Date: Fri, 18 Jun 2004 22:43:46 EDT
From: RitchChristopher@cs.com
Subject: lush-life-6

All rights reserved. Copyright held by the author. If you are underage or
are offended by gay fiction, containing graphic sex and explicit language,
please exit now.

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                                   LUSH LIFE

                                       by

                                Ritch Christopher

                                  Chapter Six



	                    "SOMEWHERE IN THE NIGHT"


                * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


           "Somewhere in the night, chasing shadows around the bend.
           Somewhere in the night, chasing rainbows that have no end.
                 In the misty light, you are mine and you hold me fast,
               But dreams have a way of calling it a day,
                     They seldom last, my dreams have past.
            But in my lonely flight, I'll keeping searching till time
                                   is through,
                 For somewhere in the night till I find you."



                   Theme from the hit TV series, "The Naked City"
                             "Somewhere In The Night"
                               Lyrics by Milt Raskin
                                Music by Billy May
                                 Copyright 1960


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	Barely able to stand, much less walk, Dave had held onto the wall
railing down the hall of the fourth floor at St. Vincent's Hospital in
Greenwich Village. About one-hundred feet a head of him, he saw a nurse and
an orderly approaching, so he ducked into the nearest door, which happened
to be a janitor's closet. The small room had one light switch, which
illuminated only one light bulb overhead, thus making the room
semi-dark. There a wooden coat rack with four wooden stobs hung on the wall
next to the door. Hanging there was a pair of dirty khaki pants, probably
left by a janitor, and a bedraggled-looking MacIntosh raincoat with two
buttons missing. Just below the rack was a pair of boot galoshes, which
were probably used when mopping excessively wet floors during a rain. Dave
donned the three items, tucking his hospital gown into the trousers. Since
the pants were three or four sizes too large to fit Dave, the tail of the
gown helped to fill out the slack in the waistband.

	Peeking out the closet door, he saw the coast was clear and slowly
he made his way down the hall to the elevator. His mind was groggy from the
surgery anesthetic; his legs were wobbly and weak; and he was experiencing
a great deal of pain in his back and colon region.  He braced himself
against the wall with one hand, pushing the 'down' button on the
elevator. When the lift reached the main floor lobby, he saw that he was
about twenty-five feet from the main door and freedom to the outside.

	The three or four people or members of the hospital staff who saw
him stagger across the floor hardly noticed him. From the grimace on his
face and the appearance of his soiled, baggy clothing, everyone assumed he
was a drunk or a doper looking for a fix.

	Five, four, three, two, one more step and he was outside and home
free. He made it! The cool air hit him in the face and the temperature
caused his sutures to ache even more. He had no wallet or money and
couldn't take a cab. He had no idea where to go for he was all but positive
that Clay would be at his apartment...and Clay was the last person he
wanted to see...or to see him...EVER!

	His body was in pain, but his emotions were much more
excruciating. The memory of the guys in the holding tank forcibly
penetrating his anus and colon would be painful forever. He could not,
would not ever forget it. God! How he wanted to run...run and hide...but
his legs wouldn't permit it. He took one small step at a time, holding onto
walls or window ledges, whatever he could reach. If only he could find an
alley close by, or the entrance to a sewer that he could crawl into! No one
he knew must see him in this condition and no one must ever know he had
been rap---- he couldn't even think the word!--no one could ever know what
had happened to him !

	It took him nearly an hour to creep across Broadway into the East
Village. He felt a warm wet spot near his rectum and knew he must be
bleeding. But how badly? He couldn't care less. If only he could melt, like
the wicked witch in "The Wizard of Oz" into a black or brown goo or fall
into a furnace and have his body disappear into a pile of
ashes...completely obliterated and unrecognizable.

	His pain was getting worse and his mouth was dry and he was
desperate for water or anything to drink. He looked up toward the sky to
see if perhaps it was about to rain. The raindrops would not only cure his
thirst, but the cool mist might ease some of his pain...at least wash off
some of the blood he could now feel running along the insides and backs of
his leg. However, looking up proved to be a dastardly mistake because his
head became very dizzy. The tall building across the street gave Dave the
illusion it was falling on him.

