retriever bounded out the door and trotted over to the driver’s side of the Land Rover.

Donny felt a wave of nervousness run through him and his legs trembled. He’d never met the parents of any of his lovers before, and he remembered how Mike had described the icy relationship he had with his mother. He let out a deep sigh and glanced at Mike. “This is it,” he whispered.

Mike shut off the engine. “Don’t worry. Neither Bailey or my dad bite.”

Dr. Lankowski shook Donny’s hand firmly. “Hi, Gene Lankowski. Let me grab your bags,” he said, then opened the back door and got the duffel bag. Bailey, her tail wagging furiously, sniffed eagerly at Donny’s leg and put her muzzle in his hand. “We have some leftovers if you’re still hungry,” Gene said over his shoulder as he went in the house.

The aroma of cinnamon and baking bread greeted them as they stepped through the door. The kitchen was off to the right of the front foyer that opened into a large living area that overlooked the back through large sliding doors. The room itself was furnished with cedar and birch-style chairs and tables with a colorfully-woven Native rug on top of the hardwood floor. A large stone fireplace at the other end crackled, the flames reflecting off the doors and vaulted ceiling. The woods were lit with floodlights, showing rows of cedars and pines. It reminded Donny of the house in Idyllwild.

“Hey, Mom, this is Donny,” Mike said as he went into the kitchen, and Donny followed him. His mother, a trim woman with lightly colored hair streaked with grey, dusted her hands on her apron, smiled at Donny, and said “I’m Anita. Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Donny replied. The counter was lined with several pies and loaves of bread. “Wow,” he said. “Those smell fantastic. You must really love to bake.”

Mrs. Lankowski nodded. “Thank you. They’re all for tomorrow.”

Mike said, “Mom goes all out for Thanksgiving.”

“Let me know if I can help,” Donny replied.

Mrs. Lankowski raised an eyebrow. “I just might.”

“C’mon, let’s get you settled in.”

Gene led them down the hall off the living room, past a row of family photos, to the guest room. “There you are,” he said, plopping the duffel on the floor next to the bed. “Bath’s over there, extra blankets are in the closet.” He looked around to be sure that everything was in place. “Here, let me get your coat,” he added, and Donny shrugged it off. He took it out to the hall closet, and they went back to the kitchen. Donny looked at the pictures in the hall. There were several of Mike, all of them from his childhood or high school years, and several of his sister, her family, and the grandchildren. But there were no pictures of Mike from any of his films.

There was a plate of leftover chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans for him, and they chatted politely with the usual get-to-know-you stuff; Donny told the Lankowskis where he’d grown up and what he did in Los Angeles. They seemed as impressed by his home town upbringing as they did about his career. Donny didn’t say anything about his film career, and nobody asked him how he met Mike.

As they finished up, Mrs. Lankowski wordlessly put a pill bottle and a glass of water in front of her husband. He grinned slightly and said, “Thank you, my dear.” He took the medicine without comment.

Donny was getting ready for bed when Mike tapped softly on his door.

“All settled in?”

“Yeah. Nice place you’ve got here,” said Donny.

“This isn’t the place I grew up in,” Mike said. “Dad built it a couple of years ago as a place for him and Mom.” Mike poked the mattress. “Oh, and don’t mind Mom. She’s always been kinda quiet. Good call offering to help tomorrow, by the way.”

Donny grinned. “I might be more in the way, but...”

“It was nice. Don’t worry; she won’t hold you to it. She likes to do things herself.” Mike sat on the edge of the bed. “The dinner’s not until late tomorrow – like around five – so I thought I’d show you around.”

“Okay.” Donny glanced at Mike. He knew the signs; there was something on his mind. But Mike got up, gave Donny a quick hug, and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

*

The next morning was clear and cold. After a small breakfast Mrs. Lankowski shooed everyone out of the kitchen, and Mike and Donny went for a drive. Mike whistled Bailey into the wayback, and she paced back and forth looking out the windows.

They took the back roads, past cherry farms and orchards, the trees bare and stark against the sky. Mike slowed down as they passed a white farmhouse nestled at the bottom of a small valley. “That’s where we used to live. That was my granddad’s cherry farm. Dad sold most of the land and rented out the farm when he decided being a full time vet was work enough.” Donny looked at the neat clapboard house and the old red barn behind it, trying to imagine Mike growing up there.

They emerged at the lake shore and drove along the highway between the sand dunes and the woods. Many of the houses were closed for the season, as were a lot of the tourist shops along the road, windows and doors shuttered against the coming winter, leaves piled up in wind-blown piles in the porch corners. They passed through several small towns, some almost as abandoned as the shops, then turned inland and drove north through the hills. Off in the distance the lake, steel grey and cold, lay flat to the horizon.

The road bent down to the water again, this time along the shore of Grand Traverse Bay, passing through the village of Northport. The fields again were filled with fruit trees, marching in neat rows, the snow fences set up along the sides of the road in anticipation of the drifts to come. The road itself was lined with tall thin poles every hundred yards or so. Mike said it helped the snowplows stay on the road.

They finally ended up at the lighthouse park on the tip of the Leelanau peninsula. The old lighthouse was still there, now preserved as an historical site. The parking lot was empty.

They walked down to the shore, stepping over the rocks and the strands of seaweed, finally standing at the tip of the land, Bailey bounding ahead and startling a flock of gulls. There was a strong breeze blowing, whipping up the waves that came ashore. Off on the horizon two bumps of land – North and South Fox Island – were barely visible.

“Warm enough?” Mike said, digging his hands into his jeans pockets.

“Yeah,” said Donny, grateful for having pulled on the sweater that morning.

“C’mon, let’s walk down the beach a little; keep us warm.”

The shore turned to sand a little further on west of the lighthouse, the small dunes that curved up away from the shore providing a little more shelter. Mike pointed down the beach. “Used to come up here when I was a kid; there’s some back roads that lead out to the beach from behind that airport we passed. We’d go on picnics, and then...” he chuckled, “when I was in high school we’d come out there and have a little woodsie with my friends.”

“Kinda like what we’d do at Lorenzen’s quarry when I was a kid,” replied Donny.

“Yeah, smokin’ and drinkin’ and horsin’ around. Typical kid stuff.”

They walked on, passing some piles of driftwood. The sun was out and in spite of the wind it was not uncomfortable. “So,” Mike said, squinting a little, “who’s idea was it to send me the script?”

“Jack’s.”

“Jack’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Jack Magahee?”

“Yeah.”

“Why me?”

“Why not you?”

Mike shrugged. “Jason didn’t say anything about Jack. He just sent it on. I thought it was your idea.”

“I don’t even know Jason,” said Donny.

“But Gina does.”

“Gina knows everybody.”

Mike stopped to pull out his cigarettes. He offered one to Donny and they huddled together to light them. “So,” he said, “you gonna quit your job at McKay-Gemini, become some big-time producer like Paul Jeffries?”

“Hell no,” replied Donny.

Mike picked up a piece of driftwood, waved it at Bailey to get her attention, then threw it down the beach. The dog galloped after it, puffs of sand jetting back from her feet. “So this is just a one-time deal.”

“Probably.”

Mike squinted at him. “So why’d you hire an agent?”

Bailey came bounding back and dropped the stick, wagging her tail, waiting for Mike to throw it again.

They continued down the beach for a while. It actually began to warm up a little so by the time they turned around and headed back to the truck Mike had taken off his jacket.

They arrived back at the house in time to change into nice clothes, clean the sand off Bailey’s paws, sweep out of the back of the Land Rover, and help set the table. They set it for seven; Gene had invited his partner in his veterinary practice and his wife and son for the dinner. The house smelled of turkey, baking bread, cinnamon and cedar logs in the fireplace.

Promptly at four the Herlinger family – Clark, Stephanie, and son Tyler – arrived bearing a basket of fruit. Clark didn’t look much older than Mike; he was blond, a little chunky in the frame, and easily amused; he laughed at everything. Stephanie was small and attractive in a Midwestern sort of way; she wore her hair simply with very little make-up, and her outfit – a sweater and wool skirt – was simple but appropriately dressy for the occasion. Tyler was taller than both of his parents with his father’s hair color and the typical gangly thin frame of a sixteen-year-old. He was wearing a wool sweater over a button-down shirt and neatly-pressed jeans. He was silent, nodding a hello to the Lankowskis and shaking hands wordlessly when he was introduced to Mike and Donny.

Stephanie went into the kitchen to help with the last touches, and Gene showed Clark and Tyler into the living room. They settled into chairs, and the conversation drifted from local news to football and finally to Clark politely asking Donny what he did in Los Angeles. Donny replied that he worked for a software company, and they bombarded him with questions about computers, software, the internet, and what McKay-Gemini was doing. Donny did his best to answer without getting too technical. When he glanced over, he caught Mike grinning broadly at him.

Tyler had found a place on the corner of the couch where he sipped his Coke and occasionally munched a handful of Goldfish crackers. He listened silently, spending most of the time staring out the window at the woods. Finally Anita came in, announced that dinner was ready. Anita pointed out where everyone should sit; Donny next to Gene at the head of the table and across from Tyler, Mike next to her at the other end and across from Stephanie. They all held hands, bowed their heads as Gene offered a short grace, and they dug in.

“You boys are lucky,” said Clark as he picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes and took a small helping. “You can chow down all you want. Me, I gotta watch it or I’ll puff up like a balloon.”

Mike chuckled. “Hey, it happens,” he said, although he was still as lean as ever. “Now Donny...he’s the gymrat. He’ll burn it all off in one workout.”

“Nah,” replied Donny, taking a large helping. “Maybe two.” He passed the dish to Tyler and caught him staring at him. He grinned at the boy and took a slice of turkey.

The conversation drifted until Stephanie asked Mike about the movie he had been working on. Mike smiled and said that it was done and would be on the air in time for Christmas on CBS.

“Is that the one with Jeremy Dixon?” asked Stephanie.

“That’s it,” said Mike.

“Well,” said Clark, sounding impressed, “that’s impressive.”

Tyler looked down the table at Mike. “You’re in a movie with Jeremy Dixon?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. So...what’s he like?”

Mike grinned knowingly. “Nice guy. Good actor.”

Donny looked at Tyler, who looked at him quickly then down at this plate. If only you knew, Donny thought.

Stephanie asked Mike a lot of questions about Back Home Again, about making a movie, what it was like on the set.

Stephanie looked at Donny and said, “So you grew up in Los Angeles? That must have been interesting.”

“No,” Donny replied. “I actually grew up outside of Toledo.”

“Oh? How did you get to California?”

“The usual way,” Mike cut in. “The interstate.”

Everybody laughed, and Donny told the story about working construction, the ice storm, the Christmas card from the relatives, and his showing up in Whittier with a pick-up truck, a duffel bag, and $800 in the bank. “And one day I lucked into a job answering the phone at a computer company,” he concluded, taking a small slice of ham.

“He’s being modest,” Mike said. “He’s one of the brains behind the latest bubble in the dot-com business.”

“Which could pop at any minute,” warned Donny.

“So how did you two meet?” asked Clark, chewing on a dinner roll.

Donny shot Mike a look that said you take this one.

Mike said, “Friends. I was looking for a place to stay after the earthquake and Donny’s roommate Rob, who I knew from the studio, hooked us up.” Donny nodded. Nice cover, he thought. Somehow the conversation got to Donny helping Mike with the re-writes on Return to Sender and that led to the verge of Small Town Boys, but Donny was able to catch Mike’s eye, give him an almost imperceptible shake of the head to fend him off.

“So you’re a writer, too?” said Stephanie.

For an instant Donny wondered what would happen if he said, “Yeah, I’m working on a TV show about four gay guys sharing a house in Santa Monica,” and the thud as chins hit the table. But this didn’t seem to be the time or the place, so he just shook his head and said, “No, I just...helped Mike a little, that’s all.”

“He’s being modest again,” said Gene. “Aren’t you working on a project?”

Donny shot Mike a look; he had apparently told his parents something about Small Town Boys. “Oh, nothing really big. Everybody out in L.A. is writing something. It’ll probably go nowhere.” He shrugged and hoped that someone would change the subject. “Pass the rolls, please.”

Clark said to Mike, “Well, we were all disappointed to see your show get cancelled.”

Mike sighed, “That’s show biz. Everybody wants to be the next Friends.”

Donny noticed that Anita listened in silence, concentrating on her meal and making sure that everyone had plenty to eat. Donny also noticed that Tyler was looking at him frequently, to the point that Donny became self-conscious of it, wondering if there was some spinach on his teeth or he had a booger hanging off his nose. He carefully dabbed his mouth with his napkin, checked his teeth with his tongue, and assured himself that nothing was out of the ordinary. But Tyler was still looking at him, and he felt a twinge of discomfort.

The meal ended with a choice of pies, ice cream, and coffee, and Donny volunteered to help clear the table. Anita thanked him and then politely shooed him out of the kitchen while she and Stephanie cleaned up.

The TV was in Gene’s study off the living room and they settled in to watch the last of the late football game. The post-meal stupor was settling over them; Mike was stretched out in the La-Z-Boy, the afghan pulled over him, his eyes barely open. Tyler was already on the couch, but when Donny came in he shifted over and made room for him. Tyler seemed to be concentrating intently on the game, but when a commercial came on he glanced at Donny.

“You work out, huh,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Three, four times a week; sometimes more or less depending on work.”

Tyler was looking at the TV again. “Yeah, me too,” he said quietly. “Not like it’s doin’ any good,” he added with a self-deprecating tone.

“It takes time,” said Donny. “Can’t expect results overnight.”

“How long you been doin’ it?”

“Since high school. But I played football, too.”

“So like how old are you now?”

“Twenty-four.”

“So you’ve been doin’ it, like, for a long time.”

“Yeah, I guess. Nine years.”

Tyler scowled. “I just can’t seem to get...y’know...going.”

“Just keep at it,” Donny said. “Keep a positive attitude,” he said, wincing at the cliché.

“I try, but...”

Donny tried a different tack. “So why are you lifting in the first place? What do you want to get out of it?”

“To get big,” Tyler said instantly. “Could you like show me?”

“Show you what?”

“Your work-out. I mean, like what you do and stuff.”

Donny looked at him quizzically. “How could I...?”

“I mean, like, write it down.”

“Oh, sure.”

Gene gave him a legal pad and a pencil and Donny started to write down his routine. It took him a moment to remember exactly what he did because it was so automatic that he did it by rote; thinking about it made him stop and back up a few times.

Donny found it uncomfortable to write on his knees, so they went into the dining room and sat down at the now-cleared table. Donny explained each routine and what it did, and as he did he was remembering what it was like in his first gym class freshman year when Coach Lester had lectured them on the right and wrong ways to lift weights. Donny echoed the coach: know your limits and don’t try to show off. Tyler listened intently, his eyes never leaving Donny.

Donny tore the pages off the pad and handed them to Tyler. “I don’t make any guarantees, and I’d let your coach look this over before you do any of it.” He pulled out one of his McKay-Gemini business cards. “Here’s my address; you got any questions, drop me a note, okay?”

“Okay,” Tyler said, folding the pages and sticking them in his back pocket. He looked shyly at Donny. “Um, could you, um...?”

“What?”

“Uh, flex for me?” he whispered.

Donny was wearing a polo shirt over a t-shirt. He flexed his right biceps and the large muscle made a globe-shaped bulge, the veins cording. Tyler muttered, “Jesus.” Donny patted Tyler on the shoulder. “You’ll be there in no time. C’mon, let’s see the end of the game.

As they settled on the couch, a pager beeped. “Mine,” said Clark apologetically. He dug in his pocket, pulled out a quarter and said, “Call it” as he flipped the coin. Gene said, “Heads.” It came up tails. Clark scowled at the read-out. “Can I use your phone?”

Gene indicated the desk and Clark called the number. He listened for a moment, sighed, and said, “I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and shook his head.

“What’s up?” said Gene.

“Jacobsen’s. Got a breech calving in progress.”

Gene chuckled. “Good thing I called heads,” he said.

Clark smiled wanly. “Nice pun.” He went out to the foyer and pulled on his coat. “Thanks for the dinner. Steph, I gotta run out to Jacobsen’s. I’d go and come back, but there’s no telling how long this will take. C’mon, Ty, get your coat.” He shook hands with Donny. “Nice to meet you. Mike, take care, and say hooray to Hollywood for me.”

They shook hands all around, Stephanie beaming at Mike. “We’re all so proud of you and your career,” she said.

Donny glanced at Anita, whose expression was unchanged. She handed Tyler a paper grocery bag full of leftovers. “Lunch tomorrow,” she said.

“And the day after,” said Stephanie. “Thank you so much.”

They waved goodbye from the deck as the Herlingers got into their Suburban. Tyler caught Donny’s eye, waved shyly, and clenched his fist. Donny waved back. Mike caught this exchange and chuckled.

Back in the house, Gene said to Donny, “How about a nightcap?”

“Sure.”

Mike was putting on his coat. “You guys go ahead; I think I’ll take Bailey out for a run.”

Donny followed Gene back into the study. “What’s your pleasure? Scotch? Bourbon? Sherry?”

“Bourbon’s fine.”

Gene poured the drinks. “Sorry I couldn’t offer you anything before, but both Clark and I were on call and Stephanie’s a born-again Christian and she doesn’t approve of liquor in front of Tyler.” He motioned to the loungers. “Have a seat,” he said, and then closed the door. Donny got the feeling that this was going to be more than just a nightcap. But Gene smiled, settled into his chair, and took a sip. “Ah, that’s good.” He looked at Donny. “I’m glad you could make it up here, Don. Mike’s told me a lot about you, and it’s good to see that he has made a friend out there.”

“Thanks. It’s my pleasure.”

Gene leaned back. “I take it that Mike’s told you about my little medical problem.”

“Yes sir.”

Gene winced. “Oh, please, cut out the ‘sir’ crap. I’m Gene, not your high school principal. And I’m only fifty-five. Hell, I still call people ‘sir.’”

Donny smiled. “Okay.”

“Anyway, I’ve told him and I’ll tell you; it’s not a big deal. They caught it early, it’s highly treatable, and the cure rate is very high. Right now they think they can control it with medication. If not, I have the surgery, and the worst that can happen is that I won’t be able to get it up any more.”

Donny chuckled in spite of himself, and Gene nodded approvingly. “Yeah, you do have a sense of humor. Mike said you did.” He sipped his drink again. “Anyway, it’s been sort of an eye-opener for me. I mean, I’ve spent all these years as a vet treating animals for a lot of diseases, including my share of prostate cancers, and I’ve always wondered in the back of my mind what I’d think if it happened to me. If I came down with it. And now I know.” Gene stared out the window for a moment, then back at the glass in his hands. “I love my son deeply,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “I haven’t always understood him, and I can’t say that I was happy about his...choices in life, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s my son and nothing he’s ever done or could do would make me not love him and care about him.” He glanced at Donny. “All I want for him is to be happy.” Donny remembered hearing those words from his mother on the patio by the swimming pool in the back of Uncle Ron’s house. He started to form something to say but thought better of it. “I want him to know that,” Gene added.

“He does,” Donny said.

Gene nodded. “I hope so. We haven’t always shown it.” He shrugged. “We’ve never seen his house up in the mountains. We’ve never even been out to California. We’ve talked about it, but something always comes up...” Gene looked at Donny for a moment, as if he was trying to decide whether or not to say something more, then took another sip. “I worried about him when he decided to quit school and go out there. I didn’t know what he wanted to do and you know it’s not easy for some kid from the middle of nowhere to make it out there doing anything.” Gene smiled for a second and added, “Although it looks like you and he proved me wrong. But most of all I worried about him being alone out there, with no friends or family. He was always a quiet kid, never really any trouble, but he never really had any close friends, either. We – I – worried that he’d just get swallowed up like a lot of people out there and....” Gene’s voice trailed off and he stared at his glass. “I guess I should have known that he would do all right. He’s my son. But still...you worry.” Again he stared at his glass, swirling the ice a little, the cubes clinking softly. He took another swallow, then looked at Donny. “So, for what it’s worth, I’m glad he’s met some good people out there. You mean a lot to him, Don, and...I just wanted you to know that I’m glad to see that he’s...” The sentence trailed off and Donny was about to speak when Gene said softly, “I’m glad to see that he’s met someone. It’s not exactly how I imagined it would be, but...” Gene looked at him again, his expression almost pleading. “I’m happy for him.”

There was silence for a moment, then Gene rattled the ice in his glass. “Freshen your drink?”

Donny hadn’t touched his, so he took a gulp. The bourbon stung and warmed as it went down. “No, I’m good.”

Gene got up and poured himself another. “So, Mike tells me you have a ’65 Mustang,” he said, probably trying to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, I do. Convertible.”

“GT?”

“Yeah.”

“What color?”

“Red. White interior, white top.”

“Ooh, that’s perfect. You restore it yourself?”

“Oh, no...bought it off a used car lot.”

“Drive it every day?”

“I used to, but now I have a Tahoe for that.”

Gene settled back in his chair and grinned, “I had one of those, too. Dark green with the camel top. Got it right out of college. It was my dream car.” He chuckled, “Man, I thought I was one of the Beach Boys, cruising around East Lansing in that thing. You a fan of the Beach Boys?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“’Course, trying to be a surfer dude in Michigan is a little rough. And I didn’t have it all that long; about a year. Had to sell it to help pay for vet school, and when you’ve got a couple of young kids, you need something a little more practical, I guess. But maybe someday...”

“They still make Mustang convertibles,” Donny said. “GT’s with a V-8 and everything.”

Gene smiled. “Don’t tempt me. Anita would kill me.”

“Well, when you come out to L.A. I’ll let you drive mine.”

“It’s a deal.”

Off in the distance a door opened and Bailey shook her collar, indicating that Mike was back from his walk.

“Well,” Gene said, “it was good to talk to you.”

He got up. As he did, Donny said, “I love him, too.”

Gene stopped, nodded silently, and opened the door.

As Donny was getting ready for bed, Mike tapped on his door. “So, you wanna call your folks and let ‘em know we’ll be there tomorrow afternoon?”

Donny held up his cell phone. “Already called. We’ll probably get leftovers there, too.”

He looked at Donny for a second, perhaps to try to glean something from him about what had happened while he was gone, but Donny studiously gave him no visible reaction. After a slightly uncomfortable moment, Mike said, “Hey, that was real nice of you to talk to Tyler like that.”

“Sure.”

“Dad says Clark’s been worried about him. The kid is awfully shy; doesn’t have a lot of friends here.”

Donny pulled off his shoes. “Yeah, I remember what being sixteen was like.”

Mike opened the door. “Yeah. Me too.” He looked at Donny again, seeming to be on the verge of saying something. But instead he just said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Donny finished undressing and settled in under the thick down comforter. In the darkness and the long time it took for him to finally fall asleep, it occurred to him that the entire reason for the trip had been that drink with Mike’s father.

*

They left the next morning after breakfast, getting on the road shortly before nine. The sky was cloudy and threatening. Mike was unusually quiet as he ate, and when the time came to say goodbye, he hugged his father for a long time and Donny thought he heard him let out a stifled sob.

Donny suddenly found himself staring off into the woods. He thanked Anita for everything and she nodded and briefly smiled. Gene shook his hand and smiled at him, and then, taking him over to the side of the deck, out of sight of Mike, who was loading his bags in the back of the Land Rover, said quietly, “Take care of my son, will you?”

“I sure will,” was all he could manage.

Gene patted him on the shoulder. “I know.”

Mike slammed the tailgate shut. Bailey, wagging her tail furiously, whined and tried to get into the back seat, but Mike pulled her back up to the deck. “No, you stay here, girl. You’d hate L.A.; there’s no squirrels to chase.” He looked up at his parents and grinned, putting on his best celebrity smile. “Okay, well, we’re off. Think about coming out there at Christmas, okay?”

“We’ll see,” said Gene.

“Yeah, okay.” Mike got behind the wheel and revved the engine. “C’mon, Donny, let’s hit the road.”

“Thanks again,” Donny said as he shut the door, the truck already moving. He waved at the Lankowskis, and they waved back until they were hidden by the trees.

Mike drove silently with the radio on the classical station from the Interlochen Center for the Arts for the first hour or so. It wasn’t until they had stopped for gas and Mike had smoked a cigarette that he said, “Looks like the sky is clearing.”

There was little traffic heading south, but in the other lane it was one long stream of cars, trucks, and RV’s heading for the long weekend up north. “Good thing we’re going this way,” Mike muttered.

“Yeah,” agreed Donny.

The radio signal from WIAA began to sputter and cut out. Mike punched the “seek” on the radio dial until he found a classic rock station, but it soon faded. “Fuck it,” he said and snapped the radio off. That was followed by about five minutes of silence until Mike said, “What really happened with Jeremy Dixon?”

They were on the freeway now, just east of Clare, heading east on towards Midland and Bay City. Donny decided to tell Mike everything, including Marc’s history before he came to work at the Cantina and McKay-Gemini. By the time Donny finished telling the story, they had made the turn south onto I-75 and were south of Flint.

“So, basically,” Donny said, “that’s it. Jeremy agreed to let Back Home Again out of the can, leave Marc alone, and no one else will know about his little movie.” He looked at Mike, who had been silent throughout the entire narrative, and added, “And I’m counting on you keeping it under your hat, too.”

Mike nodded. “Y’know, I’ve heard rumors about that for a long time, but...hell, I just figured it was noise like Tom Cruise or whatever. So you actually saw it. The porn flick.”

“Yeah.”

Mike tried to repress a chuckle. “Any good?”

“I’ve never really been into porn,” Donny said. “The quality was shitty.”

“Sonofabitch.”

They pulled off at Ann Arbor and Mike asked Donny to drive. “You know where we’re going.”

They were a few miles from the Ohio line when Mike, who had been dozing, sat up and said, “Y’know, for ten cents I’d get the hell out of the business and move back to Maple City.”

“So why don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Y’know, it’s like a huge high school with all the gossip and the sex and the drama and the bullshit. I can’t believe you want in on it, Donny.”

“I can turn this thing around and have you back up there in time for dinner,” Donny offered.

“Don’t tempt me.”

The Hollenbeck house looked the same as it had the day Donny had left except the paint was fresher and his mom had already hung the Christmas wreath on the front door. Donny pulled into the driveway and parked in the spot where he used to park his truck. It was still early enough in the day that both his parents were still at work; the bank was open the day after Thanksgiving, and the doctor’s office where Mrs. Hollenbeck worked was open as well. Donny still had a key to the back door by the garage on his key chain. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

It was like he had never left. The same coats and hats were hung on the hooks in the mudroom off the kitchen. The old white Kelvinator refrigerator that they used to keep beer and leftovers hummed in the corner. His father’s work boots were under the little work bench where Donny and Danny used to drop their schoolbooks on their way in from the bus. The only thing different was the new Whirlpool washer and dryer that had replaced the old Maytags that had served them since they had moved into the house. Even the smell – a combination of laundry soap, Bounce, and the pungent tang of hard rubber from the doormat – was the same.

Everything in the kitchen looked the same as well, and Donny remembered that cold January morning he had left thinking he’d be back in a few weeks; back in time to get in on the first construction jobs in the spring. He looked around. The big calendar with the Audubon prints that they got every year from the insurance company hung in its usual place next to the wall phone. The little pictures – the prints from the Grandma Moses collection – were in their usual place over the window over the sink, and looking out that window to the back yard, where the willow tree was now bare, its thin branches dangling over the fence, Donny could see across the fields, past the distant line of trees to where he knew that under that clump of oaks a quarter of a mile away was Lorenzen’s quarry.

There was a note on the kitchen table between the salt and pepper shakers; the same place where his mom used to leave notes and afterschool instructions. “Help yourself to some pie in the fridge. Home by five,” it read in her neat round handwriting.

“C’mon,” he said to Mike, “let’s take our stuff upstairs.”

Mike followed him up the stairs, past the family photos lining the wall. He stopped halfway up to look at a photo of the twins together in a baby carriage. “I’m the one on the left,” said Donny.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“How?”

Mike looked at Donny. “I just can. You guys may be twins, but you don’t look exactly alike.”

They went into the twins’ bedroom. It was unchanged; the beds on either side of the room, the same posters on the wall, the same books on the bookshelves, the same blankets and bedspreads. Donny put his duffel on his bed and pointed at Danny’s. “That’s yours.”

Mike put his overnight bag on the bed, looked around, and let out a little chuckle. “It’s like something out of Leave It to Beaver. The twin beds, the posters; I bet you still got your jammies hung up in the closet.”

“I haven’t worn ‘jammies’ since I was twelve,” said Donny dryly.

“You ever have sex in here?” Mike asked.

“With who?”

“Yeah, good point. Well, maybe we could...”

“Not a chance,” said Donny quickly. “My parents’ bedroom is at the end of the hall, and you make noises when you come.”

“Your parents aren’t home.”

“Still.”

Donny showed him the rest of the house, going out to the back porch, now sealed in with plastic against the winter, the furniture covered with old sheets. Then, with nothing better to do, Donny took him back into town and showed him the old familiar places, pointing out homes of friends, stores, and driving past the high school and the football field. “Looks like a nice place to grow up in,” said Mike.

“Not a lot different than where you did.”

“I was out in the country. This is the ‘burbs. You guys have a drive-through KFC and everything.”

They drove up Louisiana Avenue, past the library, the gas station, the hardware store, and the new shops that had replaced the appliance store, the bakery, and the old storefront market that had been there when Donny was a kid. The drugstore was under a new owner with a new façade, but he still thought of it as Houck’s with the soda fountain and the racks of comic books in the corner by the window. They drove past the bank where his father worked and saw his car in the parking lot. For a moment he thought about telling Mike to pull in, but changed his mind. He didn’t think it was a good idea to introduce Mike to his father in front of the rest of the bank. A pick-up truck with a construction company logo passed them and Donny realized it was Frank Dungan, his old boss. He almost waved.

They parked in front of the ice cream parlor. The city had already begun celebrating the holidays; the streetlights were wrapped in coils of tinsel and tiny lights, and at the end of the street, a crew was putting the finishing touches on the Christmas tree. Somewhere some outdoor speaker was playing “Silver Bells.”

There were a people in the shop, mostly parents with kids, but they didn’t have to wait. Donny scanned the blackboard over the back looking for dark chocolate.

“Well, hey, Donny, how’re you?” said a voice, and Donny turned to see Elaine Gruber. She was behind the counter in the white and blue uniform. She was short and solid, with blonde hair, a round face, and narrow glasses that made her blue eyes look like she was squinting.

“Hi, Elaine,” he smiled, “good to see you.”

“Likewise!” She glanced at Mike and he gave her a quick smile and went back to perusing the menu board. Her mouth dropped open a little, but then she smiled and shook her head as if she decided that there would be no reason for Lance Michaels to be standing in an ice cream parlor in Perrysburg, Ohio. “Haven’t seen you in long time. You still working with Frank?”

“Uh, no, actually, I live in L.A. now.” Donny replied, catching the interaction between Beth and Mike. “Elaine, this is Mike. He’s a friend of mine; we’re driving back from his folks’ place in Michigan.” It sounded lame, but Beth smiled again.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” she said.

“Same here,” replied Mike.

Elaine leaned on the counter. “How’s it going? What’s Danny up to? He’s in the Air Force, right?”

“Yeah,” Donny replied.

“Great. So, what’ll you have?”

They each had a scoop of German Chocolate cake and sat at one of the little tables. Donny told Mike that Elaine had once had a crush on him in high school. Mike looked at Elaine, who was now at the sink in the back rinsing out some scoops. Mike grinned. “She has excellent taste. What happened?”

“Nothing. I let her down easy, and she hooked up with some football player. Married him, I think.”

Mike smiled wistfully. “Life in a small town. You miss it?”

“Do you?” Donny replied.

The garage door was open when they pulled into the driveway, the white Buick Century in the left slot.

“Mom’s home,” said Donny as they parked.

Mike shut off the engine. “Now it’s my turn to be nervous,” he said with a chuckle.

“Don’t worry,” Donny replied. “We don’t have a dog.”

*

Donny awoke slowly and found himself staring at the same two knotholes in the ceiling paneling of his bedroom that he’d awoken to for so many years. They reminded him of owl’s eyes; wide, round, almost identical, with small centers of yellow resin spots that served as the pupils. He lay staring at them, just as he had as a child, as a teen, and on that morning in January when he’d last slept in this bed.

Everything felt so familiar. The same patterns of light and dark as the sun rose behind the pulled shades over the windows, the same smells of the room, the same sounds as the furnace sighed and lit in the basement, the thermostat clicking on for the daytime setting. From downstairs came the familiar clatter as his mother pulled out the old cast iron skillet to make breakfast, and soon the smell of frying bacon drifted up the stairs and under the door. Even the lump of rumpled blankets and pillows on the other bed looked like old times, except he knew it was Mike, not Danny. He was still asleep, his gentle breathing ending in a slight snore.

He thought back to the night before and the first meeting of Mike and his parents. His mother had hugged him and greeted Mike with a firm handshake and a beaming smile. His father had nodded and smiled and told Mike he was glad to meet him. Mike had had called them Mr. and Mrs. Hollenbeck and was immediately corrected to Fred and Anne. They had a drink in the living room and then a supper of pork chops and leftover side dishes from Thanksgiving. The conversation was filled with polite inquiries about Donny’s job, the latest news from Danny, and Thanksgiving with Mike’s family. No one brought up Mike’s career, and nothing was said about Small Town Boys. Donny couldn’t remember if he had ever said anything to his parents about it.

They were finishing dessert when Danny called. He had waited to call until that night because he knew Donny and Mike would be there. He chatted with his parents for a while, then asked to speak to Donny. His mother handed him the cordless phone, and he went out to the back porch, closing the door behind him. Back in the living room his father turned on the TV set. There was a hockey game on that he wanted to watch.

“So how’s the trip?” Danny asked, his voice a little staticky.

“So far so good.”

“Everything cool with the parental units?”

“Yeah. They seem to like him.”

“They don’t...”

“Not that I can tell.”

“Never talked to Dad, did you?”

“Nope.”

A pause, the line crackling a little. “I think he worries about you.”

“What makes you say that?” Donny looked through the sliding patio door. Mike had joined his father watching the game.

Another pause, then, “Just a feeling.”

“Huh,” Donny said softly. “Hey, you still coming back to L.A. for Christmas?”

“I put in for leave that time; we’ll see. You drive the Jeep recently?”

“Last week.”

“Cool. When are you heading back?”

“Sunday morning. Should be back by there by Thursday.”

“It’s a long haul. Take it easy.”

“As opposed to driving like the Cannonball Run?”

“Yeah. Well, say hi to Mike for me.”

“I will.”

“Love you, twin.”

Donny got out of bed and found his old wool bathrobe handing on the hook in the closet, right where he’d left it. He made a mental note to take it back with him, even though it was a little tight in the shoulders now and the belt was a tad ragged. He padded to the bathroom and turned on the shower, the familiar thrum of the water on the steel sides and the unique scent of Lysol and soap rising with steam. His mother had even hung out the old towels with “Donny” and “Danny” sewn in them.

Mike was awake when he went back to the room, blinking and rubbing his eyes. “Hey,” he said sleepily. “Time is it?”

“Little after eight.” He pulled on clean clothes and folded his towel as Mike sat up. “You’re ‘Danny’ now,” he said, “at least in the bathroom.”

During breakfast Mike told Donny that he was going to run back into town to the tire store they’d passed. “Think I’ll get the tires rotated and balanced. I noticed a little vibration yesterday.” He helped clear the table, thanked Anne, and left. Donny helped his mother rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher.

“Do you boys have any laundry that needs being done?” she asked.

“I can do it, Mom,” he replied, grinning inwardly at her calling them “the boys,” just like it was he and Danny.

“It’s no trouble. Bring it down and I’ll get them done.”

“Thanks.”

Anne rinsed out the sink. “He’s very nice. And I have seen him on TV, haven’t I?”

“Uh huh. He had a series that just got cancelled.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” She looked out the window over the sink. Fred was out in the backyard, leaf rake in hand, picking up sticks and stray branches.

“Well, he’s got a new agent, so there should be something coming along for him,” Donny said. He looked out the window at his father.

His mother glanced at him. “He could use a hand.”

“Okay.”

His father was now raking the leaves, making neat little piles as he always did, scraping the last of them out from under the rhododendrons and the azaleas that lined the fence. The small wheelbarrow was half-full of leaves and sticks. The rest of the yard was immaculate; the rose bushes pruned back for the winter, the patio bare of the furniture that was now stored neatly in the garage attic, the patio itself swept clean. The wrought iron birdbath was empty, the copper-lined basin cleaned and covered with a small canvas tarp. He had even raked up the scattered seeds from the bird feeder that his mother maintained. A couple of chickadees darted back and forth from the protection of the bushes to the tray, buzzing and chirring as they flew.

Donny took the extra rake from the garage and started along the fence line, catching the stray leaf or two from under the maples and hackberry trees that shaded the yard in the summer and where they had hung the rope hammock, a perfect place to lie on a summer night and listen to the Tigers game on the radio, watch the lightning bugs emerge from the yews, and listen to the occasional bzzt as a mosquito got caught in the bug-zapper. He too made neat little piles, remembering the countless Saturdays of yard work and games of touch football this time of year under the perpetually grey skies of an Ohio November. He idly thought about the backyard of his home in Santa Monica, thinking that if he was there now, he’d be dipping the leaves out of the pool, checking the chemicals, and then perhaps swimming some laps before going off to the gym.

His father looked around the yard and nodded his approval, then began picking up the piles and dropping them in the wheelbarrow. Donny did the same.

“Thanks for the help,” Fred said, plucking some pine needles off his work gloves.

“Like old times,” Donny said.

Fred nodded, smiled a little, then leaned on his rake. “It’s good to have you home.”

“Nice to be here.”

“Your mother’s glad to see you. She misses you.”

“I call every week.”

Fred nodded, but he said, “It’s not really the same.”

“Well, it’s not like I can come home on weekends.”

“I know.” He spotted a twig on the ground, picked it up, and examined it. “She just misses you, that’s all.” He dropped the twig in the barrow.

Donny waited. He knew from his father’s expression there was something more coming. His father rubbed his hands together and glanced at his son. “And she worries about you.” He paused, and then added, “We both do,” almost as an afterthought.

“What about? I’ve got a good job and health insurance. And I’ve started saving some money. Bought a house; building some equity. You always said things like that were important.”

“Yes, I did. And we’re proud of you for that,” Fred said, adding with a rueful chuckle, “We’re counting on it in our old age.” He poked at the ground with his rake. “But what I think worries your mom – and me – is that....” He paused, glancing up at the sky, then looking at his son, “Is that you’re alone out there.” He looked down at the ground again, finding another imaginary leaf to rake.

“I’ve got friends, Dad. There’s Eric, there’s Greg, there’s...Mike. And Uncle Ron and Aunt Barbara....”

“I know. We know. And that’s good. But...we just...” He started to move the wheelbarrow, then stopped. “We just worry that you’re there by yourself in that house and you...”

“It’s okay, Dad. I kinda like it, if you know what I mean.”

His father shrugged. “No, I really don’t. I’ve never lived by myself, Donny. I always had someone either at home or to come home to. So I don’t know what it’s like to be on my own, and...I just worry, that’s all.” He started to go back to the garage.

Donny said, “Is it because I’m never going to get married?”

His father stopped, and put the wheelbarrow down. For a moment he did nothing, then turned and looked at his son. His expression was calm, almost sorrowful, but his shoulders were tense, and Donny could see that he’d struck a nerve. “That’s part of it. But...” He walked back to Donny, who had not moved. “I worry about both of you. Danny in the Air Force, you out there in California. Both of you are doing so well, but...we wonder – I wonder – why....” His voice drifted off, his eyes searching Donny’s face for a moment.

Donny understood. “Why we left here,” he said quietly, and his father nodded. “Why we felt like we had to get away to some other place. Why we felt like we didn’t belong here.” His father nodded again and gave him a pleading look. Donny looked around the yard. He remembered where the swing set and sandbox used to be, where their tree house in the mulberry tree had been, now gone when the limbs cracked in a heavy wind in high school. He could hear the ringing bounce of the basketball on the driveway, the thud against the backboard that was now netless, the hoop a little rusty, but still in place because when Danny and his father painted the garage a few years ago they didn’t have the heart to take it down. He looked at the Emerson’s house next door and the trees that shaded their yard and dropped leaves in their above-ground pool now covered with the black tarp, and off in the distance he heard the rumble and whistle of the freight train on the tracks that went through the center of town. You could set your watch by them. He shivered a little. The wind was picking up, the grey clouds scudding overhead. He caught the faint whiff of burning leaves. He suddenly wanted a cigarette, but he knew his father didn’t like him smoking, so he hunched his shoulders against the wind and let out a long breath. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “We just had to, that’s all.”

His father pushed the wheelbarrow back to the garage, Donny following him to the compost heap, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He felt like he had to say something more. “It wasn’t anything to do with you or Mom.”

Fred dumped the leaves unto the pile. “I know that, Donny.” He poked the pile. “You probably felt like you couldn’t be...yourself here. Am I right?”

Donny smiled a little. “We’ve never have talked about that, have we?” he said, “me being gay.”

His father shook his head. “No.”

“Does it bother you?”

His father looked at him solemnly. “You’re my son and I love you. Nothing will ever change either fact, and the only thing that upsets me is that you seemed to think that you didn’t feel that you could talk to us about it.”

“What’s there to say? It wasn’t that I didn’t feel I couldn’t talk about it. It’s just that...I dunno, did you talk to Grandpa Ed about things like that?”

“No, but then I’m not gay, either. But is that why you ran off to California? Because you felt like you didn’t fit in here?”

“That didn’t have anything to do with it, Dad. I never really thought about it one way or the other. I just didn’t want to spend the rest of my life pounding nails for Frank, that’s all. I didn’t want to end up like Stan Tasker.”

“Or Scott Welles.” his father said quietly.

Donny stared at his father, who looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “What about Scott?” Donny said hesitantly.

“You and he were friends, am I right?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, we got together a few times...”

Fred nodded. “I remember that. I hear he’s doing pretty well in Chicago, but you won’t hear that from his parents. They don’t talk about him. He’s been cut off from them because he lives with another man. They’ve disowned him. He’s out of the will and when he comes to visit here, he stays at the Holiday Inn.”

“Wow,” Donny replied.

“Wow indeed,” said Fred, looking at his son.

“How did you hear about that?”

“His brother Derek works for me in the mortgage department. I told him you were coming for a visit this weekend, we got to talking, and he told me about Scott. That reminds me. Derek gave me his phone number and asked you to call him if you get the chance.”

“Sure.”

“You didn’t think that would happen with us, did you?”

“No, Dad, ‘course not.”

Fred shook his head sadly. “I can’t imagine someone cutting themselves off from their child like that.”

“Some people just can’t handle it, Dad.”

Fred scowled. “There are so many more important things about a person than who they sleep with that it’s just inconceivable to me that any parent would do that. The point is, Donny, that your mother and I want you to be happy and we know that being gay isn’t an easy road to be on. There are a lot of people who still are convinced it’s not normal.” He shrugged. “What’s normal, anyway? But...we just want you to know that, and we will be here no matter what. I will say that your mother was hoping to be in the grandma business by now.”

“I’ll tell Danny to get right on it.”

“Well, hopefully he’ll get married first. Does he have any prospects that you know of?”

“None that he’s shared with me.”

“Well, I can think of about six tellers at the bank who have a crush on him. On both of you, as a matter of fact. I’ve got both your pictures on the credenza in my office and many’s the time I’ve seen the ladies staring at both of you.”

“Nice to know I’ve still got it,” Donny replied. “What picture is it?”

“The one from Danny’s graduation.” He turned to Danny. “I’m proud of both my sons. I’m glad you’ve got a good job and a nice home. But it doesn’t stop me from thinking that you are going to be missing something by not having someone to share your life with.”

Fred pushed the wheelbarrow around to the front yard. A few minutes later Mike pulled in the driveway. Fred looked at him and then back at Donny with a questioning glance. Donny smiled a little. “Actors don’t really get to have a private life, and...”

“I get the picture,” he said.

Mike joined them. “Everything okay?” Donny asked him.

“Yeah, just threw a balance weight on the left front.” He looked around the yard. “Can I lend a hand?”

“Sure,” Fred said. “Donny, give him your rake and go in and call Derek. I told him you’d call him.”

Derek answered on the second ring as if he was waiting for Donny to call. “Good to hear from you, Donny. How long are you gonna be in town?”

“Just until tomorrow. I’m driving back to L.A. with a friend.”

“Wow. Well, like I said, thanks for calling. I really like working for your dad.”
“Oh, thanks.” Donny’s memories of Derek were that of a quiet kid who didn’t participate in much in class but was usually on the honor roll. He’d played football, but Donny couldn’t remember ever having much of a conversation with him before.

“Hang on a second,” said Derek. He muffled the phone, then a voice said, “Hi, Donny.”

He recognized the voice immediately. “Hi, Scott.”

After he hung up, he went back outside. “He wants to meet for coffee.”

Mike grinned. “Sounds like that could be interesting.”

“You wanna go with?”

Mike tossed his car keys to Donny. “No, you go ahead. I’d just get in the way.”

Scott had suggested a coffee shop that had replaced the old pizza parlor on Louisiana. It was an imitation of Starbuck’s with the small tables, the reading area, and the listings of the many varieties of coffees, teas, lattes and assorted bottled sodas written on a chalkboard over the bar. It had a cute name – Uncommon Grounds – to go with the hip image. There was an empty parking space in front next to a silver BMW. There were a few customers inside.

Scott was already there, sitting at a table. He looked like he’d put on a little weight, his face was puffy and his hair had picked up a few touches of grey, but he smiled broadly when Donny came through the door, and his handshake was strong. “Really good to see you,” he said, his eyes giving Donny a quick appraisal, and he patted him on the arm. “You look great. California must be a great place to live.”

“It’s okay. A lot warmer.”

“That’s true. And I hear you’re doing well.”

“Not too bad,” Donny admitted.

Scott grinned slyly. “’Not too bad’? I read the trades. McKay-Gemini is in the top one hundred of tech start-ups last year.”

“That’s because most of ‘em fold in about twenty minutes,” said Donny. He’d seen the same survey. “We’re doin’ okay.” He shrugged.

“You’re being modest,” Scott said. “That’s what I like about you. C’mon, you ready for coffee?”

They ordered, Scott telling Donny it was his treat, then sat again. Scott stirred his cappuccino slowly, letting the foam dissolve before sipping it. “So, I hear you’re just passing through on your way back. Get back here a lot?” Donny told him it was his first time back since he’d left, and Scott nodded. “Yeah, I guess there’s not a lot to bring you back except your folks. Where’s Danny stationed now?”

“In Florida.”

“You guys seem to like the nice weather. How’s he doing?”

“Good,” Donny replied, and Scott nodded again. There seemed to be something on his mind, so Donny waited.

Scott sipped his coffee again. “Derek likes working for your father. He’s doing well, or so he tells me. That’s who I’m staying with, by the way. I get back over here every so often to see him and some friends.” He paused and smiled wanly. “I guess you’ve heard about me and my folks.”

Donny nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Scott shrugged. “My pop’s a prick and he’s always treated me like I’m a major disappointment to him. Nothing I ever did was good enough for him. He wanted me to play football; I played tennis. He wanted me to go to Yale; I squeaked into Princeton. He wanted me to take over his business; I moved to Chicago. He wanted me to get married and give him grandkids; I came out to them last Christmas. I think he was waiting for an excuse to cut me out of his life, and I was glad to give it to him. He’s still got Derek. He’ll be the one who will live up to his expectations. He’ll have the right job with the right company, he’ll marry the right girl, he’ll turn out the requisite number of kids, he’ll join the right country club, he’ll join the right service clubs like the Rotary, he’ll vote the straight Republican ticket, he’ll have the right car and the appropriate minivan and he’ll have a very nice house out in Willowbend or some such subdivision with the pool and the barbeque and the nice neighbors. Fifty years from now he’ll have a nice obituary in the Messenger-Journal that will nicely document his truly unremarkable life. My father will be so proud.”

Donny remembered Mr. Welles as being a genial if somewhat stuffy man; always well-dressed and very proud that he had gone to Yale. He always wore some sort of the university’s memorabilia, be it a tie, a blazer, or even a scarf that had the school colors on it, and he was a member of the local Yale Club that recruited promising young men to apply.

“What about your mom?”

Scott smiled wanly. “My mother does whatever my father wants because she believes he knows best and besides, if it ever got back to the Junior League or the garden club that Maisie Welles took a stand against her husband – well, that would be a stunning development. She wanted to send both of us to private school like she’d done, but Dad said no; the private schools were full of liberal teachers and colored people, and the Catholic schools were run by, well, Catholics.” He fiddled with the wooden swizzle stick. “Everybody did what dear old Dad wanted, and that’s probably why Mom drinks so much.” Donny looked around to see if anyone was in earshot of them, but Scott didn’t seem to care. He took a long sip and looked at Donny again. “And it probably didn’t help matters when they found out that the guy I’m living with is barely twenty-five years old, comes from the middle of Kansas, and not only did he not go to an Ivy League school, he never finished high school. It’s hard to say what scandalized them more; that Neil’s a man or that he’s NOKD.”

Donny nodded. He knew that NOKD – “not our kind, dear” – was a standard below which the Welles family would never sink. “So how’d you meet him?” he asked.

“I seem to have a thing for younger guys,” Scott said with a smirk, glancing at Donny. “Especially the handsome working-class guys. Neil was working on some kitchen remodeling I was having done. We got to talking one day and....”

“Sounds familiar,” said Donny.

“Yeah, doesn’t it. But he’s a bright kid, wise beyond his years, funny, and doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve got a family with issues. His does too; his mother goes to Mass every Sunday to pray that he won’t be gay anymore and his sister won’t let her kids near him because they’re afraid he’s some kind of pedophile. He moved in about six months after we met and that was two years ago. He’s now a manager with the company and makes a damn good living.” Scott leaned forward. “And to tell you the truth,” he whispered, “I’d much rather be with someone who knows what it’s like to work for a living rather than some stuck-up trust fund baby...like me.” Scott grinned wickedly, then added, “Have you told your folks? Is that why you moved to California?”

Donny shook his head. “No. They know, but that’s not why I moved out. I just went out for a visit. I wasn’t planning on staying but...”

“Have you got a boyfriend?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, yeah?” Scott smirked a little. “I heard you were hooked up with Lance Michaels...isn’t that his name? The guy who was in some TV series last year or the year before?”

“Where’d you get that?”

“I have friends out in L.A. They know people in the business and they know what’s going on. Word was that he had met this young guy from Perrysburg, Ohio, who had moved in with him, that they had bought a house together, and this young guy had been helping him develop some projects for the movies. I did a little more digging and found out the young guy was you. I even heard that you and he were working on a made-for-TV movie.”

Donny felt an edge of irritation rising, but he nodded and replied, “He’s in one called Back Home Again. It’s gonna be on in a couple of weeks. But I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“So you and he...?”

Donny stared into the paper cup. He was back on the beach that day in March. He parked the truck, walked past the brightly-painted houses, across the boulevard, and onto the sand. He remembered the hazy day and the first time Mike spoke to him asking for a cigarette – “Excuse me, can I bum one of those?” He remembered following him home, the sweaty sex, and the days and weeks and months after when Mike had become a part of his life; the days and nights in Key West, in Idyllwild, and the hassle with Marty and the drinking and the insecurities and the passionate love-making and the promises made and broken and the sheer horniness that overcame him when he thought about him, including the throb he was feeling right now as he sat across the table from Scott – and then the months when Mike had vanished like he’d never been there at all. He remembered the anger at the loss and then wondering why it had dissipated so quickly and how, when he came back, he was able to ease right back into being achingly in love with him, slipping into it like a pair of comfortable flip-flops. And now Gene had entrusted him to take care of him, and his own father had hoped that he would find someone to share his life with. He looked at Scott for a moment and almost said, “Actually, we’re lovers.” But he shook his head. “Just friends, that’s all. He lived in my house for a while after the Northridge quake last winter. But...just friends,” he said again.

Scott gave him a skeptical look. “So that wasn’t Lance Michaels that you were with in the ice cream parlor yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, yeah. We’re driving back to L.A. He was up in Michigan visiting his folks. I just came back to drive back with him, y’know.” Donny realized how lame that sounded even as he said it.

“So your folks are okay with it. With you. With him.”

“I guess they are, Scott,” Donny replied with an edge. “They know I’m gay, if that’s what you mean. They don’t know anything about Mike because...there’s nothing to tell, really. He’s just a friend.”

“Well, that’s good. I’m glad your family is...okay with it. And Danny...?”

Donny remembered the story Danny had told him about a drunken Scott hitting on him at the party. He smiled a little. “He’s cool with it. He keeps trying to fix me up with people, but you’ve heard of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ so that makes it tough for a blind date with a soldier.”

Scott laughed. “I guess,” he said, and patted Donny’s hand. It occurred to Donny that one of the reasons Scott had gotten in touch was to see if there was a chance they could get together for one more romp; Derek had a condo in Three Meadows and was probably spending the day with his parents. He shrugged. “Actually, I’ve kinda sworn off dating,” he said. “Too much work to do and too much...” He looked at his watch. “Say, I’d love to talk forever, but I’ve...”

“I understand,” said Scott, getting the hint, and Donny realized that maybe all Scott wanted was to see how his life had turned out; whether he was still single or had found happiness, like he had.

The silver BMW belonged to Scott. They shook hands by the parking meters, Donny resisting the urge to hug him; it was still Louisiana Avenue on a Saturday morning. They made promises to keep in touch, giving each other their cards with home phone numbers written out hastily on the back on the hood of the car, and then they waved as they drove off in opposite directions. As he drove south out past the Country Charm, Donny wondered what his life would have been like if both he and Scott had never left home.

Mike and Fred were still in the front yard, but they were done working, the rakes leaning up against the wheelbarrow, the row of leaf piles in the middle of the yard. They were talking, and Donny recognized his father’s body language as his patient listening mode. As he parked the Land Rover he heard his father laugh.

They went to dinner that night at the little storefront Mexican restaurant in town and Mike paid for it, shaking off Fred’s gentle protest. The food was as good as Donny remembered it, and as they were walking out through the front bar, he passed Stan Tasker sitting at another booth. He looked years older, now large in the belly, a stained Miller Beer t-shirt stretched tight across his gut, his hair under the Tigers cap shaved almost to the skin, and he had grown one of those chin-cupping goatees that were the fashion among the redneck crowd. His wife, whose name Donny remembered was either Sheryl or Eileen, was sitting next to him, her dyed hair looking somewhat frazzled, and she was irritably trying to control a two-year-old child who was loudly protesting his confinement. Stan glanced up from his large combo platter as they passed, and for a second he had a glimmer of recognition. He raised his paw, still holding the fork to wave and looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but at the moment the child let out a glass-shattering wail, Stan’s eyes glazed over, and he went back to his meal. Donny nodded, said nothing, and followed his parents out to the street.

They left early the next morning after a quick breakfast of toast and coffee. The sky was grey and threatening, not unlike the morning in January when Donny had hugged his mother, said he’d call when he got there, and he’d be back before Valentine’s Day. This time his parents stood on the front porch waving and telling them to drive carefully. Mike thanked them for everything, Donny hugged both of his parents, the exhaust from the idling Land Rover making his eyes sting. The heater purred as they drove to the entrance of southbound I-75, heading for Dayton, then west on I-70 to Indianapolis, St. Louis, then I-44 to Oklahoma City, then I-40 to Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Needles, Barstow, San Bernardino, and home.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 46

So Popera

Instead of meeting in the CAA offices in Century City, the meeting was in a suite on the fortieth floor of a skyscraper in downtown Los Angeles. Gina called and told him to meet her in the lobby at 2:45. Donny crossed the lobby at 2:44. He saw Gina in the atrium standing next to a towering ficus tree in a large white pot. She was dressed in a black suit with a white blouse that reminded Donny of the Susan Dey character in L.A. Law; all business but still attractive. She was talking on a cell phone. She nodded when she saw him and held up her hand. Donny stood a few feet away and waited. He had borrowed Marc’s attaché case for the script and the abstracts, and he absently tapped his fingers on the leather handle.

Gina finished the call and gave him a quick smile. “You look good,” she said.

“Thanks,” he replied. The jacket was comfortable, but the shirt still had a touch of starch in the collar, and he felt the prickle of a few errant hairs from the trim he’d gotten that morning when Marc mentioned that he was looking a little shaggy around the ears and sideburns.

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” Gina said. “It’s going to be us against Jeremy and his entourage. Count on D’Angelo to do all the talking. Let him; it’s what he gets paid for. There will be some other people there, including Jack Magahee, but he won’t say much, if anything. I’ll do all our talking. Even if they ask you something, just smile and be charming, but let me talk. That’s what I get paid for. Besides, they’re not expecting you to talk. Understand?”

“Right.”

“Now, they’ve all gotten copies of your script. Even Aaron.”

“Will he be there?”

“Yes. They will all say they love it. They will all indulge you, they’ll stroke your ego and make it sound like you’re the next David Mamet. Then they’ll ask you for your overall view of how you see the project and where it will go; what kind of legs will it have and so on. Did you draft up something for the next few episodes?”

“Uh, yeah,” Donny replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask to see them.

“Good,” she replied. “Then when that’s over they’ll proceed to rip it to shreds. Each person will have their issues. Don’t take it personally. This is the way it works. It’s all designed to get you to go along with what they want, and frankly, they’re going to get it, so you might as well play along.”

Donny smiled to himself. If things went the way he planned, they weren’t going to get that far.

“Then I’ll take over,” Gina continued, “and I’ll tell them that we’re prepared to take this project to someone else who’s ready to do it the way you’ve written it and that I’ve already had inquiries from three producers who are looking for projects for cable or indie films. Then we’ll shake hands and walk out.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They’ll call me before the end of the day and we’ll work something out.”

“Okay. Do you really have three other producers lined up?”

Gina smiled.

They signed in at the security checkpoint, then took the express elevator. They were alone. His ears popped as they ascended. “How come we’re meeting them here?” Donny asked as the car came to a stop.

“Neutral territory,” she said. “This is Jack’s office.”

The elevator doors opened onto a reception area with a smooth grey marble floor and a softly-lit center area with a mahogany desk. On either side of the desk was a waiting area with identical wingback chairs in soft mauve and a low coffee table with magazines and a flower vase in the exact center. At each end of the reception area were tall wooden double doors. A series of abstract paintings hung on the wall behind the desk, and the walls themselves were a cream white with a subtle plastered surface trimmed in dark wood and wainscoting. A receptionist was seated at the desk behind a small computer screen. He was a young man dressed in GQ casual style, his hair cut fashionably short, and a single small diamond earring glittered from his left earlobe.

“Gina Roscoe,” Gina said softly as she approached the desk, as if the room itself made her lower her voice.

The receptionist nodded, and without acknowledging Donny, pushed a button on the large telephone console and repeated her name. He nodded, and then said, “Just a moment.” He went back to looking at the screen, and Gina led Donny to one of the waiting areas.

Donny looked around again. This was clearly the top of the hill in terms of the offices he’d seen, including those at some of the larger banks and stock firms he’d gone to with Greg when they were making presentations to potential investors. It was also very quiet. Except for the occasional purr of the phone and the soft “Magahee Associates...thank you,” when the receptionist answered, it was silent. Even the passing elevators and the “ping” of the bell were hushed. Compared to his own office, which, compared to the old place above the dry cleaners, was fairly quiet, this was like a tomb. Donny thought he’d go nuts if he worked here. Someone needed to turn on a radio or something.

The door at the other end opened and a woman stepped out. “Ms. Roscoe,” she said just above a whisper, and Gina and Donny followed her through the doors and down a long hallway. The silence continued as they passed open doors to offices where people were working as if they were in a monastery; even the office machines and printers were sedate. The carpet was plush and thick as if it was chosen for its ability to absorb the sound.

It occurred to Donny that the office reflected the man; in the two times he had met Jack Magahee he had barely spoken above a whisper, and it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the most known unknown name in the film business had earned that reputation because he never raised his voice.

They came to another set of doors at the end of the hall. These opened into a conference room with a large expanse of glass overlooking downtown and west all the way to the ocean. The glass was tinted enough to keep the glare of the sun to a minimum and give the room soft but rich lighting, enhanced by the track lights in the ceiling. An assistant wheeled in a small bar cart with bottled water, glasses, and an ice bucket.

There were already several people seated around the large wooden rectangular conference table. Donny did not recognize any of them. They were all white men ranging in age from late twenties to mid-thirties; all dressed in very expensive, very conservative blue and grey business suits, reminding Donny of the auditing team from Ernst & Young that had paid several visits to McKay-Gemini last summer. They all stood up as Gina entered, and she went around the room shaking hands and murmuring soft greetings. She seemed to know them all. They ignored Donny until Gina said, “And this is Donald Hollenbeck.”

They all shook hands and murmured greetings. One of them whose name was Tom looked at Donny curiously and said, “Are you by chance any relation to the newsman from CBS who committed suicide in 1954?”

This was not the first time that someone had mentioned that there was another Donald Hollenbeck; it had come up in high school during a unit on the history of broadcasting in Social Studies class when they read about Edward R. Murrow and his battle with Senator Joseph McCarthy. That Donald Hollenbeck had the misfortune to say on the air that he supported Murrow, and had been hounded for it. Mr. Peters, the teacher, had asked Donny the same question. “No,” Donny replied now as he had then, “just a coincidence.”

“Oh,” said Tom with a tinge of disappointment.

They all sat down again and Gina indicated to Donny where he should sit; on the side of the table looking out over the city. As they were sitting down, Donny whispered to Gina, “Who are those guys?”

“They work for Jack.” she whispered back.

The door opened and five more people came in; two women wearing nearly identical business suits except one was tall with nearly white blonde hair. Her counterpart was shorter, full-figured, and wearing her hair in a tight bun. The tall one wore a touch of lipstick and was all business; the shorter one looked stern. The two men who followed were both dressed like all the other men in expensive suits, and in spite of his new clothes and haircut, Donny felt like he was the scruffy farm boy.

They were followed by another man who looked as if he was directly out of the pages of the Armani catalogue. He was compact and trim with handsome Latin features and perfectly coiffed hair that came to a slight pompadour. On any other man it might have looked overdone or even gay, but on him it looked good, and he strode into the room with an air that radiated confidence.

Gina smiled and said, “Hello, D’Angelo.”

Everyone stood up, and the introductions were made again, but before Donny could say anything, D’Angelo turned to him and clasped his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Hollenbeck; it’s an honor to meet you in person.” Before Donny could reply he was on to the next person. His voice was louder than everyone else’s but not alarmingly so, and as he went around the table shaking hands and greeting the men from Jack’s office, the mood lightened a little.

Out of the corner of his eye Donny noticed two other men slip into the conference room; Jack Magahee followed by Aaron. They stood off to one side, Aaron nervously picking at his suit coat. After a moment Jack said quietly, “Why don’t we all have a seat, shall we?” and everyone immediately sat down, leaving one chair vacant directly across from Donny. An expectant silence settled over the room and a moment later Jeremy entered, and his entourage immediately leapt up, followed by the rest, and finally Donny. He thought, “Well, you gotta hand it to him. He knows how to make an entrance.”

Even though he was wearing Hollywood casual – an open-necked shirt, a light tan jacket, pressed jeans and moccasins without socks – he made it look like he was still the sharpest-dressed person in the room. He greeted everyone warmly, remembered names, patted the men on the shoulder as if he was their closest friend and was politely flirtatious to the ladies, saving his dimpled grin for them that made even the stern one crack a smile. But he saved his warmest greeting for Donny, clasping his hand with both of his and giving him a wink that suggested they were on equal terms. “Great to see you again,” he said, then took his chair, knowing the one in the middle was meant for him. D’Angelo passed him a leather portfolio, and he flipped it open, revealing the title page of Donny’s script. He steepled his fingers and looked directly at Donny.

“Well, I have to say I’m very impressed, Don. You rose to the challenge admirably. This is a terrific script, and I see where your ideas really pan out.” He shrugged a little. “There are a couple of little rough spots, but I don’t see anything that a little touch-up by Aaron couldn’t smooth over, am I right?” he said, glancing over at Aaron, who was seated on the far end of the table by the corner.

“Uh, no,” coughed Aaron, shaking his head. “Just a little here and there.”

“Right,” continued Jeremy. He pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and put them on, flipping through the pages of the script. “Like here, on page twenty-one where you introduce Bobby; he’s the last one we meet, but...”

“Excuse me,” said Jack, his voice barely above a whisper, but loud enough that everyone heard it, and they all froze. Jeremy looked at him and smiled expectantly. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, Jeremy, but this meeting is for the purposes of getting acquainted.” He chuckled a little; it was almost silent. “So before we get too far into this, let’s introduce ourselves.”

Jeremy’s smiled became fixed. “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry.” He waved his hand diffidently. “Of course.”

“Good. I’m Jack Magahee,” he said, nodding at the woman sitting next to him, and they went around the room and came back to Jack. “Now, I also wanted to make sure of where we all stand here.” He glanced at Donny, gave off a tiny grin that lasted a split-second, then fixed his gaze on Jeremy. “We’re here to discuss the project that Don has come up with and that we’re all looking forward to having this pilot into production very soon. I’m sure we all agree that it’s a worthwhile effort and that it has our full support.” Heads nodded, some more vigorously than others. Jack tapped his copy of the script. “There will be plenty of time between now and the beginning of production to discuss the little things. Am I right?” More head nodding, and someone said, “Right.” Jack was still looking at Jeremy. “So,” he continued, “let’s have Don review his concept and then if there are any questions, we can discuss them. All right?” That got a murmur of consensus. Jack looked at Donny and gestured slightly. “Don?”

Gina whispered, “Okay, you’re on. Make it short and sweet.”

Donny had a sudden flashback to the night at Paul’s house where Aaron had presented his concept for Back Home Again and how this mousey, hesitant, and stammering little man had suddenly switched on the confident charm in front of the audience of Hollywood moguls and investors. Maybe it was the lawyer in him, or maybe it was because it was the film was something he believed in. He took a quick look around the room, down at the script in front of him, and then at Jeremy, who was gazing at him with that mixture of charm and veiled contempt that he’d seen before...in people like Bryce, who had stared him down over lunch and told him that he was a nobody, or Marty, who had fished three hundred dollars out of his wallet to get him to go to a motel and get out of Mike’s life, or Stan Tasker, who bullied him until the summer of sophomore year when Donny’s suddenly-muscular physique and tackling abilities took the air out of him at the two-a-day practices for varsity football. He remembered holding Marc in front of the fireplace in the house in Idyllwild, and he remembered what Danny had said, his voice coming through the cell phone loud and clear: “You can take him, twin.” A calmness spread over him as he looked around the table, like the feeling that comes when a fever breaks. “Well, all right,” he said, and began.

There was a short silence when he finished, then Jack nodded and said, “Thank you, Don,” and everyone else except Jeremy took their cue and nodded and murmured. Gina whispered, “Good job.”

D’Angelo was the first one to speak. He cleared his throat and gave Donny a dazzling smile. “I think it’s a great idea and I’m sure we all agree that it has great potential.” He paused as everyone in his entourage nodded and murmured agreement. “But don’t you think, Don, that this idea is more suited for something like cable – HBO or Showtime, perhaps? Doing a show about four gay men living together might be a little too edgy for the networks. I’m just saying that perhaps the country isn’t quite ready for this on the same networks that have Touched by an Angel.”

Gina rested her hand on Donny’s arm, her signal for him to just nod, smile, and let her answer. Donny took the hint and he bobbed his head in a sign of tacit agreement and then glanced at Gina. She nodded and was about to speak when Jack said, “Well, D’Angelo, to quote Lanford Wilson, ‘anything’s possible with a little taste and charm.’”

Everyone nodded and murmured assertively, and Donny whispered to Gina, “Who’s Landford Wilson?”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly and whispered back, “I don’t know. Just listen.”

D’Angelo continued, “I agree, Jack, but look what happened when PBS ran Tales of the City. The Jesus-freaks went nuts and they threatened to cut off federal funding for PBS. Rumor has it that they’re going to finish out the series on cable. So unless you want S and P jumping up your ass every time one of these characters has a date, you’re better off shopping this to cable, am I right?”

Donny whispered to Gina, “S and P?”

“Standards and Practices. The network censors.”

“Oh.”

“And what about advertisers?” D’Angelo asked. “Who’s going to want to associate their cars or soup or deodorant with a program about gay people? Might be a hard sell. That’s why Aaron’s approach as a sitcom would be an easier sell.” He looked at Donny and cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll also make a lot more money on the networks then on cable. A lot more exposure, too.”

Everyone nodded and murmured assertively and Donny wondered if that was part of their job description.

“I also wonder,” Jeremy said, looking around the table, then fixing his gaze with the dazzling smile on Donny, “if there’s enough conflict here to sustain a weekly series. There’s gotta be more to it than just the gimmick of four gay guys sharing a house in Santa Monica. It’ll need something that will grab the viewer’s attention every week. That’s what makes soap operas like this work, y’know.” He shrugged. “So I’d like to know what’s next. What happens once we get through the gimmick?” He sat back and looked around the room. Everyone nodded.

Donny looked back at Jeremy; the smile was almost a smirk, and he tried hard not to respond in kind. He looked down at the abstracts that he’d typed up, then at Jack, who nodded, and Gina, who whispered, “Go for it.”

“I’ve thought about that,” he said, “and I’ve come up with some ideas.” His throat suddenly went dry and he took a sip of water, then another. Everyone was waiting expectantly, and he caught a glimpse of Aaron, far away at the end of the table, wiping his glasses with a cocktail napkin. “I thought we might focus on one character at a time in each of the first few episodes so we got to see them through their eyes and get to know them better.” He paused, and some people, including Jack, nodded their assent. He took another sip of water. “So I thought we might have an episode where Bobby gets a job working at a film studio as an assistant or as a, y’know, clerk or something working in finances. While he’s there he meets a well-known celebrity named Stan Towers who takes an interest in him, and asks him to go out to dinner...all very above-board and, y’know, normal, but pretty soon it becomes obvious that Stan, who’s about Bobby’s age but has a reputation as a straight heartthrob, is interested in more than just being friends, and he puts the make on Bobby.” Donny was now staring down at the papers in front of him. “At first Bobby resists because he doesn’t want to get involved with a married man who’s in the closet, but Stan tells Bobby that unless he sleeps with him, he’s going to tell the studio that Bobby was stalking him and he’ll get fired and maybe arrested. Bobby is about to go to sleep with Stan when he finds out from a friend at the studio that Stan once made a gay porno movie and he has the film to prove it. He tells Stan that if he’ll leave him alone, he’ll promise never to reveal his secret. The last scene is where Stan is on the red carpet at the Oscars with his lovely wife on his arm and People magazine has voted him the sexiest man alive for another year, and we cut to Bobby being interviewed for a new job somewhere else.”

Donny closed the folder and looked up, sweat prickling under his arms, his throat still dry. The entire room was stonily silent, even more so than ever. No one was moving or even, it seemed, breathing. The only sound was the faint stir of air through the ventilation vent in the ceiling and far, far away, the burr-burr of a muffled telephone ringing in another office. Jeremy was staring at him, his expression fixed in a narrow glare, his lips almost gone, his jaw clenched to the point that small red spots were appearing where the dimples normally were. His hands were on top of the table, drawn tight into fists, the knuckles almost white. Donny took a sip of water, the sound of the ice clinking in the glass loudly enough to rattle the windows. He looked down at the folder, opened it, and said, “Then there’s an episode where Eric’s twin brother, a lieutenant in the Air Force, comes to visit....”

Jeremy interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper, “Jack, may I speak to you in your office? Alone.”

“Certainly,” said Jack calmly. He rose from the table and opened the side door. Jeremy got up, glared at Donny, and almost said something until D’Angelo touched his sleeve. He followed Jack out the door, and the door latch clicked behind them.

The room suddenly breathed again, and the little noises – the creak of a chair, the rustle of paper, the drumming of fingers – came back. Everyone was trying hard not to look at anyone else. Donny heard Aaron cough once, then again, and he slurped half a glass of water.

“Jesus,” whispered Gina so that only Donny could hear her.

A full five minutes went by. Donny found himself staring out the window and saw that if he looked past Jeremy’s empty chair he could see the tall buildings in Century City, and over D’Angleo’s shoulder he could see airliners lining up to land at LAX, their anti-collision lights twinkling through the heat and smog. But no one else moved, and they remained so until the side door opened and Jeremy came in, followed by Jack.

“I’d like a few moments alone with Don, please,” Jeremy said, inclining his head to D’Angelo in a signal to get everyone out. D’Angelo herded his group out the main door, followed by the others. The door closed behind them, leaving just Donny, Gina, Jack, and Jeremy.

“Everyone,” said Jeremy tightly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” began Gina, but Jack held up a hand. “It’s all right, Gina. I promise,” he said. He held open the side door for her and she turned to Donny. She started to say something, thought better of it, then got up and left the room. Jack followed her and they were alone.

Jeremy went to the window and turned his back on Donny, who was still sitting. Finally he let out a long sigh of exasperation and turned around. His expression had relaxed; his eyes were wide open now and almost sparkling. “I just told Jack that I’m not going to work on your little project, Don.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out.”

Jeremy nodded and stood behind a chair, drumming his fingers on the top of the back, making a staccato sound. “Yeah. So.” He paused, glanced up at the ceiling, and then said, “So what do you want?”

Donny took his time standing up, letting Jeremy watch as he picked up the folders and script and put them back in Marc’s attaché case. “What do I want?” he replied.

“Yeah. I’ve been down this road a lot, Don. You guys always want something. They never get it, but they always ask.”

Donny shook his head. “Very simple. Leave Marc alone.”

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so he told you. I guessed as much.” He shrugged. “Yeah, okay. No big deal. That’s it?”

“Pretty much,” said Donny, closing the attaché. “Oh, yeah,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “one more thing.”

Jeremy shook his head. “Yeah, there’s always ‘one more thing.’ Okay, what is it?”

“Mike’s movie. Get it released or at least get it out there so that it doesn’t go straight to video. Let him earn something back from it; him and his backers,” Donny said, remembering Eric’s investment as well.

Jeremy spread his hands. “Hey, I have no control over it. I’m not in charge of who releases what out there.”

“Bullshit,” replied Donny simply. “You can do it.”

“And if I can’t?”

Donny smiled grimly. “Let’s not think about that, because we both know you can.”

Donny watched Jeremy, and for the first time there was a glimmer of what Donny took to be respect in his expression, as if he was on equal terms. But if vanished quickly, and Jeremy pursed his lips. “Yeah, right,” he said skeptically, and turned to look out the window. Donny took that to mean the meeting was over. He picked up the attaché and started for the doors.

“Where is it?” Jeremy said quietly without turning around. Donny knew what he meant.

“Locked away in a safe place where no one can find it, and that’s where it’s going to stay.”

Donny was about to open the door when Jeremy said, “You’ve seen it or just heard about it?”

“Seen it. Someday you’ll have to tell me about ‘Rubythroat.’”

Jeremy chuckled tonelessly. “How do I know you won’t sell it to the highest bidder?”

“Because you know I’m not that kind of guy, Jeremy.”

Jeremy turned around. “Yeah, I guess so.” He smiled wanly. “That’s why you’ll never make it in this town, Donny.”

It was Donny’s turn to smile. He looked out the window at the distant glass towers in Century City, knowing exactly where his office was and the work that was piled up waiting for him when he got back, including the meeting later in the week with three bidders for the new subcontract to take over tech support and the review of the backorders for Gemini Control. He laughed softly.

“I already have,” he said and opened the door.

Gina was waiting for him in the reception area next to the elevator. She looked at him and deadpanned, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

“He’s off the project,” Donny said simply.

Gina pursed her lips and pushed the button. A moment later the doors slid open silently. She waited until they closed and they began their descent before she spoke. “That was either the ballsiest thing I’ve ever seen or the stupidest. I haven’t decided which.”

Donny didn’t reply. He watched the numbers counting down to “L” on the little LED display over the door.

“You’re not going to tell me what that was all about, are you,” Gina said as the doors opened.

Donny shook his head. “No, I’m not.” He started across the lobby to the door to the parking garage. Gina caught up with him.

“Look,” she said, “do you have any idea how many people there who have been literally working themselves to death to get what you just had? How many guys are slaving away in their little tiny apartments off Hollywood and Vine writing some script that they hope with their last dime from Mom and Dad back in Buttfuck, Montana will get them into see someone like me, to say nothing of someone like Jeremy Dixon or Jack Magahee? You just had their biggest wet dream come true, Don, and you used it... to what? Embarrass one of the biggest stars in Hollywood in front of his manager, his agent, and all those other people? What the hell for?”

“Look,” Donny said, trying to keep his voice low, “I did what you asked. I came up with some ideas for the following episodes. Jeremy didn’t like them.”

At that moment Jeremy and his entourage crossed the lobby and went out the front door. If he saw Gina and Donny he didn’t acknowledge them. Donny looked back at Gina. “As for your guilt trip about all those poor guys slaving away over their scripts, I’m sorry, but that’s their problem, not mine. I never planned on this in the first place, and as far as I’m concerned, I really don’t give a shit what happens.”

Gina glared at him. “So what do you need me for?”

Donny shrugged. “You tell me. You want to fire me or whatever, that’s fine. If you find someone who wants to make Small Town Boys, that’s fine, too.” He looked at his watch. It was almost four. “I have a real job to get back to, Gina; I’ve already spent too much time working on something that so far hasn’t earned me a dime.”

“Me too,” she said. “Look, I’ll see what I can do about smoothing things over with D’Angelo.”

Donny spread his arms, the attaché case dangling from his right hand like an apple on a tree branch. “Whatever, Gina. I did....” He almost said “I did what I had to do,” but thought better of it. “I did what you asked me to,” he said. He looked at his watch again. “I need to get back to work.”

“Well, I need to get back to clients that actually earn me a living,” Gina said as she pulled out her cell phone. Donny gave her a wan smile then turned and went through the door into the garage.

He was at a stoplight on Wilshire re-running the meeting in his head and remembering the look on Jeremy’s face when he noticed the pick-up truck in the lane next to him. It looked familiar, and he realized with a jolt that it was his old truck, the one he’d bought off the used car lot from Kistler Ford in Toledo. It looked much the same as it had when he’d last seen it at the dealership where he’d bought the Mustang, including the little dent in top of the left front wheel where he’d misjudged the turning radius and caught a little bit of a phone pole on a job site. The back was filled with pool cleaning equipment: brushes, hoses, and buckets of chemicals. The driver was a young Mexican guy, his ethnicity made apparent by the Mexican flag dangling from the rear view mirror. He was listening to the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the light. He glanced over and saw Donny looking at him. He nodded, smiled a little, and looked back at the light, which then changed. Donny let the truck pull ahead of him and he followed it for a couple of blocks before it turned onto a side street. At the next stoplight Donny pulled out his cell phone and called Danny.

He made it back to the office by four-thirty. The end-of-year evaluation folders for staff and administration were stacked neatly in his in-box, and he smiled at the reminder that he did have a real job. He pulled off his jacket and tie and draped them over a chair.

Marc tapped on the door, came in, and closed it behind him. “How’d it go?” he asked casually, but his expression was tense.

Donny emptied the attaché case, and handed it back to him. “Come on over to my place for dinner tonight and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Marc scowled. “C’mon, Donny.”

“Okay. It’s over.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, all of it; Jeremy, Small Town Boys, and probably my career as an executive producer along with it.” He picked up the folder on top of the stack and grinned at Marc.

“What about...?”

Donny looked at Marc and smiled. “Like I said. It’s over. So, we’re on for dinner?”

*

It was a warm night for November. Donny swam ten laps before climbing out of the pool and toweling off. He pulled on his sweats and tank-top and answered the phone on the second ring. It was Trish.

“How’d it go?” she asked, sounding like she already knew.

“Good,” said Donny. “Jeremy’s off the project, but he’s going to leave Marc alone.”

“Fair trade,” she said.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“What did Marc say when you told him?”

“He was relieved.” He looked into the house through the open door to the kitchen where Marc was slicing up some cheese to make nachos.

“I’ll bet. Hey, I’m in town,” said Trish. “Can I stop by for just a moment?”

Donny shrugged. “Sure.”

“Okay. Oh, I’ve got a friend with me. That okay?”

“Fine. Should I open up the wine?”

Trish laughed. “We’ll bring our own.”

“Even better.”

He told Marc, then went and changed into jeans and a polo shirt. Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. It was Trish, holding up a bottle of champagne. Behind her stood Jack Magahee.

Donny showed them into the living room, staring open-mouthed at Trish. She just smiled back, handed him the champagne, and said, “Here put this in fridge.”

“How do you...” he started, but she put her fingers to his lips. “Just chill, Donny. I’ll explain everything.” She sniffed. “Mmm, I smell nachos.”

They sat on the patio. Jack had introduced himself to Marc by saying that he was happy to finally meet him. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, “and all of it very good.”

Marc blushed a little. “Thanks. That’s nice to hear, finally.”

“I trust Don,” Jack said. “Or may I call you Donny?”

“Sure,” said Donny. He watched as Jack settled into the chair by the table. He seemed as quiet and reserved as he had that afternoon, but there was now brightness in his eyes, and although his voice was still soft, it had lost the somber tone that forced everyone else to be respectfully quiet as well.

“Actually, maybe I should call you Will...as in Shakespeare,” Jack said sagely. “‘The play’s the thing...’”

“‘Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king,’” said Donny with a little smirk.

Trish looked puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

Jack chuckled softly. “You should have paid more attention in high school English, Trish. Hamlet, Act Two. Donny used that little trick today on Jeremy. Worked, too.”

“So start from the beginning,” Trish said. “I want to hear all the gory details.”

Donny let Jack tell the story about the meeting and then Donny told them about his own meeting with Jeremy afterwards.

“So your idea for the upcoming episode about the celebrity in the closet with the notorious past was a little too close to home for Jeremy,” Trish said with a smile of satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” said Donny, grinning. “He knew that I knew. I even asked him what ‘Rubythroat’ meant.”

“You didn’t,” gaped Trish.

“You betcha. Hey, if I’m gonna to take him down, I’m gonna go all the way,” he said.

“More than that,” said Jack. “Jeremy knows that if that tape ever gets out, he’ll be selling real estate in Tarzana.”

“So how many people really know about it?” asked Marc.

“Well,” said Jack, “a lot of people have heard rumors, but very few people have actually seen it. You belong to a very select group of people who know about it.” He looked at Marc and Donny. “It took a lot of guts to take him on. If it had gone the other way, he could have made your lives miserable.”

Donny thought back to the night in front of the fireplace, holding Marc as he wept uncontrollably. “He already had.”

“Mmm,” Jack said pensively, nodding at Marc. “You’re not the first person he’s done that to, and I daresay he had it coming.” He smiled a little at his own joke, and then said, “I think you went about it in the right way, Donny. Very few people in the room knew exactly what you were talking about, so when the word gets out that Jeremy’s not going to be in it, the story will be ‘creative differences.’ That was a wise move not to out Jeremy in public, and if you’re as smart as I think you are you’ll keep it to that way. Sometimes it’s a good idea not to tell people everything that you know. Knowledge is power, and in this case, nothing is gained by spreading it around. Jeremy will respect you a lot more if he knows you’ve got that power, and he can still swing pretty big bat in this town.”

“So to speak,” Marc said dryly.

“I take it you knew,” Donny said. “About the movie.”

Jack nodded. “Who do you think told Trish and Duncan where to find it?”

Trish lit a cigarette. “So popera,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s all a big soap opera,” she said, “this whole Hollywood scene. If you put it in your show no one would believe it.”

“Well, you can forget about it,” Donny said. He slouched in his chair and lit a cigarette. “It was sorta fun while it lasted. I don’t know why I ever thought it would work.”

“D’Angelo did have a good point, Donny,” said Jack. “Doing the show your way means that a network like NBC won’t touch it. Doing it as a sitcom takes the danger out of it; if you can laugh at the stereotypes, they’re not a threat. Seeing limp-wristed fairies doesn’t make people nervous. The show would have been a hit if you’d gone along with Aaron’s approach.” Jack took a chip and munched it thoughtfully. “Or should I say Jeremy’s approach. He was the one who told Aaron to turn it into Designing Gays.”

Donny shook his head. “Damn,” he said disappointedly, “I thought Aaron was on my side.”

Jack held up his hand. “Don’t be too hard on Aaron. He was only doing what he thought was right and what he thought would get the show on the air. You can’t blame him for wanting it to succeed, and since Jeremy was going to be the star, it made sense to him.” Jack leaned forward a little. “Look, Donny, I agree with you. It’s long past time that the networks stopped treating gays like they did blacks fifty years ago; as tokens or as the butt of jokes. But these things take time, and it’s not easy to be a groundbreaker.” Jack smiled; it was a crooked little grin. “But if you’re still willing to try, I’m with you.”

“Gina’s pissed at me. I think she’s gonna fire me.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Without a star,” Trish said, “what chance has it got?”

“There are plenty of other actors who would be happy to take it on,” Jack said.

“Name one,” said Donny.

“How about Lance Michaels?”

Donny sat up straight in his chair. “You’re kidding.”

“I spoke to his agent about an hour ago. He’s sending Lance your script, and unless there’s some reason that he doesn’t want the part, he’s going to play Bobby. I also spoke to the agents for...” Jack reeled off the names of five or six well-known young actors, “and they’ll be coming in for readings next week. Now that Jeremy’s out, Aaron will work with you; I guarantee it. We’ll shoot the pilot after Christmas, and this time next year it will be on one of the cable channels. A major one, not some little rinky-dink start-up.” Jack looked at Trish. “So what did you do with that bottle of champagne? I’d say it’s time to drink a toast to Small Town Boys.”

Trish and Jack left about an hour later. As Trish was picking up her purse Donny took her aside and said, “Okay, so how do you know Jack Magahee? Are you two...?”

Trish said innocently. “You mean you don’t know? He’s my mom’s brother.”

“So he’s your...?”

“My uncle Jack.”

Jack smiled. “Like I said, Donny; you don’t tell everything you know. C’mon, Trish; I’m driving.” Jack had not touched the champagne.

Later that night in the dark in Donny’s bedroom, Marc said quietly, “You think it’s really over?”

“You mean all this shit with Jeremy?”

“Yeah.”

“I sure hope so,” Donny replied, getting out of bed to find his boxers. “But I’m still not gonna shave my balls.”

Marc laughed, and it was a good, strong laugh from him; the first one Donny had heard in months.

Chapter Guide

Small Town Boys - Chapter 45

The Tale of the Tape

“What did you tell her about me?” Marc asked when they were back on the freeway.

“Pretty much everything,” Donny said, steering with his knees while he unwrapped the candy bar.

“Jesus,” Marc replied, staring out the window.

“Look, one way or the other she’s gonna know about you and your past and what you did with Jeremy Dixon. Better she knows about it now rather than read about it in the tabloids.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Two cars – Trish’s red Mercedes and a brown Toyota – were parked in front of his house. Trish got out of her car and a woman and a man got out of the other. Donny recognized Minza – she was short with Mediterranean features and narrow glasses – and they shook hands. The man was introduced as Duncan. He was tall and thin with blond streaks in his hair and delicate features, and he was wearing a purple shirt and narrow trousers with tassel loafers. Some people just radiate “gay,” Donny thought.

He introduced Marc to Trish, and she introduced Minza and Duncan as “old friends.” Duncan smiled primly and cast a cruising eye over Donny and Marc as they went into the house. Donny offered drinks and then they went out to the patio.

“Place looks nice,” Minza said. “Funny how you ended up with it.”

“Yeah,” Donny. “Funny how things like that work out.”

After a little bit of small talk, through which Marc sat silently, Trish put out her cigarette and looked at Marc. “So,” she said, “you’re the guy who wants the dirt on Jeremy Dixon.”

Marc shifted in his seat. “Well, I already have the dirt,” he said softly. “I just want to know if anybody else has it...and...”

“And what you can do with it before he does something to you.”

“Yeah.”

Trish nodded and looked at Minza and Duncan. “Well, thanks to the P.A. underground, it just so happens there is something.” She grinned broadly.

“The what?” Donny said.

“Production assistants’ underground,” said Duncan. He indicated himself and Minza. “That’s us. We’re the invisible people on the movie sets; the ones who get the coffee, the ones who make sure the stars get from their trailers to the set, the ones who get their dry cleaning, pick up their brats from day care, take the dogs for a walk and scoop up the turds.” Duncan affected a Southern accent. “We’s the he’p, Miz Scarlett.”

“Which means,” Minza said, “we know everything. We know who’s on what meds, who’s banging who, and what famous macho star likes to get fluffed between shots so he looks like he’s packing the big one.”

“Fluffed?” said Donny.

“I’ll explain it later,” Trish said. “Anyway, both Duncan and Minza have worked on productions with Jeremy, and both of them know that he likes, on occasion, to hang out with guys.”

“And she means hang out,” said Minza. “As in pull out their cocks and play with it.”

Marc looked at Duncan. “Did he do it with you?”

Duncan laughed; it was a high-pitched, almost feminine giggle. “Oh God no. I’m not his type. He likes ‘em buff and butch, and,” he indicated his frame with a wave of his hand, “I’m neither, honey. You’re more his type.” Duncan giggled again. “And he is not my type, just for the record.”

Donny asked, “So you know people that have slept with him?”

“A few.”

“Who are they?”

Minza and Duncan exchanged glances. “Well,” Minza said hesitantly, “the problem is that if we tell you and word gets out that we told you, we’d never work again. And as much as I love being paid a hundred bucks a day to clean up after someone else or do their laundry...”

“Or spend hours a day photocopying scripts or standing out in the street stopping traffic while you shoot the same scene over and over again,” Duncan inserted.

“...Right,” said Minza. “As much as we hate it, we don’t want to screw it up.”

“So you won’t tell us,” Donny said. He looked at Trish for help, but she was nodding in agreement.

“Even if we gave you names and phone numbers,” Minza said, “it doesn’t do you any good. They’ll deny it, and then where will you be? And they’ll figure out who told you.”

“So,” Marc said, “we’re right back where we started.” He shook his head and started to get up. “C’mon, Donny; drop me off at the office so I can get my car and go home.”

“Hold it,” said Trish. “We’ve got more.”

“Like what?”

Trish lit another cigarette and blew the smoke out like she was doing a scene in a movie. “Think about it. What’s the one thing that would completely ruin Jeremy Dixon’s clean-cut sex symbol image; the one thing that would get every movie he’s ever made yanked out off the shelves at Blockbuster and throw up picket lines at every opening of every new film he ever made, assuming that he could ever make another movie again?” Trish raised an eyebrow.

Marc thought for a moment, and then slowly widened his eyes. “You’re kidding.”

Trish grinned broadly. “Nope.”

“Holy shit,” breathed Marc.

“What?” said Donny, completely mystified.

Marc looked at Donny. “Porn.”

“Porn?”

Trish nodded. “Porn. And not just any porn...” She raised her eyebrow again.

“Oh my God,” said Marc.

“What?” said Donny again.

“Gay porn,” said Trish.

Donny looked at Duncan and Minza who were nodding and smiling. “I have a friend,” Duncan said archly, “who has a friend, who, aside from being one of the best set decorators in Hollywood for the last forty years, has the most amazing collection of classic pornography in the world. I’m talking first-rate stuff – not that shit they make on VHS in the Valley – that goes back to as long as there has been photography, and books and art that go even further back than that, including some Japanese prints and a copy of the Kama Sutra that dates back to the nineteenth century.” Duncan paused for a moment. “It just so happens that one of his little gems is a film called Batter Up. It was made about ten years ago by a couple of guys who were just goofing around, having some fun with some hot young guys one summer, and guess who one of those guys is.”

“Jeremy Dixon,” said Donny, and Duncan touched his finger with his nose in the classic Charades signal to indicate he was on the nose.

“And,” said Trish, opening her voluminous purse and pulling out a VHS cassette box, “Duncan’s friend was kind enough to run us off a copy. You have a VCR, I presume?”

They went into the living room and Donny turned on the TV and VCR.

“The only problem,” Duncan said, “is that of course his name isn’t on it and the quality isn’t all that great. These guys weren’t Frank Capra...”

“I don’t think Frank Capra made porn,” Minza said dryly.

“Well, if he did it would be Capra-porn,” retorted Duncan.

“You’ve seen it?” Marc asked.

“No,” Duncan admitted, “but I got a blow-by-blow description.”

Minza snorted. “Very funny.”

Donny put the tape in and punched Play on the remote. The screen went blank, then a grainy, jumpy picture of a baseball stadium came on. It was clearly stock footage of Yankee Stadium with the shots of the crowd and close ups of famous batters and pitchers. The sound was tinny with crowd noise and electric organ music, and once or twice the image jumped and scrolled as the VCR’s tracking mechanism adjusted the image. There were no opening credits.

“That’s just the establishing shot,” Duncan said.

The scene changed to the dugout and showed a row of ballplayers, all of them young and well-built, sitting on the bench wearing baseball uniforms. They acted as if they were watching the game, and it became clear from the dialogue that their team was winning. The camera cut to a shot of someone hitting a home run, then back to the dugout where all the men jumped up, whooped and hollered, and some hugged each other. None of them was Jeremy.

“Go team,” said Duncan, and Trish shushed him.

The action cut to a locker room – established by showing a couple of old gym lockers and a bench against a green wall – where three or four of the players were in various stages of getting undressed. Bits of dialogue – “way to go guys!” and “yea, team!” – was heard. The camera zoomed in on one of the players as he pulled off his shirt, revealing a muscular chest and six-pack, and waited as he pulled off his pants and his jockstrap, revealing his large cock, already half-erect.

“Whoa,” said Trish approvingly.

The camera pulled back and another equally well-built player came in. Some dialogue ensued along the lines of “Hey, buddy, you played a really good game. You really know how to swing that bat,” to which the stripped guy responded by grasping his cock and saying something like, “Thanks, buddy. How’d you like to play a little more?” Some rhythmic music heavy on the bass and sounding like leftover disco from 1970’s came on and the action got down to the business of what the film was all about.

Donny watched with a mixture of fascination and amusement. He had once seen a porn flick when he was in high school at a senior-year bash at Larry Thompson’s house and Larry ran some on his Dad’s ancient Bell & Howell in the basement. It had been straight stuff with big-bosomed women having sex with guys, and he and his friends had laughed most of the way through it, and Donny remembered that he didn’t find it especially arousing. This time, watching two guys engage in sex didn’t have the filmmaker’s desired result on him either.

The scene then shifted to a motel room and the same two men were going at it on the bed in a variety of positions until, after a few moments and some close up shots of a variety of body parts and quick cuts to the facial expressions, another voice was heard off-stage saying, “Hey, can anyone join the party or is it just for guys with big meat?” Donny recognized it as Jeremy’s voice.

“My God, that is Jeremy,” said Duncan, and they all leaned forward to watch as the new guy entered the frame. He was naked as he approached the bed, but all that was seen was his back, and the camera zoomed in on his ass. He got on the bed and the other guys went after him. The camera switched to close-ups and the screen was filled with a tangle of arms, legs, mouths, and cocks. The music became driving, the groaning got louder with the occasional “Oh yeah man suck it” and other ad libs, and finally they were treated to a series of cum shots accompanied by shouts and moans. Then the camera pulled back to reveal the two original actors kissing as the film faded to black.

Donny hit the Pause button. “Okay,” Donny said, “those are really good shots of his back and his ass, but where’s his face?”

“There’s gotta be more,” said Duncan, and Donny pushed Play again. The scene shifted to a Greyhound bus going by, then an interior of the bus with two different players, one black and one Latino, sleeping next to each other. It soon became a scene where they were engaging in sex with much the same action as before and the same music. Then suddenly the screen cut to black, then the electronic snow of a blank tape.

“That’s it?” said Donny, pushing the Fast Forward button. The screen jumped and scrolled, but it was still snow. This went on for a few moments before Donny hit Stop. “Where’s the rest of it?” he said.

“There’s supposed to be a scene where he gets into the showers with another guy with his face and everything,” said Duncan.

Donny pressed Fast Forward to the end of the tape. Nothing but snow. “Shit,” he said angrily. “This isn’t any good. We never saw his face.”

“Well this sucks,” said Trish, “and not in a good way.”

“You heard his voice,” said Duncan petulantly.

“Well, he could say it was dubbed in or it was someone else,” said Minza. “But unless run a voice-print analysis on it or something, it’s useless.”

“Well, I’m sorry. The guy swears that it’s Jeremy Dixon. You heard his voice.”

“Does anyone else have the tape?” said Trish.

“It was never released,” said Duncan. “Right after he made it, Jeremy signed with CAA and they tried to get all the copies from the guys who made it. Obviously they missed one. Or part of one.”

Marc took the remote from Donny and started to rewind the tape.

“Well, other than that one scene where we see his back,” Donny said, “we’ve got nothing, and I don’t think we can prove it was him by showing just his ass. Shit.”

“Hold it,” said Marc.

“What?” said Donny.

“Hang on.”

The movie was in rapid rewind now, the action on the screen now a surrealistic high-speed series of jumps and cuts and split-second shots of the boys on the bus in engaging in comical rapid-fire sex in reverse. Then suddenly they were back in the motel room, going back furiously through the cum shots and back to the montage of close-ups. Marc punched Pause and the screen froze in a blurry dance of lines and squiggles. He backed it up frame by frame, the action jerking and jumping as the tape went back until Marc stopped it on one frame. The electronic static fizzled on the screen like stop-motion lightning, and the resolution was grainy, but it was clearly a man performing oral sex on another man. Marc pushed the Zoom button, and the picture enlarged to fill the entire screen with nothing but half an erection – the other half was out of the frame – a trimmed patch of pubic hair, and the surrounding square inches of skin. There was a small dark patch of color by the base of his cock in a shape that resembled a small bird with its wings spread.

“There,” Marc said triumphantly, putting the remote on the coffee table. “We’ve got him.”

“What?” said Trish.

“That tattoo,” said Marc, pointing at the screen. “It’s a hummingbird carrying a flower. A rose, actually. That’s Jeremy’s tattoo, and that’s Jeremy’s dick. I’ve seen them both up close and personal.”

Duncan was peering closely at the screen. “There’s some printing under it,” he said, “but the picture’s too grainy; I can’t read it.”

“It says ‘Rubythroat,’” said Marc. “He never said why, but that’s what it says.”

“You’re sure?” said Trish.

Marc chuckled. “No doubt. I’ve been there.”

“How many other people know he has that tattoo?” Trish asked.

Minza and Duncan looked at each other and shrugged. “I’ve never seen it,” said Duncan, “and I helped him get dressed a few times. I’ve seen him in his underwear; you can’t see it – and believe me, I checked him out thoroughly.”

“The only people who would know it’s there,” Marc said, “are those of us who have seen him fully naked and with a trim. I’d say that narrows the field considerably.”

“What about your friend?” Donny said to Duncan. “Has he told anyone?”

“Oh, no,” Duncan replied. “He likes his job. He’s very good about keeping secrets.”

“So why is he letting us have the tape?”

“I collect watches,” Duncan explained. “I have a 1930’s Mickey Mouse that he’s crazy about and so I’m trading him that for this and the promise that no one will ever know where it came from.”

“They won’t,” said Marc. “That I promise you.” He was ejecting the tape from the VCR. He put it back into the box and gazed at it thoughtfully.

Minza and Duncan left together; they both had early calls to work. “Another street location in the middle of suburbia,” sighed Duncan. “Never go any place fun.”

“Like where?” asked Donny.

“West Hollywood, Malibu, even Venice would be better than some dreary side street in Whittier or Anaheim. A whole day shot for five minutes of cops and robbers.”

Minza slung her purse over her shoulder. “I get to spend tomorrow running off the re-writes.”

“How many pages?” asked Donny.

“Who knows. Last week it was an average of ten pages a day. C’mon, Dunkie, I’ll buy you a Diet Coke.”

“Nice to meet you,” Donny said to Duncan as they went to the front door. “And thanks for giving up your watch.”

Duncan shrugged. “It doesn’t run and I have two others just like it. Besides, it’s worth it just to see that bastard Jeremy get it. And not in a good way.” He pecked Trish on the cheek. “See you later, babycakes. I’ll call you.”

Minza waved goodbye and Donny closed the door. They went back out to the patio and Donny lit a cigarette.

“So,” Trish said, “you’ve got him by the short hairs.”

“Literally,” added Marc.

Trish snorted. “So what are you going to do now?”

Donny blew out a long stream of smoke and grinned.

“Okay,” she said. “Surprise me.”

“Count on it.”

As she walked to her car, she said, “So, what are you going to do with the tape?”

Marc said, “It’s going into a safe deposit box at the bank after it’s sealed in an envelope and notarized.”

“Good plan,” Trish replied. “And good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

Donny drove Marc to the office to get his car.

“So when’s your meeting with Jeremy?”

“Gina’s gonna let me know.”

“What are you gonna wear?”

“I dunno; my regular outfit, I guess.” He had a navy blue blazer that he had bought shortly after the office had moved and he wore it and blue shirt, a dark red tie, and a pair of pressed khakis to important meetings. He had last worn it to the annual meeting.

Marc shook his head. “Not good enough. You’re going to a meeting with people who pay a grand for a suit. You can’t show up looking like you bought your clothes at J.C. Penney’s.”

“Well, I don’t think Brooks Brothers is open this late on a Sunday,” Donny replied.

Marc shook his head. “Even if they were, with your build you’re gonna have trouble getting fitted there unless they tailor it. Guys who shop there who have a forty-eight inch chest usually don’t have a thirty-two inch waist. There’s a big-and-tall shop nearby, though. They should be able to fit you off the rack. We’ll go tomorrow during lunch. We’ll get you some nice slacks and shoes, too; make you look the part.”

“When did you learn so much about fashion?” Donny said. Marc always wore a coat and tie to work even when everyone else settled for slacks and shirts without ties.

Marc smiled a little. “One of my regular clients was a real clothes horse, and when he wasn’t taking them off to get laid, he taught me something about nice clothes.”

They pulled into the parking garage. Marc’s car was the only one there except for the security guard’s. He started to open the door but then stopped, leaned over and kissed Donny. “Thanks,” he whispered, “for everything this weekend. Thanks for listening and....” He bit his lip and kissed Donny again. Then he got out, grabbed his bag from the back seat, and slammed the door. “See you in the morning,” he said, and tossed his bag into his car.

It was dark by the time Donny got home. He microwaved some burritos and booted up his computer. It didn’t take him long to come up with three abstracts of upcoming episodes for Small Town Boys; he had already outlined them in his head during the walk back yesterday afternoon and during the drive home. He printed them out and put them in a folder and left it by the backdoor with his car keys.

*

The salesman at the big and tall clothing shop looked like a linebacker for the Rams, but he knew clothes and was able to find a charcoal grey suit coat that fit Donny around the chest, wasn’t too long in the sleeves, and was as well-tailored and current as anything Marc wore. “I get guys like you all the time,” he rumbled. “You’re easy to fit in the jacket department; it’s the shirts that drive guys like you crazy. No one seems to make ‘em the right size in the shoulders and neck in proportion to the waist.” But he was able to find two oxford shirts – one blue and one white with faint pinstripes – in Donny’s size, and a pair of wool slacks that fit his waist. For the shoes they went to the store where Marc bought his, and they came back to the office after an hour and a half having spent just under five hundred dollars.

“I don’t think I’ve spent that much on clothes put together in my life,” Donny said.

“Better start,” said Marc, “if you plan on making Hollywood your other job. You’ve outgrown that scruffy farm boy look.”

“Huh,” said Donny. “Mike called me a ‘muscle-bound goof.’”

“Whatever. When’s the meeting?”

“At three tomorrow,” Donny replied, waving the pink message slip that Lily had left on his desk while they were out. “Did you take care of the tape?”

“First thing.”

“Where is it?”

“Like I said, in a safe deposit box at a bank. And I’m not telling you which bank, either. But trust me, it’s safe. What about you? Are you ready?”

Donny picked up the folder with the abstracts and handed them to Marc. He read through them and handed them back. “Yeah,” said Marc, “that should get his attention.”

Chapter Guide

Small Town Boys - Chapter 44

Mr. Perfect

A rhythmic sound filled the room making the air almost shake until Donny realized it was his heart pounding. He gripped the banister so tightly the wood creaked. Finally he was able to take a breath. “Why?”

Marc did not move. After what seemed like an eternity Donny came over to the couch and sat at the end, close to Marc. They both stared into the fire until Donny said, “Why, Marc?”

At last Marc turned his head a little, glancing at Donny for a second. “Did you ever wonder how I got through grad school?”

“No, not really. But...”

Marc held up his hand. “I need to tell you the whole story, Donny. Then you’ll...then you’ll understand.”

“All right.”

Marc gazed back at the fire and said quietly, “It’s not cheap, y’know.”

“Your folks helped you out?”

Marc shook his head. “It was all they could do to get me through undergrad. Stanford isn’t cheap, and the deal was that they’d pay for four years and that’s it.”

“Student loans?”

“Yeah. Fifty grand worth.”

“That’s a lot,” said Donny.

“Yeah. And the way they’ve got it structured, the repayment period can take up to twenty years...unless, of course, you pay them all off at once.” Another long pause. “I finished paying them all off last summer.”

The way Marc said that made the hair on the back of Donny’s neck prickle. “That’s ... fast,” he said. “How’d you do it?”

“You know one of the reasons I was interested in applying for a job with McKay-Gemini? It’s because you didn’t do extensive background checks, Donny.” Marc turned and gazed at Donny, his expression almost sorrowful.

The prickle became a full-fledged adrenalin rush. “Is there some reason we should have?” he said with a tremor, his mind racing to all sorts of conclusions about Marc, the finances of the company, and fifty thousand dollars plus interest.

“No,” Marc said, “at least not as far as the company’s finances are concerned. We’ve been through two independent audits since I started working there and you’ve seen the reports. Everything is where it should be.”

This gave Donny a small wave of relief, but Marc was still looking at him, his expression unchanged. “Then....how?”

Marc turned back and stared at the fire for so long that Donny wondered if he was going to answer him at all. Finally Marc said calmly, “I was a hustler.”

“A hustler?”

“Yeah. Escort, rent boy, hooker, whatever you want to call it.” He looked at Donny for a second, then back at the flames. “I gave it up long before we met. In fact, I quit before I went to grad school. But for a little while I was in the trade. Nothing weird, kinky, or unsafe, and I’ve been tested. I’m clean.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should have told you from the beginning.”

“So....” Donny began to ask, but Marc cut him off.

“You want to know how I got into it.”

“Yeah. I mean, I think....”

“You have a right to know. Not just as my business partner but as someone who’s spent a fair amount of time having sex with me.”

“Yeah.”

Marc rocked back and forth a little on the ottoman, the leather creaking. “Well, I never took a survey, but I don’t think guys get into it because that’s what they plan as their career choice. For me at least it was just something that...happened.”

When he arrived in Los Angeles the summer after graduating and a thin resume, he started working temp jobs as a bookkeeper, then got a job working for a storefront tax preparation company and finally, after a year, got an entry-level job at a financial management office for a talent agency. The pay was lousy with very few fringe benefits, and the chances for advancement were zilch unless he had an MBA, and that would take a few years and a lot of money. Then one day he was working on the finances for a guy named Chance who needed to shelter some income from taxes, and when he asked him about the source, he said admitted that he made it as an escort.

Chance was not an especially handsome young man; he was thin, of average height, but he had a boyish charm about him and, as he told Marc without any apparent sense of bragging, he had an above-average cock. He looked at Marc appraisingly and told him that if he ever wanted to try it out, he would probably do all right. Marc looked at Chance’s income and thought about the paycheck that barely paid his part of the rent on the two room apartment he was sharing with two other guys, the upkeep on his twelve year old Toyota with the oil leak and the bald tires, and the supply of Top Ramen and Cheerios that was his staple diet. An hour after he got off work that night Chance took him along to meet one of his clients, a middle-aged married man from Tucson who couldn’t believe his good fortune in finding that a handsome blond muscle boy would spend an evening with him in his suite at the Courtyard by Marriott. He told the man his name was Rusty and after an hour he came back to his apartment with two crisp fifty dollar bills. “That’s how it started. Chance got me a couple of other introductions, and....” He shrugged and looked at Donny. “Another career in Hollywood is launched.”

Donny had been staring at Marc the entire time, barely hearing what was being said. Instead he imagined Marc with strangers, going to their hotel rooms or homes or wherever, having sex, remembering what it was like the first, second and how many ever times after that he had slept with Marc, made love to him, never imagining or even wondering who had been there before him. Finally Donny snapped out of it. “But you said you stopped doing it before grad school.”

“Yeah. One of my regulars was a guy – named Guy, as a matter of fact – who was also in the financial business, and one night we got to talking about my future – not something you normally do with a trick – and he told me that if I ever expected to make it beyond H &R Block, I’d have to get out of the business; you can’t get a CPA with a criminal record, and it was only a matter of time before I’d get busted. He said he could get me a job working for a client of his that paid pretty well and I didn’t have to drop my pants. He said he’d be happy to write me a letter of recommendation to the admissions office for grad school. So he got me the job waiting tables at the Cantina, I got into grad school, took out the loans, and...you know the rest.” Marc snorted a little. “But he still got me off that night and gave me a big tip, saying it was a going-out-of-business bonus.”

In spite of himself, Donny smiled a little, and Marc did too. They continued to sit in silence until Donny said, “But what about the letters?”

Marc nodded. “I’m coming to that.” He looked around the room. “Whataya say we crack open that bottle of wine in the fridge?”

They opened the wine and found a jar of Planter’s in the cupboard. Marc’s mood lightened a little after half a glass or so. “To tell you the honest truth, Donny, I was planning on quitting before Guy got me the job. I wasn’t very good at it.”

“What do you mean?” said Donny. He had never had any complaints about Marc in bed.

“Well, I was kinda picky about what I’d let my tricks do. No penetration ever, me or him. No water sports. Nothing involving leather or toys or shit like that. Just your basic vanilla j/o, b/j romp, and for that I’d get a hundred bucks and a tip. One guy had me do nothing but put on a tight red Speedo and flex for him. That seemed to be the only way he could get off.” He poured more wine. “There’re a lot of weird people out there,” he added, “and some guys want it all. I walked out on a few, and after a while the word got around that Rusty doesn’t play well with others.” He shrugged and took a handful of nuts. “Too bad.”

They went back to the living room, this time sitting on the couch. There was a folded afghan on one end and Marc wrapped it around his shoulders. “So anyway, I’m in grad school, I’m working at the tax place on weekends, and I’m hanging tray at the Cantina, making enough money to keep a roof over my head and get some tires on the car. The loans paid for the tuition and books and whatever else I didn’t make at my jobs.” He sipped the wine. “Anyway, about a month before I met you and Paul, I was waiting tables and who should come into the restaurant but one of my old clients.”

“Yikes.”

“It’s not really a big deal. It’s happened before; it’s gonna happen again.” Marc took a deep breath. “What was interesting was who was with him.” Marc looked at Donny, and he got that dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Who?” Donny said, bracing himself for Marc to tell him it was Mike. He held his breath and stared at the fire.

“Jeremy Dixon.”

Donny blinked. “Jeremy?”

Marc nodded.

“You mean he and Jeremy were...?”

“Oh, no. My old client is a casting director. He’s well-known in town, and he’s too cheap to buy his ‘date’ dinner,” Marc said with a tinge of scorn. “So his dinner with Jeremy was strictly business. But it was pretty clear when he saw me he recognized me, and he dropped a couple of hints that he was glad to see me again. He even called me by my real name.”

“How’d he know it?”

“We wore nametags, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Anyway, I have a feeling that he told Jeremy about my previous career because when I brought them the check, Jeremy was staring at me, and he had this little grin like he knew exactly what I had done to earn the fifty bucks my former client added to the bill.”

Donny knew that look that Jeremy had given him. He had seen it across the table in the gazebo out at the Villa. “So what, did your client try to hook up with you?”

Marc shook his head. “No. I never heard from him again, and a couple of months later I went to work for Paul. But I did see Jeremy; he came over to the house a couple of times and once he was out at the Villa during one of those ‘straight’ weekends we have...y’know, like the cattle call. And he always looked like he knew. It began to creep me out.” Marc filled his glass again. The bottle was half-empty now. “I thought I was in the clear when I came to work for you guys. But then...” Marc let that hang out there for a while. “Along came Barry Kessler.”

“Your teacher.”

“Yeah, my teacher and one-time-only fuck-buddy. Jeremy was in Colorado – Aspen, I think – when the trial was going on last spring. He picked up the paper and read this little story in the back of the Rocky Mountain News about this teacher accused of having sex with his students, and he happens to read it the day after Marc Griffin of Los Angeles testified in Kessler’s defense, saying that he and the defendant had never engaged in any activity while Griffin was a student, blah, blah, blah. There’s nothing in the article that said that I was currently the CFO of McKay-Gemini, a software firm in Culver City, California, but Jeremy found that out, and he also found out that I had been known to spend the night with you, and that you had had a previous relationship with one Michael Lankowski, known better by his screen name of Lance Michaels, who was in negotiations with Jeremy Dixon to star in an upcoming film called Back Home Again written by Aaron White and directed by Milo Secor.” Marc took a long drink from his wineglass, hugged the afghan closer, and stared at the fire.

“How did he find out...?” Donny began, but Marc cut him off.

“I don’t know,” he said sharply. “He just did. This is a small town, Donny.”

“So then what?”

“He got in touch with me. He called me at the office. He invited me out to lunch. I didn’t know what it was about, but this was just about the time that Mike started putting together his company and Eric was investing in it and I figured he wanted to know some more about McKay-Gemini, or maybe he wanted to invest.” Marc suddenly got up from the couch, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. He paced in front of the fireplace. “So we went to lunch. At Spago, in fact. We had a table all to ourselves, away from the crowd. It started out all business, but it didn’t take him too long to get down to what he really wanted.” He stood in front of Donny, his back to the fireplace, and held open the blanket, striking a Chippendales pose that showed off the bulging pouch in his briefs. “He wanted me.”

“Jesus,” Donny whispered. He remembered that Mike had made a couple of allusions to Jeremy’s sex life, but he thought that was just adolescent grousing because he didn’t particularly like Jeremy and they’d had ego-clashes on the set. “So, Jeremy...”

“Yeah,” said Marc, closing the blanket around him and continuing to pace. “He’s a switch hitter. Probably something he picked up playing baseball,” he snorted. “Anyway, he said he knew about me, my background, my ‘previous occupation,’ as he called it, and he knew about you and me. He knew you and Mike had lived together for a while, had gone to Key West together, and that he had lived in your house after the earthquake. He knew everything, Donny.”

“So he was going to blackmail you?”

Marc chuckled hollowly. “Nothing so dramatic, Donny. This is reality, not Murder She Wrote. But yeah...he was just telling me that he wanted to have sex with me. He said it would be totally discreet; not just because he was seen as a straight sex symbol, but also for my sake; there were people – you, Greg, Eric, not to mention the board of directors – who would not like to find out that their CFO had once charged guys a hundred bucks for sex. I could lose my CPA. The California Board of Accountancy takes a real dim view of moral turpitude.”

“So...”

“So I said no,” Marc replied with a tinge of exasperation. “I told him that you and Eric and Greg knew about my past and that I didn’t have sex with married men. At least not any more. Hope you don’t mind that I said you knew.”

“No, it's cool. I understand.”

“Yeah. So, anyway, he kinda shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Well, if you change your mind, we could have a great time.’ But I knew he wouldn’t let it go, and I just kept waiting for him to drop the bomb on someone. Every time I got a phone call from the auditors or got something from the state board, I’d get freaked out a little. When you asked me to move in with you...”

“That’s why you said no.”

“Yeah. I couldn’t chance it.” He looked at Donny ruefully. “It’s also why I’ve been...avoiding you other than at the office. It’s not that I didn’t want to, it’s just...”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Donny said. “Glad to know it wasn’t me.”

“No,” Marc said with a little grin that lasted only a second before getting serious again. “Then he started calling me at home; just to say hi, y’know. Once in a while he’d drop a little hint that he still wanted to fuck around, but he’d always end it by asking how business was. Just to remind me that he knew.”

“He really scared you,” said Donny.

“No shit. Then around the middle of July he started hinting that he was getting bored with making the movie; he wasn’t crazy about Milo’s directing and he and Aaron were having ‘issues’ about the script. I guess he figured that by screwing me he'd be happy, which would make Mike happy, which would keep you happy, yada yada.... Trying to get to me that way; the guilt trip. That went on for a while, then he started bitching about how long the days were and how nice it would be just to get away and relax – he knew a place in Tahoe where he could just hang out with all kinds of privacy. He invited me to go away with him for a weekend up there, but I told him I was slammed with work. He said, ‘You ought to tell that slave driver you work for that all work and no play makes Marc a horny dude,’ or something like that.”

“Real subtle.”

“Yeah, well, when that didn’t work he changed his tune. He tried to make it sound like I was his best friend. He told me that he didn’t have any ‘real friends’ out here; everyone just wanted a piece of him and he knew I was just a regular guy who, y’know, wasn’t caught up in all the Hollywood bullshit. Like what you and Mike had.”

“He knows Mike and I aren’t lovers any more, right?”

“Yeah, but...you’re still friends. Anyway, he asked me out to lunch and apologized for all the sexual innuendo shit and said he was an asshole for acting like that, but he was under a lot of stress.” Marc took a deep breath. “And then...he asked me if I was happy working at McKay-Gemini.”

“He offered you a job?”

Marc nodded. “As his business manager. He said he’d double what you were paying me, free travel to a lot of good places, the usual Hollywood perks...”

“And you told him...”

Marc got a sly grin. “Well, I told him I’d consider it.”

Donny knew that was Marc’s polite way of putting someone off, but he had to make sure. “So you told him no, right?”

Marc’s grin vanished. “Well, Donny, I said I’d think about it. He said he was serious; he’d put together an offer and we’d talk.”

“Did you really consider it?”

“I’m getting to that.” He got up and started pacing again. “He invited me up to Tahoe for Labor Day. He was having a house party with his entourage; his agent D’Angelo, Christy the publicist and her husband, some kid – I forget his name – who was his gopher, and Neal, his business manager, and he wanted me to get to know them. I figured what the hell; it’s like one of those condo offers where you get to spend a weekend at some resort if you sit through their two-hour sales pitch. There wasn’t much going on; you and Danny were spending your last weekend together before he shipped out, so...”

“What the hell,” said Donny.

“Yeah. He flew us up there in this chartered Gulfstream, really laid it on thick with the chauffeured Suburbans and a chef on call at this huge log house right on the edge of the lake. The place was like a hotel, Donny; pool, hot tub, putting green, tennis court, sauna, fishing boat, in-home theatre, staff waiting on us hand and foot, food and booze all over the place. It was like a rustic version of the Villa.”

“So what’d you do there?”

“Just hung out. Took some hikes around the lake, went fishing, sat by the pool...”

“Was Miriam there?”

“His wife? No, she was on location. So anyway, everything was great, and then Sunday afternoon suddenly everybody else left. Jeremy sent them all back to L.A. He said he wanted to talk to me without all the distractions.” Marc continued pacing. “So....I waited for him to make the final job offer, whatever it was, so I could say no thanks, and that would be that. But he just said, ‘Y’know, we’ve got the whole place to ourselves; let’s just enjoy the peace and quiet, and when it come time to talk business, we’ll talk. Why don’t we go for a swim in the lake?’ So, we just kicked back and did nothing special. Went to the lake, came back, had a drink, talked about people we both knew from Paul’s place, and had a nice dinner by the pool. It was actually really relaxing, and frankly, Donny, he was just a regular guy when there weren’t all the other people hovering around. Then, after dinner, he says ‘Why don’t we take a dip in the hot tub?’ And I figured what the hell, y’know...? I mean, you gotta admit the guy’s good-looking, and...” he shrugged, “I was kinda curious. So...” Marc stopped pacing. He was standing in front of the fireplace again. “We got into the hot tub and... one thing led to another.” He shook his head wistfully. “The guy’s good. And I could tell that this was not the first time he’d done it; not by a long shot. For one thing, he shaves his balls.”

Donny winced. “Yeowch.”

“A lot of guys do it. They say it heightens the experience.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So, anyway...” Marc was still staring into the fire. “The next day – Monday, Labor Day – it was back to business. He said that whatever my current salary was with the company, he’d double it. He said I’d have complete control over everything, including investments and properties, and as a signing bonus he’d pay off whatever I still owed on my student loans and lawyers from the Kessler case because – and he actually said this – most people would probably steal it from him in order to pay them off, so what the hell. Finally, he said, ‘I’m counting on your complete discretion on everything we’ve discussed this weekend,’ and he was making it very clear that he didn’t just mean the business offer.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“I told him that I was overwhelmed by his generous offer and that I’d really have to think seriously about it. After all, it wouldn’t be a sound business practice to jump at an offer without examining it thoroughly. He kept pressing me for an answer – for me to say yes – but somehow I managed to convince him that I needed to really think it over. So... we came back to L.A., he said he was looking forward to hearing from me, gave me a squeeze on the thigh, and ... after three nights of not being able to sleep, not to mention his occasional phone call including one where he said he was going out to Palm Springs and looked forward to meeting you, I wrote that first letter.”

There was a long silence except for the hiss of the flames in the fireplace. Then Donny leaned back and said softly, “Jesus, Marc.”

Marc looked at him sternly. “’Jesus, Marc’ what, Donny? That I went to Tahoe with him? That I slept with him? That I might have exposed me and you and the entire company to extortion by one of the biggest names in Hollywood?”

Donny shook his head in disbelief. “All of it, Marc. I mean...”

Marc cut him off, chopping the air with his hand. “Well, no shit, Donny. Don’t you think I don’t know that? I’m real sorry that I’m not Mr. Perfect, Donny. I’m real sorry that I never made a fucking mistake, and I’m real sorry that when a good-looking guy who’s been on the cover of People magazine as one of the sexiest men in America gets naked with me in a hot tub that I responded like any red-blooded horny twenty-something gay man would do.”

“I never said I was Mr. Perfect,” Donny replied quietly, “And I’m not judging you. I just don’t understand why you wrote the letters.”

“It’s very simple. The idea was that if you were getting ‘anonymous’ letters about me, that means that someone other than me and Jeremy knows what happened at Tahoe. I can tell him that you got the letter and that would kill the deal.”

“But he didn’t buy it.”

“No. He said that he gets that shit all the time. Some paparazzi were probably camped out across the lake with a telephoto lens and saw the whole gang at the house. But the hot tub’s behind a huge fence; they’d have to had a helicopter to see us. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Even after I made partner he was still raising the offer, which is why I wrote the second letter so that maybe this time it was from someone in his own circle. That didn’t work, either.”

Donny remembered the second letter. He’d thrown it out.

“So now...” Marc stopped, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath. “So now, he says that if I don’t accept the offer and come to work for him by the first of November, he’s going to start making calls.” Marc’s shoulders sagged. “That’s Tuesday.” He got up from the ottoman and sat on the couch next to Donny.

“What are you going to tell him?” said Donny.

“I don’t know. I was hoping...that you would tell me.”

Donny didn’t reply. He put his arm around Marc’s shoulder, and he leaned against him. Donny felt him start to tremble as if he was cold until he realized that Marc was silently crying, taking short gasps of air between the sobs.

*

Donny woke up slowly, the grey light coming in through the windows, replacing the darkness. The fireplace was still on, but the room was a little chilly. Marc was asleep, still leaning against him.

He slowly got up from the couch, letting Marc, still asleep, lie down, his head on the little side cushion. He covered him with the afghan and went upstairs to put on his pants. He desperately wanted a cigarette.

The morning was grey and cold, almost like a late fall morning in Ohio, his breath mingling with the smoke. He replayed the night before, trying to remember all that Marc had told him and not pass it off as some dream.

When he went back inside, Marc was sitting up. “Coffee?” Donny offered, and Marc nodded. He shrugged off the afghan and trudged upstairs. He came back down a few minutes later wearing sweatpants and a UCLA sweatshirt but still looking sleepy and hung over. They drank the coffee in silence.

They showered and dressed and drove into town for breakfast at the café. Marc was silent. Donny, for lack of anything better to do while waiting for their food to arrive, idly read through the business section of the Los Angeles Times that the previous customer had left behind.

He was halfway through a story about Universal Pictures in negotiation with an English company about distribution rights when he put the paper down.

“How long has Jeremy been in the business out here?” he asked.

“Ten, twelve years, I guess,” Marc said. “He started a couple of years out of college.”

“And he’s what, thirty now?”

“Something like that. So what?”

“So,” Donny said, “Chances are you’re not the first guy he’s played with in the hot tub.”

“Probably not.”

“So...”

Marc sipped his coffee and made a face. “So what? Even if he has, he’s either bought them off or they’re too smart to say anything, knowing that Jeremy could ruin them, just like he’s about to ruin us.”

“Yeah, that’s if he knows who’s talking. But if it gets out there that Jeremy Dixon is gay and he can’t trace it back to you or me, he’s the one that’s gotta answer the questions on Entertainment Tonight, not you.”

The waitress stopped by to top off their coffee and bring the syrup pitcher for Donny’s pancakes.

“So how do we find out?” Marc asked. “If you start asking questions, he’s gonna know where it came from. And if you tell him that you know, he’s gonna put the bite on you by saying that he’s gonna out me as a former hustler. It has to come from someone that has no connection to you, me, McKay-Gemini, or even Mike. Do you know anyone like that? And even if you get some dirt on him, how are you going to let him know that in such a way that he knows that if he outs me, all the shit’s gonna fall on him, not me – or you?”

Donny thought for a moment, then grinned slowly. “The first part,” he said, “I think I can handle. And if that works, the second part will take care of itself.”

The waitress brought their food.

Marc had never been to Idyllwild before, so after breakfast they did a little sightseeing, driving up Saunders Meadow Road past the boarding school and then up to the trailhead that led to the top of Tahquitz Peak. The sun was out and the air was warm. Marc still looked dazed, but he gamely hiked along the trail until they decided they’d gone far enough and headed back to the house. Marc went upstairs and stretched out on his bed, barely kicking off his Nikes before falling asleep. Donny went out to the deck, sat on the wooden loveseat, and found out that the cell phone service in Idyllwild was pretty good.

After three rings Trish answered, sounding a little sleepy, but she was happy to hear from him, and she was surprised to hear where he was calling from. “Is Lance up there with you?”

“No,” Donny said. “Um, let me tell you why I’m calling....”

Twenty minutes later Donny hung up, his ear a little sore from the small earpiece on the cell phone. He watched as a couple of scrub jays fought over a pine cone, swooping and diving at each other. Then he pulled out his wallet, found the card Mike had left in one of the boxes of books, and made another call. He got no answer and no machine. He hung up, then dialed another number. This time the phone was answered on the first ring.

“Lieutenant Hollenbeck speaking.”

“Hey, twin.”

*

Trish called back later that afternoon. “When are you coming back to L.A.?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“I dunno. Late afternoon, I guess.”

“Okay. Call me when you’re an hour away from your house and I’ll meet you there. Will Marc be with you?”

Donny glanced over at Marc, who was idly flipping through an old copy of Architectural Digest that a previous renter had left behind. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Even better.”

“What’ve you got?”

Trish chuckled. “You’ll see. ‘Bye.”

Marc glanced up. “She’s got something?”

Donny shrugged. “I guess.”

Marc stood up and stretched. “What could she find out about Jeremy that the National Enquirer hasn’t already dug up?”

“We’ll find out, I guess.”

Marc shook his head. “Gossip is one thing. It’s like saying that Tom Cruise is gay, but no one’s ever come up with the proof that he actually is. Just a lot of guys who want to bang him, but there’s no smoking gun...so to speak.”

Ten minutes later Gina called. “Where are you?”

“Up in Idyllwild.”

“Idyll-weird we used to call it. Anyway, wanted to let you know that the meeting on Monday’s off. Jeremy’s people have a conflict but they still want to meet, so we’re pushing it to Tuesday. That okay with you?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Good. Oh, and they liked the script, but if you can outline the next three or four episodes, that’d be great. Nothing fancy; just a paragraph or two so they can get an idea of what’s coming up.”

“Uh, okay,” Donny replied, trying not to sound hesitant. He hadn’t really thought much about the following episodes, figuring that if it actually got on the air, they’d hire a real writer to do them.

“Bring them with you to the meeting. I’ll call you on Monday with the time and place.”

“Okay,” said Donny, and the line went dead. “Goodbye,” he said, after she hung up. He smirked at Marc. “The meeting with Jeremy’s postponed until Tuesday and they want outlines of the following episodes.”

“Kinda funny, isn’t it,” said Marc. “You’re about to go into business with him...and I’m trying to get out of doing just that.”

“It’s a little different,” said Donny.

“Yeah. You’re not gonna have to let him suck your dick.”

They went for a walk up the road, the same road Donny and Mike had hiked last winter. They went on in silence, finally arriving at the semi-circle of boulders that overlooked the valley. The road had been graded earlier in the summer and the tire tracks were smoothed over. It hadn’t rained in a while.

Marc stood at the edge of the overlook. The light breeze ruffled his hair and he smoothed it down absently. “So, what should I tell Eric and Greg?”

“The same thing you told me. Greg will understand, and Eric will be jealous.” Donny said.

Marc smiled a little, but said, “I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I. I’m not convinced anything’s going to happen that will make you have to quit, and even if Jeremy Dixon does get the word out about your past, I can’t imagine that anyone in the company would care. I sure don’t. Shit, you know Eric and Greg started the business with drug money.”

Marc had heard the story about Greg’s basement hydroponics. “A couple of teenagers selling weed out of their basement. Not exactly the Cali Cartel.”

“Still. The papers could make it sound like they were the biggest pot dealers in the Southland, and that’s saying a lot. ‘Sides, what matters is now, Marc. How long has it been since you turned a trick?”

Marc shook his head ruefully. “I forget. It doesn’t matter. Jeremy will make it sound like I’m still doing it.”

Donny pulled out his cigarettes but then remembered the warning about wildfires, so he stuck the pack back in his pocket. “You got all freaked out last spring about the trial, too,” he reminded Marc. “You talked about quitting then.”

“Yeah, and look what happened. That’s how Jeremy came up with this.”

“Shit happens, Marc.”

He shook his head and kicked a small rock off the road. “Look, I know. And maybe your friend, whatshername, will come up with something. But still....”

They stood in silence for a while, listening to the wind in the trees. Then they heard a deep, loud crack like a thunderclap that echoed up the valley. There were no clouds, and they looked at each other puzzled until Marc suddenly grinned. “Earthquake,” he said. “We’re right on the De Anza Fault.”

They walked back down the road, kicking up little puffs of dust, Donny lost in thought, until a germ of an idea formed in his mind and grew slowly until they stepped up onto the porch. He must have been smiling because as he opened the door Marc looked at him quizzically and said, “What?”

“Nothing,” Donny said. “Oh...hey...how did you pay off your student loans?”

It was Marc’s turn to smile. “I invested every dollar I made hustling in some good stocks and paid them off with the proceeds.”

“Wow.”

“Well, I am an accountant.”

*

After dinner Marc went out to the deck and took the cover off the hot tub. He dipped his hand in the water. “Nice,” he said, pulling off his sneakers.

Donny got the towels from the upstairs linen closet, and they stripped and got in, settling in slowly, letting the warm water soak in. Donny wondered if Marc was using this as a prelude to sex, but he decided that if it was, he would let him take the lead. He sat on the other side of the tub, facing Marc.

“Perfect,” Marc sighed, closing his eyes and sliding down until the water came up to his chin. Donny agreed; the warm water felt good on his back, which was still sore from sleeping upright on the couch. He too closed his eyes and drifted, remembering the last time he had been here and what had happened with Mike, and he felt a tingle in his cock. He banished the thought by thinking back to his phone call to Danny and his twin’s concise advice.

Donny opened his eyes and looked at Marc, who was now sitting up, his arms resting on the edge of the tub, his skin now a light pink from the warm water.

“I’m not Mr. Perfect,” Donny said.

Marc looked at him with a quizzical smile. “Who said you were?”

“You did. Last night.”

Marc nodded. “Oh, that.” He waved one hand dismissively. “Forget it.”

“I smoke.”

“Not that much; what, a couple of packs a week? By the way, why do you smoke?”

“Picked it up when I was working construction.” Donny tried to remember back to when he started smoking for real; not just the times after playing with Craig. It was the summer after high school, building a garage. One of the other guys on the job offered him a Camel while they were having lunch and he bought a pack on the way home. His parents didn’t say much; his father still smoked a pipe.

“It makes working out kind of pointless, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Donny replied, glancing down at his sizable arms and chest, “but...like you said, I don’t smoke that much. But I still have my flaws.”

“You’ve never charged guys for sex, Donny. No one’s ever gonna blackmail you. That’s what I meant. And I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it to sound like it’s a bad thing to be a nice guy.” Marc gazed up at the stars. “Wow,” he whispered, barely audible over the bubbles, “I could stay here forever.” He was silent for a moment. “Well, not in the hot tub, but you get the idea.”

“Yeah.”

“Ever think about that?” Marc said. “You’ve got enough money that you wouldn’t have to work for a while.”

“We both do, now.”

“Yeah. But did you ever think about just...quitting? Doing nothing for the rest of your life, or just doing what you want?”

Donny shook his head. “I couldn’t,” he said. “I can’t imagine not...doing something.”

“The work ethic, huh?”

“I’d be bored,” Donny said. “Hell, I’m not even twenty-five years old. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life just...I dunno, being ‘retired.’”

After a moment, Marc said, “Yeah, me neither. But this place...the trees, the mountains, the quiet.... I could see myself living here or some place like this, y’know, maybe setting up a little private practice, doing taxes and estate planning, a little bookkeeping just to keep me occupied.”

“Jesus, Marc,” Donny said lightly, “we just made you a partner and you’re already thinking about retirement.”

“Planning ahead.”

“By yourself or with someone?”

Marc smiled a little. “Well, we’ll see. What about you?”

Donny shrugged. “Same here.”

Marc smiled wistfully. “Yeah.”

After a half-hour or so, they went upstairs to take showers. Later, dressed in sweats and t-shirts, they drank the last of the wine sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace. “I needed this,” Marc said. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Hey, any time.”

Marc leaned against him and Donny put his arm around his shoulder. A moment later Marc whispered something in Donny’s ear.

“A whole box,” Donny whispered back, and they went upstairs to the master suite.

*

They left early the next afternoon, dropping off the key at the real estate office, and then taking the road down the mountain through Hemet and Riverside. When they got to Ontario they stopped for gas and Donny called Trish.

“I’m at a Shell station in Ontario,” he told her.

“See you at your house,” she said.

“What did you find out?”

“You’ll see.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

“I know. Drive carefully.”

Marc hung up the gas hose. “What’d she say?”

“’You’ll see.’ Again.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

Marc paid the clerk for the gas. “What have you come up with?”

Donny smiled. “You read Hamlet in high school?”

“Sure,” replied Marc.

“Good,” said Donny, and then nodded at the clerk. “Pack of Camel filters and a Snickers, please.”

Chapter Guide

Thanks!

Small Town Boys has been awarded the 2006 Practical Press Charles Dickens Award for "Best Serialized Story - Complete or nearly complete."

This is the second year in a row that it has won, so I must be doing something right...or is it write? At any rate, I'm honored to be recognized by my fellow writers, all of whom are excellent writers and sharers of dreams, passions, and truth.

I hope that by the time the awards come around next year, I'll have finished the story...so I can get started on the next one.

Small Town Boys - Chapter 43

Write On

They left town just as the sun was setting. Donny had stopped by the store to pick up some groceries – a couple of steaks, some chicken breasts, vegetables, a loaf of bread, salad makings, desserts, and some beer – then went back to the office to pick up Marc. Traffic was heavy heading east on the Santa Monica to the San Bernardino, but Donny figured by the time they got to Ontario it would thin out, and he was right. There were plenty of cars heading for Palm Springs, Las Vegas, or just the outlying towns, but they were all moving at or above the speed limit.

It had been three weeks since Mike had left for Michigan, and three weeks since Donny had his lunch with Jeremy Dixon. Mike had not called, but he guessed that he had arrived intact. The weather page in the Times showed that cold air had already begun to settle in over northern Michigan, and Donny thought of Mike in one of those heavy tan Carhart hunting jackets and orange caps that were the customary outfit of people up in that climate at that time of year.

Marc was silent the entire drive, which was in keeping with how he’d been for the last three weeks. In fact, other than business and taking his turn at the weekly staff and planning meetings, it was like he wasn’t there, so Donny was very surprised when Marc walked into his office Tuesday morning and said quietly, “That offer about a weekend at Mike’s place still good?”

“Sure,” Donny had said, not trying too hard to hide his surprise. “I’ll see if it’s available.” Marc nodded and left.

It just so happened, Brucie told him when he called, that the renters for that coming weekend had had to cancel because of a family emergency, so the place was theirs. She gave him the combination to the lock box at the real estate office where the key would be since they would be getting there after hours. Donny relayed the news to Marc, who smiled a little and went back to work.

The stream of headlights and taillights began to show spaces between them. Donny glanced over at Marc. He was staring straight ahead, his hands resting in his lap, subconsciously nodding his head to the beat of the music from the CD player, which at this point was Synchronicity by The Police. Donny reset the cruise control to keep up with the traffic and thought back to the lunch with Jeremy Dixon.

*

He was wearing almost the same outfit he’d worn at the Villa; a light sports coat over an open necked shirt and designer jeans. He was in full charm mode as he stood in the lobby chatting with Irene. Even though she was born and raised in L.A., her husband worked at MGM, and she claimed that celebrities were just ordinary people, she was obviously enjoying his attention as he admired the pictures of Ethan that were on her desk, and he was listening attentively as she told him about the day care center where her son spent his days. It was at a Jewish temple and run by Hispanic women, so her son, who was half-Irish and half-Chinese and baptized as a Catholic, was truly getting a diverse education. Jeremy laughed, his perfect teeth and to-die-for dimples on full display, and he greeted Donny with a firm handshake and pat on the back.

He had driven himself in a red Ferrari 355 Berlinetta. He made no mention of the fact that it was anything special, but as they got in Donny knew he was supposed to compliment it, so he did. Jeremy grinned wryly and said, “Yeah, but in the next couple of months I’ll probably have to trade it in for a Dodge Caravan,” a reminder of his wife’s pregnancy. He tapped the accelerator and the car’s exhaust let forth the rumble of a perfectly tuned engine.

By coincidence or design, they went to the same restaurant that Donny had been to with Aaron and Jack. The valets opened the doors and Jeremy pulled a notebook-sized leather portfolio out from behind the front seat before the valet took the car. The maitre d’ escorted them to almost the same table, and this time Donny noticed that Jeremy sat facing the rest of the crowd, which seemed to have a few more recognizable faces, including some stars that Donny considered to be legends. Jeremy had nodded a greeting to them as he made his way to the table, and once seated, several of them came over to say hello. Each time Jeremy introduced Donny to them, and one of them said, “So you’re the Don Hollenbeck I’ve heard of.”

There were a few changes to the menu since the last time, but Donny stuck with the chicken breast and iced tea. Jeremy ordered the fish – mahi mahi this time – and a club soda. As they waited for their drinks, Donny wondered how Jeremy would open the subject of Small Town Boys – or Just Us Guys. He had meant to tell Aaron that he liked the original title better, but he hadn’t had the chance.

Jeremy sat back in his chair, grinned at Donny, and said, “So, how’s business?”

“Good,” Donny replied.

“That’s great. I’ve heard a lot about your company. A lot of people say you guys are the next big wave, and I hear you’ve got a new product coming out pretty soon; a web browser of some sort?”

“Right, Gemini Control.”

Jeremy nodded. “Keeping you busy, I’ll bet. Did you write it?”

“No, I’m not in the writing end of it any more. I handle personnel and that end of the business.”

Jeremy nodded thoughtfully. “More the behind the scenes kinda guy, are you?”

“Yeah, guess you could say that.”

“So you let the guys who know how to handle the product do the work and you make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

Donny smiled a little to himself; he knew where Jeremy was going with this. “That’s right,” he said with a small nod, “but I also still have a hand in what we put out. I may not be writing code, but I do have a say in the product. I’m a partner.”

Jeremy got a tiny grin for a split second. “Well, that’s good. Good.” He tapped the table, glanced past Donny, and smiled to acknowledge the greeting of someone else across the room. He then looked back at Donny, laid the portfolio on the table, and folded his hands on top of it. The grin was gone. “Well, you see, Don, I hear you aren’t happy with the treatments that Aaron’s come up with for the project.” His tone was businesslike, but there was an edge to it and Donny sensed that Jeremy was sizing him up as someone to spar with.

“That’s right,” Donny replied, trying to match the tone.

Jeremy nodded tightly. “I see. What particularly do you object to?”

Donny knew that Jeremy knew exactly what his objections were; he was sure that Aaron had told him. “The people aren’t the people I had in mind. Eric, Scott, Greg...they’re like every stereotype of gay guys you see on TV all the time. That’s not what I wrote. You put those people on TV and people will laugh at them.”

“It’s a sitcom. They’re supposed to be funny.”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t want people laughing at the characters. And besides, I didn’t want it to be a sitcom in the first place. I wanted it to be more...real. Like thirtysomething.”

Jeremy opened the portfolio and glanced down at some notes. “Thirtysomething’s not real, either, Don. It’s a bunch of stereotypes, too; a bunch of whiney yuppies on the verge of a nervous breakdown. How believable is that?” He pulled out a folder and opened it. Donny recognized it as the first treatment that Aaron had showed him

“Well, I think it’s more believable – and more real – than the people in this show. I mean, look; you’ve got Eric as hairdresser. Come on. And Greg posing and flexing all over the place in a tank top. That’s...” Donny shook his head. “And Bobby is supposed to be gay, too, but now he’s a straight guy who talks about ‘chicks.’ He’s ....” Donny tapped the treatment with his index finger. “That’s not what I wrote.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was the original treatment he’d written; he’d had the presence of mind to print it out that morning, re-read it, and put it in his pocket just in case. He unfolded it, smoothing out the wrinkles, and laid it on top of the treatment. “This was what I originally wrote up. This is what I gave to Lance, and this is what Aaron saw. And this is what I thought Small Town Boys was going to be.”

If Jeremy was surprised, he didn’t show it. He looked at the original pages and read them quickly, then set them down. He was about to speak when the waiter brought their drinks. He waited until he was gone and then said, “Don, do you want this project to get done?”

Donny shrugged. “To be honest, I really don’t care. I just did that because Mike – Lance – said I should try it. So I did. But...” he shrugged again, “I don’t really give a shit.”

Jeremy grinned to the point where his dimples – both of them – showed. “Oh, really? Then why have you hired an agent? Why have you signed a Writer’s Guild contract? Why are you sitting here having lunch with me? If you didn’t really give a shit, you’d be back in your office doing whatever it is you do there.” Jeremy leaned forward a little. “You want this,” he said, tapping the portfolio. “You do; believe me, I know the feeling. And if you’re that fired up to get it done, then...then maybe you oughta listen to people who are actually in the business who know how to get things done and maybe you’ll accept the fact that not everything gets done the way you want it.” His grin got a hard look to it, the dimples faded, and his eyes were penetrating. “Look, I like this idea. I really want to do it. And I’m here to tell you as a friend, Don, that as much as I respect you and as much as I like your idea, it’s that’s the way it is. Aaron’s a good writer; hell, he’s a great writer. He’s gonna get an Emmy someday. Listen to him. Listen to me.” He leaned back with an air of certainty and waited for Donny to nod, smile, and say, “You’re right. Let’s go.”

For a moment Donny thought about saying, “You’re right. Let’s go.” But there was something in Jeremy’s expression, a smugness; a touch of arrogance that said “I win. I always do.” Donny nodded slowly and Jeremy almost grinned.

“How about this,” said Donny slowly, thinking back to those long nights he and Mike spent hunched over the dining room table going through the scripts. “You say Aaron’s a good writer, right?”

“One of the best.”

“Okay. Well, what if I give it a shot. What if I write the first script?”

Jeremy laughed. It was almost a cheerful laugh, but with a note of hollowness. Then he looked at Donny and said, “Sure. What the hell. Knock yourself out.” He laughed again, and as the waiter brought their plates, he added. “Why the fuck not.”

They ate in silence, Donny’s mind spinning at the amazing task he had just set before himself, wondering where in the world that impulse came from. Maybe Jeremy was right; he really did want the show to go on. One thing he was sure of; he’d have to learn how to write a screenplay in short order. And he’d have to tell Gina what he’d done, and wondered if she’d still want to be his agent; her advice to sit there politely and nod and say “I’ll consider it” was out the window now. He hadn’t even signed the contract; Allen was still looking it over.

He didn’t remember much of the rest of the meal. Jeremy had changed the subject and was talking about something and Donny was nodding and smiling, but he had no idea what was being said. When the check came Donny reached for it but Jeremy grabbed it, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, and left it. He tipped the valet a twenty and drove Donny back to the office.

It wasn’t until they were pulling into the parking lot that Jeremy said anything that snapped Donny awake. “I hear Mike’s taking a little break.”

“Uh, yeah...just a vacation to see his folks back in Michigan,” he replied casually.

“Uh huh,” said Jeremy. “We all need that now and then.”

Jeremy stopped the car by the front door.

“Well, this was interesting,” Jeremy said, his innocent and beguiling grin returning. “Good luck with your script; I’ll be looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”

Donny looked at him, Jeremy’s expression unreadable under the Prada sunglasses. “All right. I’ll get it to you.”

Jeremy nodded. “I’ll read it.”

“Thanks for lunch.”

“My pleasure.” Jeremy casually patted Donny’s thigh, doing it quick enough that it couldn’t possibly be construed as anything other than a friendly gesture.

Donny started to get out, and Jeremy said, “Oh, hey...I heard that Marc...um... Marc...Paul Jeffries’ assistant works for you now.”

“Marc Griffin. Yeah, he’s our financial guy.”

Jeremy nodded. “Good. He’s a nice kid.”

“Just made partner,” said Donny.

“Really,” said Jeremy, sounding a touch impressed. “Well, good for him.” He grinned and Donny got out. Jeremy gunned the engine a little. “Well, see you later. Good luck.” He expertly took the Ferrari around the turn back to the street, waited a second, and then laid a tiny little patch of rubber as he pulled into traffic, the rumble of the exhaust fading away.

There was an interoffice package waiting for him. It was Gina’s contract back from Allen with a Post-It note on the first page: Looks fine. Good Luck. A. He called Gina and told her would sign the contract. “Good,” she said. “I’ll send a messenger over for it Monday morning.” He briefed her on the lunch and his proposal. There was a short pause, and then she said, “Okay, that wouldn’t have been my first instinct, but give it a shot. Let me see it before he does. Good luck.” The line went dead.

The rest of the day passed in a fog. Donny didn’t remember talking to Greg about end-of-year inventory, or attending the weekly plan-ahead meeting, even though later he saw that he had taken notes. He didn’t remember stopping at the gym and working out although he was sure he did because he had the soreness to prove it when he finally came to sitting alone on the patio.

It was already dark. He was thirsty, hungry and sweaty. He slowly got up from the chair and went into the house, which was dark. He found his way to the empty bedroom, the room where Mike and Danny’s boxes were sitting, each in its own group on opposite sides of the room. He flipped on the light and blinked several times.

This was the only room in the house that had been emptied by the previous owner. As he remembered it from the time Mike had lived there, it had had a small office desk, a chair, some old furniture and several boxes of clothes. Now the only remnants of the previous occupants were indentations in the tan carpet. There was a phone jack in the corner. Donny turned out the light and went to bed.

Early the next morning he went to Office Depot and bought a computer desk, a comfortable office chair, a printer stand, a desk lamp, and some miscellaneous office supplies. The young salesman helped Donny load the boxes in the back of the Tahoe, and with the tools he had stashed in the garage from the toolbox in his old truck, he spent three hours putting the new furniture together.

He made a quick sandwich and then drove down to the office. The building was quiet; only the weekend security guard’s Ford Escort was in the parking lot. He nodded to him, signed in, and then went up directly to the warehouse where he remembered that Eric had stored a new Gateway that had been given to the company on spec. It was still in the original boxes. He loaded them onto the hand cart, wheeled them out to the Tahoe, and drove home. It took an hour to set it up, but by the middle of the afternoon he had moved the empty cartons from Office Depot into the garage, crunched them down to fit in the recycle bin, and he put the computer boxes in the loft space above the garage.

He went to one of Mike’s boxes and found what he was looking for. In addition to the souvenir script from Silver Star, Mike had saved all the shooting scripts from Return to Sender, a couple of scripts from Capitol Hill, including the dog-eared and heavily edited pilot, and a VHS tape of the pilot and the first two episodes. He remembered seeing the pilot at Paul’s house, sitting in the little theatre, watching the somewhat blurry video projection, and then watching the premiere at home with Eric and Rob. Then, hidden under some other files, was a tape of Silver Star. He had seen that in the theatre. He’d gone alone to an afternoon showing the weekend after it had opened. The theatre was half-full.

He got a beer and put the tape in. He followed along with the script in his lap, noting how the directions on the pages matched – or didn’t match – the actual finished product. He ordered a pizza, drank another beer, and then watched it once more, making notes on an old BGSU notebook he had left over from his American Lit class.

The next morning he got up, made a pot of coffee and booted up the computer. For a moment he stared at the blinking cursor in the upper left corner of the blank Word document, and then, slowly at first, but picking up speed, he started writing.

He stopped twice. The first time was to go to the bathroom – the coffee had had its effect – and the second time was to make a sandwich. The clock on the microwave read 1:49.

He kept writing, glancing occasionally through the scripts to check on how to write out a particular stage direction, but never letting up until he noticed that the room had gotten dark. He wondered if there was a thunderstorm approaching, then realized that it was because the sun had gone down. He looked at his watch – it was 6:27. He had been writing for almost ten hours. The page count read 110.

He got up and stretched. His back was aching and his eyes were burning. He went out to the patio. It was a cool evening but not particularly cold, and the pool water was warm to the touch. He stripped off his shirt and shorts, dove in, and swam a few laps, the exercise loosening up the kinks. He sat on the edge of the pool, shook the water out of his ears, then dried off, and got dressed again.

He scrolled through the script, making a few changes and correcting the typos. Then he copied it onto a floppy disc and put it with his car keys to take to the office. He ate the rest of the leftover pizza and fell asleep almost as soon as he got in bed. The next morning he ran off a copy on the laser printer, slipped it into a binder, and along with the signed contract, put it in an envelope addressed to Gina Roscoe and got it out to Irene’s desk in time for the messenger pick-up.

A few days later Gina called.

“You wrote this?”

“Yeah.”

“How much of it?”

“All of it.”

A pause, then, “Not bad.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll send it to D’Angelo,” she said and hung up. A few more days passed and Gina called again.

“They want to meet about your script. The earliest opening that works is Monday the thirty-first.” She chuckled. “Halloween.”

“Trick or treat,” replied Donny.

“I’ll call you later with the time,” she said and hung up. Donny was getting used to her habit of hanging up without saying goodbye.

*

The traffic was still fairly steady when they got to the turnoff at Banning, but they had the road to themselves as they headed up the mountain. Marc shifted in his seat, glanced over at Donny, smiled for no particular reason, and then settled back again. Donny switched the CD to Billy Joel.

The housekeeping service had left the lights on in the house. There was a little fruit and cheese basket on the kitchen counter with a welcome note from Brucie, and there was a bottle of white wine in the refrigerator. They unloaded the groceries and Donny took his duffel upstairs, Marc following him.

Donny flicked on the light in the master bedroom and dropped his luggage at the foot of the bed. The room looked the same as the last time except Mike had added a couple of personal touches such as a reproduction of an old map of Grand Traverse Bay over the dresser and a birch bark night table.

Marc stood in the doorway. “Nice place,” he said. Donny looked past him to see that he had turned on the light in the guest room across the hall and put his overnight case on the bed; a clear signal that they would be sleeping in separate rooms.

“Yeah,” Donny replied, “It is.” They went downstairs to make dinner.

Afterwards, Donny went out onto the back deck for a cigarette. It had gotten noticeably cooler just since they’d arrived, and small puffs of condensation came out from under the cover of the hot tub. Donny wondered if Marc would be interested in getting in, but Marc, who was still inside tidying up the kitchen, had been nearly silent throughout the meal and yawned once or twice, so Donny decided not to push the issue. A faint whiff of wood smoke drifted in and mixed with his cigarette.

Marc came out onto the deck and gazed up at the sky. “Whoa,” he whispered, “you don’t see stars like that in L.A. I mean the real ones.”

He was right. Other than the dim yellow bug lights in the sconces, there was very little light outside and there were no clouds. Just like last spring, it was like the stars were just overhead, and the Milky Way ran across the sky like a faint trail of tiny paint spatters. Marc went over and leaned over the railing of the balcony, resting his elbows and looking down to the valley below, his shoulders hunched as if he was cold or perhaps to ward off a blow. He let out an audible sigh.

“Everything okay?” Donny asked quietly.

Marc nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Just tired. Been a long couple of weeks.”

This struck Donny as a little odd. The work load had been normal, and other than a brief flurry of activity when the bank had mistakenly deducted a payment on the line of credit from the wrong account, there had been no crisis in the financial end of the company. The only thing that Donny could think of was the quarterly tax statement was due, but Cathy handled most of that now. What else was there?

Marc turned around, his back against the railing, his head thrown back, still looking at the stars. “Y’know,” he mused quietly, “you look at all those stars and it kinda makes you wonder if there are planets around each one of them with as much crap going on as there is down here. Wars, pollution, violence, all that other bullshit... or have they got it all figured out and we’re the ones that are clueless.” He looked at Donny and grinned a little. “Wow. Pretty heavy, huh?”

“Yeah,” Donny agreed. “And maybe on one of those planets there are people looking up at us and wondering if we’re as fucked up as they are.”

Marc snorted. He wandered over to the hot tub, lifted the corner of the cover, let a cloud of steam out, and let it fall back. “Well, whatever,” he said, then came over and gave Donny a quick hug. “I’m gonna head off to bed.”

“Okay. Sleep well.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Marc went inside and up the stairs. Donny finished his cigarette, rinsed out the ashtray in the sink, and turned off the gas in the fireplace, watching the ceramic fake logs cool off for a moment. He turned off the little light on the table in the living room and felt his way up the stairs. Marc’s door was closed.

He wasn’t sure what sound it was that woke him up; perhaps it was the click of a door latch and a moment later the creak of someone on the stairs. His watch read 1:30. He had left his door open, and faint light was coming up the stairs. Marc’s door was open but the room was dark except for the faint square of the window covered with the thin curtains.

He pulled on a t-shirt and went to the landing at the top of the stairs that looked out over the living room. The fireplace was lit, the flames the only light in the room, the soft mutter of the gas the only sound. Marc, wearing only a cut-off t-shirt and briefs, was sitting on the large round leather ottoman next to the hearth. He didn’t move, but he seemed to sense that Donny was watching him so when Donny came down the stairs and softly said, “Hey,” he didn’t seem startled.

“Hey,” he whispered back without moving.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Donny asked.

“New place, different bed. Takes a while.”

“Okay. You want something? Glass of water?”

“No, I’m good.”

Donny went to the kitchen and got a glass of ice water out of the refrigerator door, then came back and sat on the couch. Marc still hadn’t moved; he stared at the flames as if he was waiting for something to happen. Donny slowly drank his water, and when Marc still hadn’t moved by the time he’d drained the glass, he got up, put the glass in the sink, and headed for the stairs. “Well, I’ll see you in the morning, I guess. G’night.”

He was halfway up the stairs when Marc said, “Did you ever find out who sent you those anonymous letters?”

Donny stopped. “No.”

“Never tried to find out?”

“No, not really.” He started to come back down the stairs. “Why? Do you know?”

Marc nodded, and a sense of foreboding rose in Donny, growing, tightening, so that when he was able to finally say “Who?” it came out almost as a gasp.

“Me,” said Marc.

Chapter Guide

Small Town Boys - Chapter 42

Stop and Go

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Donny. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’ve been trying to call you all weekend,” said Mike. “I finally figured you’d be home tonight.”

“I’ve been in Santa Barbara.”

“Oh, cool. You and Marc?”

“No, Rob’s wedding.”

“Oh,” said Mike. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Donny looked at him closely. He appeared to be sober. “How was it?”

“Nice. So, what’s up?”

“You mean what the fuck am I doing breaking into your house and sitting on your patio in the dark?”

“Well, yeah.”

Mike shook out the match. “Well, I’m out of work. Return to Sender’s been cancelled and there’s not much going on, so I thought I’d take a little break. Oh, by the way, we wrapped up Back Home Again and chances are it’s gonna straight to video, even with Jeremy’s name on it. Somehow, someway, someone will make some money from it, but it probably won’t be me.” He took a long drag and leaned back in the chair, the plastic creaking a little. He was wearing a tight muscle shirt and jeans, the ones with the frayed cuffs and the button fly that he used to wear around the house when he was doing nothing. He still had the long hair left over from making Back Home Again and the bangs and sideburns made him look a little like a rocker from 1968. Donny pulled out a chair and sat down. Mike smiled a little. “So anyway, I’m outta here for a while, and I just thought I’d let you know that there’s some stuff at the old house that needs to be taken care of.”

“You’re moving out of there?”

“Yeah. The owner – whatsisname – wants to sell it.”

“Tucker.”

“Yeah. Old man Tucker. I made him a deal on the leftover furniture and stuff, but I thought you or Eric might want to do something about the piano.”

Donny had forgotten about the piano. Eric’s grandmother’s 1932 spinet had stood in the corner of the living room of the house and had served as a bar, a collector of records, junk mail, and dust – everything but as a musical instrument – since the day they had moved into the house. When Donny moved out he took his bed and dresser and put them in the guest room, and when Eric had moved to Palo Alto, he said nothing about the piano.

“You want me to sell it? Leave it?”

“No,” Donny said absently. “I’ll take it. I can come get it next weekend or something.”

Mike shook his head. “I’m out on by Friday. I’ll have someone take care of it. Where do you want it?”

“I’ll find a place for it,” Donny said. “Where are you going; Idyllwild?”

Mike chuckled. “No, a little further than that. Maple City.”

“Michigan?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

Mike shrugged. “Couple of weeks, a month, two months, who knows. Get there in time for duck hunting, then maybe deer season or get in some skiing.” He leaned back and stretched. “Clear my head of all this Hollywood bullshit for a while.”

“What about the house?”

“The management company’ll handle the rentals. They’ll pay the bills, they’ll send me a check every month, and frankly, that’s good enough for me. I never planned to live up there.”

“You’ll come back, though,” Donny said.

Mike looked at him for a moment. “Yeah, I’ll come back. I guess. I mean, I’m not firing my agent or anything. My new agent, that is. Marty’s gone, by the way.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“So when does your show start?”

Donny shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything since that weekend out in Palm Springs. I think they were just blowing smoke up my ass.”

Mike bit his lip. “Yeah, well, welcome to my world. ‘Cept you have a real job.” He leaned forward and put out his cigarette. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking,” he mused. “Maybe I shoulda just done what everybody else does; go along for the ride, screw around with people, get whatever I could, make a fucking huge pile and just...go along.” He stared off into the sky as if he was watching a plane or something pass over, and then looked back at Donny. “I’d probably be the big name like Jeremy Dick-son, but no. I had to have that old-fashioned small-town morality. Get there on my talent, not on my ability to cum three times in an hour.” He shook out another cigarette, and Donny heard Aaron’s voice in his head. “He’s amazing. When they’re on camera together, Mike blows Jeremy away; it’s like he’s not even there, and Jeremy knows it. It’s just sheer luck that Jeremy’s the guy on the cover of People magazine and not Mike; that he got the breaks and Mike didn’t. If he landed a part working for a director like Scorsese or Pollack there’s no telling how far he’d go. He could be the next Costner.”

They were silent for a while, letting the chirp of crickets and the distant sounds of the city take over. Finally Donny said, “You want to get something to eat?”

Mike smiled. “Sure, what the hell.”

They found some pieces of leftover Banquet chicken and a half a bag of salad, picking out the rusty and wilted pieces. Donny heated up some macaroni and cheese and got a couple of Rolling Rocks out of the fridge. They ate at the kitchen table.

“Kinda like the old days,” mused Mike, “us sitting around the table eating leftovers.”

“Yeah. So, you need a ride to the airport or something?”

Mike shook his head. “I’m driving.” He inclined his head toward the street. “Picked me up a new Range Rover last week and I’m just gonna take my time going back. Figure I’ll stop in some small towns on the way, too, take a look around. You could do worse then settle down in a place like that where nobody gives a shit about who you are or what you do.” He wiped his hands on a piece of paper towel, the grease making the paper translucent.

Donny felt a small twinge of envy. It seemed like a very long time since he had been able to just toss his stuff in the back of his truck and take off.

“So,” Mike went on, “what else is going on?”

Donny shrugged. “Not much.” It was as if the weekend at Palm Springs had never happened, and he wondered if this was part of Mike’s letting go. “Busy at work; new stuff coming out and...stuff.”

“Stuff,” echoed Mike.

They cleaned up and went back out to the patio by way of the sun room. “Place looks nice,” Mike said. “You keep it neat.”

“Never home long enough to mess it up,” said Donny.

Mike stood on the patio and looked up at the sky again. Donny had a sense of déjà vu, and then he remembered that they were standing on the spot on the patio where Mike had kissed him that first afternoon. In all the times since, they’d never stood here again. “Yeah,” Mike said absently, “I know what that’s like.” He glanced at Donny. “Look... I’m sorry about all the shit at the Villa. I’m glad...”

“Forget it,” said Donny quickly. “It was all just bullshit. I don’t know why I went. Like I said, I never heard from them. Fuck ‘em. I’ve got too much work to do anyway, and I’m not cut out to be a Hollywood mogul.”

“Me neither,” said Mike, and they laughed, and in the moment of laughter Donny felt an overpowering urge to grab Mike and kiss him hard. So he did.

Half an hour later Donny pulled on his jeans and unlocked the front door. “I’ll have the moving guys call you about the piano,” Mike said as he stood in the door.

“Yeah, okay,” said Donny.

Mike ran his knuckle over Donny’s chest. “G’night,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch.”

“Have a safe trip. Oh...hey, Mike?” Donny held out his hand. It took a second, then Mike smirked, pulled out his car keys, twisted the house key off the ring, handed it to Donny, and said, “Change the code.”

“Yeah, first thing.”

Mike strode down the sidewalk. “I’ll send you a box of fudge from Murdick’s.” The lights flashed on the Range Rover as Mike keyed open the door. He waved and drove off. Donny watched until he turned the corner and disappeared, then closed the door. He went back to the bedroom. It still had the slight aroma of sweat, sex, and Mike’s cologne. He picked up the pillow that had fallen off the bed, musing that he had let the moment pass with Eric, but not with Mike.

It was then that he noticed the phone machine was blinking. There were three messages. The first was from Aaron on Friday, asking Donny to call him as soon as he could. The second was from Jack Magahee, leaving a number to call on Monday. The third was from Eric, saying he’d made it back to Palo Alto. He had called an hour before Donny had gotten home.

*

The maitre d’ showed him to a table in the back of one of Beverly Hills’ best-known restaurants. Aaron was sitting with Jack Magahee, who had his back to the room. It was Tuesday, a little after one in the afternoon.

“Hi, uh, Donny. Glad you could make it,” Aaron said, getting halfway up from his seat and offering his hand. Donny sat next to him, and Jack Magahee smiled at him. “Good to see you again,” he said softly, his eyes barely coming up over the top of the menu.

“Thanks.”

“Well,” Aaron said, taking a sip of water, “I’m sorry that I didn’t get back to you sooner, but things....” He let the sentence fade off. “Anyway,” he went on, “I’ve started on some preliminary scripts and outlines for the show; thought we might like to look over them.” He pulled some folders out from his lap and showed them to Donny.

“Let’s order first, shall we?” said Jack. He nodded at the waiter who instantly stood at the ready. Jack ordered the filet mignon rare and a glass of red wine. Aaron ordered the fish and a ginger ale.

Donny quickly scanned the short menu; the cheapest item was a Caesar salad for twelve dollars, but he didn’t want to sound like a cheapskate, so he ordered the chicken breast on peppers and rice and an iced tea. The waiter nodded his approval, whisked the menus away, and left.

“Now, Donny,” Aaron said, “what I’ve come up with are just ideas. Nothing’s in stone. But in talking with Jeremy and others,” he shot a glance at Jack, “we think the best shot we have of getting this on the air is to follow my lead here.”

Donny opened the top folder and read through the introduction, the character break-down, and the summary of the pilot episode, but it wasn’t until he got to the second page and the sample of the dialogue that he realized that this wasn’t anywhere close to what he had sketched out last spring. The characters of Eric, Greg, and Scott were stereotypical gays; a flaming queen, a cute but dumb muscle boy, and the sensitive type who liked to read but could pass as straight. Bobby was the “fish out of water,” the straight boy who was sharing the house with the others because he was always fighting with his girlfriend, and he was the anchor of the show. The description of Bobby made him sound suspiciously like Jeremy Dixon.

Donny read the rest of it and picked up the second folder, glancing at Aaron who was looking back expectantly. Donny managed a little grin, and then read on. It was more of the same. The episode revolved around a farcical misunderstanding about who slept in what room, and there was even a scene where Eric “accidentally” walked in on Bobby as he changed his clothes and then made a lot of cute double entendres about “size” and “hung.”

The waiter brought their drinks, and Donny took a break to dump in some sugar and stir the glass. He took a sip, finished reading the second folder and reached for the third. Before he could open it Aaron said, “...uh, well?”

Donny glanced at his eager face and then at Jack, who seemed to be thinking of other things. “Well,” he began, not really knowing how to say what he was thinking politely. He had envisioned thirthysomething, but this was Three’s Company or The Golden Girls. It wasn’t even that good. It was Return to Sender before he had started helping Mike with it. “Um,” he stammered.

Aaron tapped the folders. “Yes... I know this isn’t exactly what you had sketched out....” “No,” replied Donny, and Aaron held up his hand. “I know, I know. But this... this will sell. This will guarantee that a network will pick it up.” He nodded his head. “I grant you, it’s not cutting edge like you originally imagined, but... this is a start. Remember M*A*S*H started out as a sitcom, and once people got used to it, they discussed serious issues. You know it was one of the first sitcoms to portray a gay character in a favorable light?”

Donny shook his head. “Klinger wasn’t gay. He was just trying to get out of the Army.”

“No, not Klinger,” Aaron replied. “They had an episode where a soldier got beat up because he was gay.”

“And that’s favorable?”

“No, but as least they didn’t portray him as a flaming queen.”

Donny tapped the folder. “Well, you’ve got one in here. I can’t believe you’re making Eric out to be like that.”

“It’s just comic relief. We’ll cover some serious issues, but first we have to get the audience to accept them.”

“By showing them as stereotypes? That’s exactly what I didn’t want. And you’ve made Bobby out to be the most important character, and he’s not gay.”

“That was the only way we could get Jeremy to consider taking the role. And you have to know that it would be a huge attraction to have a star like Jeremy Dixon do television. It’s like getting Cybill Shepard or Brooke Shields.”

“Both of whom,” Jack said, “have projects for TV sitcoms in the works.” It was the first time he’d spoken since the waiter left. “Cybill’s will start this winter as a mid-season, and Brooke’s is on tap for next year or the year after.”

Aaron nodded. “Y’see? Jeremy Dixon will be a huge draw as Bobby.”

“But he doesn’t want him to be gay.”

“Well, he does have his reputation to protect.”

“Will the others be gay?” Donny said.

“Well, yeah,” replied Aaron. “I can tone them down a little.”

“I meant the actors,” said Donny. “Will the characters be played by gay actors?”

Aaron seemed flustered by the question. “What....what do you mean? I... I don’t know; it all depends on who gets cast, and we can’t really ... I mean, we can’t ask them....” he glanced at Jack. “We can’t ask them, can we?”

For the first time Jack smiled a little. “I think I know what Don’s getting at.” He smoothed his napkin in his lap. “You want to know if the gay characters will be played by people who actually know what it’s like to be gay.”

“Well, yeah, I kinda think that’s important.” He looked at Aaron. “That’s what I wanted to come across in the characters in the story. I don’t want them to come across like little fairies or the Midnight Cowboy, and I sure didn’t want them to be punch lines. And even if they are, I think if you had guys who knew what it was like to be gay, they might come across as more real even if they’re not exactly written that way.” He looked at Aaron, hoping he hadn’t insulted him too much. Aaron was staring at the salt shaker.

Jack moved his fork a millimeter and rested his hands on the table. “Donny, gay actors have been playing straight parts in movies and TV forever. Rock Hudson, for example, and a lot of others whom I could name but.... Well, that’s the point. For all the talk about ‘Hollywood liberals,’ this is a pretty conservative town, and one of the reasons your friend Lance has some roadblocks is because some people know that he’s... well, that you and he are more than just friends. So if an actor is identified as gay, it’s not a career builder, and I can guarantee you that if we went to the casting agencies and said we’re looking for three or four young attractive actors to play gay roles, it won’t be that easy. And if we ask them for three or for young attractive gay actors, we won’t get anything. It’s not that they’re not out there – the place is crawling with them. It’s just that we don’t ask and they don’t tell. Like the military.”

The waiter brought their salads, and Donny picked at his, wondering if he was to blame for Mike’s career slump. But they had never been seen in public together, and Mike had always been careful never to talk about his personal life except to tell the occasional interviewer that his home life was too boring to write about.

They didn’t talk again until the entrees arrived. Aaron put the folders back under the table, and nervously picked the capers off his salmon. Jack cut into his meat and took a bite, then looked at Donny.

“I understand what you are saying, and I admire you for it,” he said. He shot a glance at Aaron. “I wonder if Aaron might be testing you to see if you’ll go for the quick and easy way to get a show on the air, make a lot of bucks, and then move on to something else, or if you really care about putting something out there for the public that actually says something. I know Aaron can write something like that, but...”

“But will Jeremy do it,” Aaron interrupted. “If he won’t do it, then...we have no leverage to get the show in front of the networks.”

“Of course you do,” said Jack a little testily, probably from being interrupted by Aaron. “I think I know some people that will still be interested. Perhaps if you met with Jeremy, Don, and told him what you told us, he might be more amenable, shall we say, to seeing it your way.”

Donny nodded. “Sure.”

“I’ll arrange it,” said Jack.

Aaron glanced at Donny and picked at his food with his fork. “Y’know, I respect the hell out of you, Donny; you know that. And you’re the executive producer and it’s your idea and we’ve drawn up papers and everything, but there comes a time when you need to understand that things have to work a certain way here, and sometimes we who’ve been in the business for a while do know what we’re doing and what we’re talking about.” He took a large gulp of water, and Donny realized that Aaron had just yelled at him. If this was his version of a temper tantrum, he thought, I wonder what he’s like in court.

Before Donny could respond, Jack held up his hand, then reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Don, I’ve taken the liberty of giving your name to Gina Roscoe.” He slid the card across the table. “She’ll be in touch with you.”

Donny read the card. All it said was Gina Roscoe and a phone number in raised letters. “What is she, a lawyer?”

“An agent. You’re going to need one,” Jack replied, glancing at Aaron.

*

Gina Roscoe called him that afternoon.

“Mr. Hollenbeck? Gina Roscoe. Can we meet this evening just to say hello?”

“Sure,” Donny replied.

“Your office around five? I’ll be in the neighborhood.”

“Okay...”

“Good. See you then.” The line went dead.

From the sound of her voice Gina sounded like a middle-aged woman of large dimensions with round glasses, too much make-up, and a cigarette dangling from her lips, so when she arrived at the office and Lily showed her in, Donny was surprised to find that she was short, trim, and wearing a stylish suit with subtle tones and barely more than a touch of lipstick. Her short black hair was pulled back to reveal a heart-shaped face and laughing eyes. She spoke quickly but clearly, and she had a definite New York accent.

They sat at the table. Gina opened her slim briefcase and pulled out a contract and some other papers.

“Jack Magahee thinks highly of you and your project, but it’s clear to him – and me – that you’ve been tossed into the deep end with the sharks. My job – if you decide to let me represent you – is to be the shark killer. Now God love Aaron White; he’s a great writer and a good guy, but he’s also working for someone else, not you. And God love Paul Jeffries. Any friend of Paul’s is a friend of mine, but the same thing applies. He’ll treat you like a king and he genuinely cares about you – up to a point.” She glanced at the other papers. “I think we’ve reached that point.” She folded her hands and smiled.

“Well, okay, then,” Donny said.

Gina went over the contract with him and told him not to sign it right away. “Read it carefully. Talk to your lawyer.” She looked around the office. “If you’ve gotten this far this fast in the software business, you obviously have one.”

“Allen McKay.”

“Never heard of him, but that doesn’t matter. Just have him look it over. Any questions, call me. And if you sign me up, I’m your first call for anything. I’m your confidante, your mouthpiece, your best friend, your ride home if you get shitfaced at a bar. You don’t take a meeting without letting me know, and you don’t sign anything without me seeing it first. That’s the only way I work, and if you don’t think you can work like that, let me know right now and ... well, good luck.” Again she smiled.

“Jack suggested I meet with Jeremy Dixon.”

Gina shrugged. “I’m not your agent yet, but my suggestion – if I was – would be sure, go ahead...if it’s just the two of you. If he shows up with an entourage, especially D’Angelo, sit there, be charming, smile and nod, and promise him nothing. The most you can say is, ‘I’ll consider it.’ The thing is, he wants to do the show; he just wants to do it his way. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he may threaten to walk.”

Donny shrugged. “So what? I really don’t care if the show happens or not.”

Gina nodded. “Good answer. Keep that attitude.”

“No, I really mean it,” Donny said. “I’m not a Hollywood guy. I work for McKay-Gemini. All this...” he waved at the contracts, “that’s just...stuff.”

Gina nodded slowly. “Well, that puts it in perspective,” she said, and Donny realized he had probably just insulted her.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said apologetically. “It’s just that...”

“No, I get it,” she said. “Actually, that’s good. Too many people take this ‘stuff’ way too seriously. It’s...refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t live and die by Daily Variety.” She put the other papers back into her briefcase and handed Donny the contract. “Anyway, look it over, let me know, and we’ll get this show on the road.” She stood up and Donny did too. She offered her hand and they shook. “I look forward to working with you,” she said with a bright smile. “Can I call you in the next day or two?”

“Please,” said Donny.

“Good. And let me know how that meeting goes. Either way, I’ll be interested.”

Donny opened the door. “Oh,” Gina added, “I hear Lance Michaels is taking a break.”

“Um, yeah,” Donny said, checking to see if there was anyone in the outer office, but Lily was at the copier and the other offices were empty except for Greg, who was on the phone.

“Well, I wish him the best. I think he’s got a career out there somewhere.”

*

The piano movers called Wednesday morning and set the delivery for that afternoon. Donny watched as they expertly brought it in and set it in the corner next to the hall leading to the bedrooms. Donny tipped them each a twenty.

It looked a little out of place, this piece of 1930’s furniture surrounded by Southwestern and mission style, but it also brought back memories of the three of them – him, Eric, and Rob muscling it into the house and Eric running his hands down the keys, probably the only time it had been played. Donny touched one of the keys, and the note sounded tinny and out of tune. Well, he thought, I’m just keeping it for Eric until he wants it back.

The phone rang. It was Trish. “Hey, I know it’s short notice, but I’m in town and wondering if you’ve made any plans for dinner?”

Donny gave her his address and she said she’d be there at six. Donny took a shower, shaved, and changed into slacks and a collared shirt. He smirked as he thought that this was his official first date with a girl.

Trish pulled up in a bright red Mercedes convertible, and he met her at the door. She gave him a peck on the cheek and he showed her into the living room. “Wow,” she said, then made a point as if she was looking for someone.

“What are you looking for?”

“Where’s your mom?” Trish replied.

“Huh?”

“Well, damn, Donny, this does not look like the home of a twenty-something single guy. This place should look like a frat house. There should be posters of naked models, dart boards, Nintendos, and pizza boxes in the trash can.” She noticed the piano. “You play?”

“Oh, no, it’s just...”

She played a chord. It twanged, and she shuddered. “Needs a tuning.”

“Do you play?”

“Took lessons for years. Pretty good, if I do say so.” She pulled out the bench and played a few bars of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. “Ouch. I know a guy. I’ll have him call you.”

He offered beer, soda, or water, and she took the beer. He poured some Planter’s mix into a cereal bowl and they sat on the patio. Once they got through the pleasantries, Trish grinned at him knowingly.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” she said.

“How so?”

“You don’t just ‘know’ Lance Michaels. He was the guy you were talking about when we were on the patio.” She lit a cigarette and waited for him to answer.
Donny decided there wasn’t any point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“Damn,” she sighed. “He’s...” She shook her head. “There’s something about those eyes of his. Makes me melt.”

Donny grinned. “Yeah, I know. So...how’d you figure it out?”

“Didn’t. Minza told me.”

“Minza?”

“Minza Calevro. She worked on that series Lance was on a couple of years ago...what was it; ‘Capitol Dome’ or something. She and I went to high school together and we get together now and then. She asked about the wedding, she asked who was there, I told her about you, and she said that you and Lance....” She paused, letting out a trickle of smoke. “So... he was the guy who you didn’t have much in common with other than sex, right?”

“Right,” said Donny. He vaguely remembered Minza; she had been one of the people that Mike had had at his cookout when he came back from filming scenes in Washington for Capitol Hill. She was the short one with dark hair and Italian/Mediterranean looks...or was that Audrey? “Well,” he went on, “we had a little more in common. We actually lived together for a while until his agent broke that up.”

Trish nodded approvingly. “Lived together? That’s cool.”

“In this house, as a matter of fact.”

“He moved in with you? No wonder his agent didn’t like it.”

“Well, not exactly....” Donny explained about how Mike had rented this house, and then went into the story about the earthquake, the sharing of the old house, Idyllwild, and Donny buying this house.

“Jesus,” Trish said with a laugh. “It sounds like a TV show.”

Donny smiled. “Yeah, doesn’t it.”

Trish said she knew of a little Italian restaurant, so they went there. “I have another little confession to make,” Trish said once they were seated. “I had my dad look you up.”

“What is he, a private eye?”

“Almost. He’s a lawyer for Universal.”

“Uh huh. So what did he find out?”

“That your company is one of the few of these new dot coms that has a chance of actually making it.” She pored over the menu. “The veal piccata’s good here.”

“So, what else did your dad find out?”

“Oh, the usual stuff. The company’s net worth, the major investors, sales records, Dun and Bradstreet type things. You know.” She looked at him and grinned. “Oh, and that you’re not just a software mogul. You’re friends with Paul Jeffries and you and he are working on a project with Aaron White and Jeremy Dixon. Something about two brothers.”

“Oh, that. Yeah. Well, I didn’t work on it; I guess Aaron got the idea from me and Dan, that’s all.”

“And there was something else. Something in development. Something for a TV series?” She smirked a little and took a piece of bread out of the basket.

Donny smirked back. “Why don’t you just tell me what you know? That way we don’t have to play this little game.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Damn, you’re gonna do all right. Okay, here’s what I’ve got so far from Minza and my dad. You and Aaron came up with this idea for a show about four gay guys in a house here in L.A. You pitched it out at Palm Springs and you got some interest out of it, so now Aaron’s working up some spec scripts to shop around, and the word is that there’s some early interest in it from Jeremy Dixon’s people. Plus, you’ve hired Gina Roscoe as your agent.” She munched a corner of the bread. “How’d I do?”

“Close,” replied Donny. The waiter came by and took their drink orders. “First, it was an idea that I got thanks to Mike’s prodding, and he’s the one who showed it to Aaron. Then...”

“Trish interrupted, “Mike?”

“I mean Lance. Mike’s his real name. Mike Lankowski, as a matter of fact. Your dad didn’t tell you that?”

“Never asked.” She smiled a little. “Yeah, he looks like a ‘Mike.’”

“Anyway, Aaron, who was working on that movie about the two brothers, liked the idea of the four guys living together and talked me into seeing if it would fly. And no, Gina Roscoe isn’t my agent. Not yet. I haven’t signed up with her officially.”

“You gonna?”

Donny shrugged. “I guess, although I don’t think anything’s gonna come of it.” He told her about the lunch with Aaron and his disappointment with the treatments. “It sounds like just another crappy sitcom, and they treat the gay guys like freaks. The only normal one in the whole group is the straight guy.”

“The one Jeremy wants to play.”

“You got it.”

The waiter brought their drinks and they both ordered the veal piccata. “Look, Donny, you want my advice?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really; just thought I’d ask.” She flashed a grin, and then shook her head. “Get out while the getting’s good. Show business sucks and the people in it are in it for themselves and the money. That’s it. They don’t care about a message or art or anything other than cranking something out that they can get on the air and grab their piece of the pie. All this talk about creativity and craft is just bullshit. It’s like cars. You think GM or Ford really believes all that crap about ‘the heartland of America’ and stuff? Hell, they just wanna sell cars and trucks and they know that people have some emotional attachment to their product, so they milk it all they can. It’s all image. No one cares, and if you had some idea that anyone out here was gonna actually think that they could change their attitudes about gays because of some half-hour show, well....”

“It was going to be an hour. Like thirtysomething.”

She waved a breadstick. “Whatever. It’s twenty-two or forty-four minutes of space around which the sponsors try to sell tampons and floor wax. All they care about is getting the most number of people to tune in so they can shill their products and not upset the people in flyover country.”

“Flyover country?”

“Kansas, Nebraska, Ohio. The states you fly over between here and New York.”

“Like my folks.”

“Exactly. Oh, do your folks know about you?”

“You mean do they know I’m gay?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And...nothing. No big deal.” Donny remembered sitting by Aunt Barbara and Uncle Ron’s pool and talking to his mother on Christmas night. It seemed like a very long time ago.

“Wow. Well, there’s one Afterschool Special shot to hell. Anyway, that’s my advice. Take it or leave it. You’ve already made a name for yourself in one business; there’s no need to try to impress anybody else.”

“I wasn’t trying to. I just thought, hey, what the hell. If Jack Magahee is...”

“Wait a second....Jack Magahee? He’s a backer of this project?”

“Yeah. At least he’s the one who I met in Palm Springs and had lunch with.”

“Wow.” Trish seemed genuinely impressed.

“So you know him.”

“Of course.”

“I thought he was some super-secret guy; the ‘biggest unknown known in the business.’” replied Donny.

“Well, he is,” said Trish. “But to people like my dad, Jack Magahee’s like one of the most influential people in town.” She raised her wine glass. “Congratulations.”

“So you still think I should get out while the getting’s good?”

“Oh, yeah. Just because Jack Magahee’s in on it doesn’t mean anything other than you’ll be taken seriously and probably get this one thing on the air. But then....” The waiter brought their salads.

“But then...?” Donny said after the waiter left.

“But then you’re on your own,” Trish said. “See, this place is full of one-hit wonders who are now game show hosts on syndicated TV, or aging guys in toupees signing autographs at sci-fi conventions for people who dress up like Klingons, or recovering drug addicts in the carpet cleaning business in the Valley. If your little project takes off, the next thing they’ll want to know is ‘okay, that was fun. Now what?’ And if that one thing is all you’ve got...” She delicately lifted an anchovy out of the Caesar salad and laid it aside. “Hate those things,” she muttered.

“I’ll be just another anchovy in the Caesar salad of Hollywood,” Donny said.

Trish smiled. “You are a writer, aren’t you?’

They stopped at a liquor store on the way back to the house where Trish picked up a bottle of white wine. “You should always have this in the house for unexpected company,” she said as she got back in the car.

“Good idea,” Donny said.

They sat on the patio again and smoked. Donny offered to open the wine, but she shook her head. “Gotta drive back to Newport Beach, and I’ve already had a beer and wine. Right on the edge here.”

Donny lit a cigarette. “Y’know, I’ve already pretty much committed to this project. I’m supposed to meet with Jeremy Dixon about my ‘concerns.’”

Trish grinned. “Love to be a fly on the wall for that little chat.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I hear he can be very charming and persuasive, but I’m sure under all of that innocent aw-shucks boy-next-door façade he knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. He didn’t get to where he is on his bright blue eyes and dimples. If you were ever a Boy Scout, now’s the time to remember your motto – Be Prepared.”

“I will be,” Donny said. “If he doesn’t want to do it the way I wrote it, then the hell with it.”

Trish snubbed out her cigarette. “Easy said, Donny. But remember, in this town, writers are at about the same level as the kid who gets the coffee. Be prepared for him and everybody else to walk away from it like they never heard of you, or even worse, for him to try and fuck you over until he gets exactly what he wants.”

“That’s fine,” said Donny with a shrug. “I already have a job, and even if that craters, I can always go back to Ohio and pound nails or be the head cart wrangler at K-Mart.”

Trish was about to answer when the doorbell rang, and Donny glanced at his watch, wondering who would be coming by at nine-fifteen. “Be right back,” he said.

It was Mike. “Hey, I was wondering if I could leave a couple of boxes with you; y’know, some CD’s, books, clothes and stuff that I don’t want to take up to Idyllwild.” He looked backed to the driveway and saw the Mercedes. “Oh, you got company?” he said with a tinge of disappointment, and Donny decided that Mike’s story of dropping off some boxes was really a pretty thin excuse for him to drop by on the chance that they could have sex one last time before he left.

“No, that’s okay. C’mon in.”

Mike looked through the living room, out to the sunroom, to where Trish was sitting on the patio. She was politely not looking into the house. He raised his eyebrows. “You trying out for the other team?” he whispered to Donny.

“No,” Donny replied, looking askance. “She’s a friend of Rob and Marcy’s. She lives in Newport Beach and we just went out to dinner, that’s all. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

They went back out to the patio. “Trish, this is...” Donny began, but Mike held out his hand and put on his best celebrity-greeting smile. “Hi, I’m Lance Michaels.”

Trish smiled back. “Trish Owens. Nice to meet you. I’m a big fan.”

“Well, thanks, that’s really nice to hear.”

They sat down again and Donny explained to Mike how he and Trish had met at the wedding. Mike smiled and then starting asking Trish about where she was from, what she did, all the while paying close attention to her and listening to what she was saying. Donny could see that he was, even now, playing a part. There was a touch of flirtation in his voice, and his body, though relaxed, sent subtle signals; his legs were spread slightly, one hand resting near his crotch (which Donny noted was temptingly well-packaged), and when he casually lifted his other hand to move his hair out of his eyes, his biceps jumped to attention as if to show them off a little. Trish seemed to enjoy both the attention and the view, and Donny smiled to himself; he had rarely seen Mike in full hetero-defense mode, and it was, in a way, almost cute.

They talked for a while, not completely ignoring Donny. Aside from their mutual friend Minza, it turned out that Mike’s new agent, Jason Steinberg, had worked with her father before going to CAA.

“This is a small town,” Trish said.

“I’m finding that out,” Mike said, glancing at Donny.

“So what is Jason doing for you now?” Trish asked.

“Well, actually,” Mike said, “We’re looking at some offers from out of town; indie films, maybe even some regional theatre; kind of broaden my horizons, y’know.” He glanced at Donny again.

“That sounds like fun,” Trish said. “I hear Val Kilmer did Hamlet at the Colorado Shakespeare Festival a while back.”

“Yeah, well,” said Mike with a deprecating laugh, “I’m not that good. Val went to Juilliard. I didn’t even finish up at MSU.”

“But still,” Trish said. “Nothing ventured...”

“Sure,” said Mike. He sat up and smiled, “Well, listen, I didn’t mean to bust in on you guys like this, I just wanted to...uh...drop off a couple of things; I’m heading out of town for a week or two.” He looked at Donny again, this time inclining his head toward the front door.

Trish asked where the bathroom was and Donny pointed it out to her.

It turned out that Mike did have a couple of cartons of books and old scripts, including the final shooting script from Silver Star signed by all of the cast and crew, and a collection of records, tapes, and CD’s that ranged from The Cure to Foreigner to Joe Jackson. They put them in the corner of the empty bedroom across from Danny’s boxes.

“Thanks,” Mike said, wiping his hands on his jeans. They went out into the living room and Mike pulled out his car keys.

“So when are you leaving?”

“Crap of dawn Friday,” he replied. “I’m already out of the house, staying at that little Best Western over on...” he waved in the general direction of downtown Santa Monica.

“You could stay here,” Donny said.

“Oh, thanks, that’s okay...I’m just running around town making sure everything’s cool before I go. ‘Sides,” he grinned a little, “I already gave you back the key.”

“You know, you don’t have to go.”

“I’m really kinda tired, Donny, but thanks.”

“No, I mean you don’t have to go to Michigan. You can just head up to Idyllwild, kick back, spend some time by yourself. Or stay here. I’ve got a spare room.”

Mike shook his head. “I need to get the fuck out of this town, Donny. The sooner the better.” He glanced back to where the bathroom was, where Trish still was. The door was still closed. He moved close to Donny and whispered, “There’s some other things that are happening...”

He was interrupted by the distant sound of the toilet flushing and the door to the bathroom opening. He stepped back and instantly went back to Lance mode when Trish appeared.

“I really need to be heading home,” she said and held out her hand to Mike. “It was really nice meeting you.”

Mike took her hand and held it. “Pleasure’s all mine, Trish,” he said with a touch of husk to his voice. He glanced at Donny and smiled. “I gotta take off, too. I’ll call you.” He nodded and smiled at Trish and strode quickly across the lawn to his Range Rover.

Donny walked Trish out to her car. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “You’ve got two guys who are crazy about you; Mike and Eric.”

“Naw...” Donny said feebly.

“Oh, yeah, he’s got it bad for you. He was looking at me, but I know the signs when I see them; the basket, the muscle-flexing. He’s in love with you. Or something.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for the dinner, and good luck, Donny” she said. “You’re gonna need it.” She backed out of the driveway, waved, and drove off.

*

First thing Thursday morning Donny got a call from a woman who said she was an assistant to Jack Magahee and, in a very businesslike manner, said that she was putting Donny down for lunch with Mr. Dixon at one o’clock on Friday and that a car would be sent to his office to pick him up. Donny thanked her, told Lily to put it on his calendar, and went back to work on the updates to the revision of the company health plan.

It was almost twelve-thirty on Friday when Mike called. “Hey, you know that old song, ‘By the Time I Get to Phoenix’?”

“Sorta,” said Donny, glancing up at Marc who was standing next to his desk with a large multi-page spreadsheet. Marc looked at him quizzically as if to say “should I leave?” and Donny shook his head to say “no, that’s okay.”

“Well, that’s where I am. Sorry to interrupt your evening the other night. I appreciated your offer, but...”

“No, that’s okay, Mike” Donny replied, looking at Marc, who nodded. “It was just... y’know.”

“Nice meeting Trish, too.”

“Yeah,” Donny replied. “She...it was ... nice.”

Mike chuckled. “Yeah. Well, anyway, I’m on my way. I’ll call you when I get there. Oh, and the management company in Idyllwild knows that you get to use the place for free if you ever feel like going up there. Just give ‘em a call and let ‘em know you and your buddy are headed up there.”

“Okay,” replied Donny curtly.

“I know you’re at work, so...”

“Yeah, okay. Have a good trip, Mike.”

“Okay. Well.... I’ll be in touch.”

Donny looked apologetically at Marc. “Sorry about that. Mike’s on his way to Michigan.”

“Vacation?”

“You could call it that,” said Donny. “He’s got a case of Hollywood burnout, I guess, so he’s driving up to see his folks and just hang out for a while.”

“Huh,” said Marc.

Donny was pretty sure that Marc would find a nice way of saying No, but he asked the next question anyway. “He said I could use his house in Idyllwild if there’s a weekend that’s free. You interested?”

For a second Marc stared at the spreadsheet, and then slowly smiled a little. “Yeah,” he said. “That might be fun.”

“Well, okay then.”

They went back to work on the spreadsheet, laying it out on Donny’s table and discussing the budget projections until the intercom beeped. “Mr. Hollenbeck, you have a visitor in the lobby,” said Irene through the speakerphone.

Donny looked at his watch and said, “Oh, shit,” remembering his lunch date. “I’ll be right there, Irene.”

“It’s Jeremy Dixon,” replied the tinny voice.

Donny went over to his desk and grabbed the phone. “Well, send him up,” he said and hung up. “How about that,” said Donny. He looked at Marc, expecting him to be just as surprised, but Marc was staring out the window.

Chapter Guide

Small Town Boys - Chapter 41

Santa Barbara

“We have to be there by six for the rehearsal dinner,” said Eric. It was the Thursday before Rob’s wedding.

“So we gotta leave here by when?” said Donny.

Eric shrugged. “Well, we gotta get there, get checked into the hotel, get changed...I dunno, noon? One? You gotta figure traffic on a weekend heading up there’s gonna be heavy.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and Rob called. He’s got us in one room at the hotel; the place is full up. You mind?”

Donny shrugged. “Not unless either of us gets lucky this weekend.”

They left the office after lunch, taking their own cars since Eric was going back to Palo Alto on Sunday. They took the Pacific Coast Highway.

Donny found it hard to keep his eyes on the road. It was a beautiful day and he kept glancing left and right to take in the scenery; the bright blue ocean to his left, the steep hills almost overhanging the road to his right. He had never seen this part of California before.

They stopped outside Ventura for gas.

“It’s amazing,” Donny said to Eric.

“What, the drive? Yeah, I love coming up this way. I can’t believe you’ve never been up here before.”

“Yeah, well, I may just do it more often.”

The hotel, set on a hillside overlooking the Pacific, was made to look like an old Spanish mission. It had red barrel tiles on the roof, white stucco walls, colonnaded balconies running along each wing, and a central open courtyard with that led out to a patio with a spectacular view of the Santa Barbara Channel and the distant islands. The grounds were in keeping with the mission style with arching trees and low hedges of boxwood and evergreens. “Nice place,” Donny said as he followed the bellboy who had met them at the entrance and offered to carry their bags.

“This ain’t no Motel 6,” said Eric as he looked around, taking in the antique furnishings in the lobby.

Their suite overlooked the steep bluff that ran down to the ocean. It too was furnished in mission-style, and the bedroom had two large double beds and doors out to the balcony. The bellboy swung open the patio doors, turned on the light in the living room, and showed them the mini-bar, the large bathroom complete with Jacuzzi and double shower, and opened the armoire that hid the TV. Donny gave him a five.

“Definitely not a Motel 6,” Eric affirmed.

“Kinda reminds me of the Villa,” said Donny, “except that’s Italian.”

The rehearsal dinner was in one of the hotel’s banquet rooms off the main courtyard. Dress, according to the invitation, was casual, so Donny put on a polo shirt and chino slacks while Eric settled for a Pendleton and shorts. “I know what Rob means when he says ‘casual.’”

Cocktails were served in the bar. It opened out onto the patio, and Donny and Eric found Rob already there. He gave them both hugs, introduced them to a dizzying array of friends, relatives, future in-laws, and other guests before leaving them to fend for themselves. Donny got a drink and wandered out to the patio.

A waitress passed by with canapés, and after taking one, Donny noticed one of the guests who had arrived a few moments ago. He looked to be about his age or a little older, tall and lanky, and was wearing a colorful Madras shirt, shorts, and loafers without socks. Donny was fairly sure he’d seen him somewhere before, but couldn’t place him. He assumed he was a wedding guest, so when they exchanged glances, Donny nodded and smiled. The man returned nod and came over.

“Hi,” he said, holding out his hand. “Luke Connolly.”

It came back to Donny. He was the doctor at the clinic who’d drawn his blood for his HIV test almost two years ago.

“Oh, hi,” replied Donny, shaking hands. “Donny Hollenbeck.”

“Nice to see you again,” said Luke.

“You remember me?”

Luke poked one of Donny’s arms. “I never forget a great set of guns.”

Donny chuckled modestly. “Oh, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve been working out since I was in high sch