	"AAARRGH", he cried out as his body fell to the sidewalk in a
heap. One of his final thought was how relieved he was to have no ID on his
person. If he died, no one would ever know who he was and he could be
buried in an unmarked grave in Potter's Field, somewhere in Queens or New
Jersey. Dave not only welcomed death, he was all but formally inviting it
to come take him. His second thought was, again, relief in knowing he
wouldn't have to serve a jail or prison sentence on a trumped-up drug
possession charge.

	If he MUST die, why couldn't it have been in Clay's arms?
Clay...who loved him...Clay, whom he loved with all his heart...Clay, whom
he would never see again. His last thought was of Clay before he lost
consciousness.

	Two men and a young woman walking a block away on the opposite side
of the street had seen Dave collapse. The three raced to reach him. They
knelt and one of the men slapped both sides of Dave's face to try to awaken
him. The woman held Dave's wrist and checked his pulse...54 bpm. At the
same time, one of the other men was counting Dave's breaths...22 bpm which
was just slightly above normal. Dave's vital signs gave no indication of a
heart attack or stroke, but then, none of the three were aware of the blood
collecting in his trousers, beneath the MacIntosh.

	"Think we should call an EMS or the police?" Wilbur, one of the
men, asked.

	"We could," Daryl replied, "but if he's just a homeless drunk,
they'll let him sleep it off and throw him back on the streets."

	"Guys, look at his hair," Mildred said. "He's had an expensive
haircut in the past few days. Look at his fingernails...clipped and
manicured. And with a little spit and polish to wash the dirt of his face,
there's a very handsome man underneath. This is no wino or homeless
person. Perhaps he's lost his job and is down on his luck temporarily."

	"Mildred," Wilbur spoke to her, "we still have one vacant bed at
the mission."

	"Then we should take him there and do what we can for him," she
replied. "Wilbur, why don't you go flag down a cab?"

	The three of them carefully placed Dave in the back seat of a
taxi. Daryl noticed Dave's blood when he raised Dave's legs.

	"Hey, you guys, I think we need to get this fellow to a hospital."

	Dave became conscious long enough to reply, "No...please...no
hospital. Police..." Dave passed out again.

	"He mentioned 'police'!, Wilbur said.

	Mildred replied, "I thought there was more to his story than just
being a homeless guy. Remember how I told you to look at his haircut and
manicure? I think we should do all that we can for him before we notify the
police."

	"Yes, Mildred, but on the other hand, he could be a murderer or a
rapist; we could get into trouble obstructing justice."

	"Where's your faith in the Lord, Wilbur? God will protect us. Can't
you see that it was God's will that we find him? He was sent to us by God
and now it's up to us to assume our task and answer its purpose."

	 Financially, it was great for the three Samaritans because the cab
ride was only three blocks to "Job's Retreat", their mission. The cab
driver was given $4.80 without a tip while Daryl and Wilbur unloaded Dave's
fallen body and took it inside their hostel.

	"Take him back to my private room and lay him down," Mildred told
Daryl and Wilbur. Dave was 'in and out'--only semi-conscious. He had no
idea of where he was, but he felt certain he was not in a hospital or a
police precinct. Once he was laid on Mildred's single mattress bed, she
told Daryl to get Dave some water, for which Dave was grateful.

	Mildred raised Dave's head enough to get a few sips of water on his
tongue. It was the best drink Dave had ever had. Slowly, he became aware of
his surroundings and his eyes focused on his three saviors.

	"Mister?" Wilbur confronted Dave. "What's your name?"

	Dave looked from face to face and uttered,
"...Charlie...Charlie... Parker."

	"Well, Charlie Parker, you seemed to have found yourself in a world
of trouble," Mildred replied, "but you're safe now. Safe with us."

	"Where am I?" Dave quizzed, slightly coherent.

	"You're at Job's Retreat Mission. My name is Mildred and those two
are Wilbur and Daryl. We run and operate this place for people trying to
find their way..."

	Dave seemed unimpressed, but he was glad he was safe from the
police, at least temporarily.

	"Are you hurt?" Mildred asked. "Any injuries?"

	"My ass...my ass is bleeding."

	Daryl opened Dave's MacIntosh to reveal the hospital gown and
bloody trousers. The crotch was dripping red blood.

	"Oh, my Lord!" Wilbur exclaimed. "Let's get his pants off and take
a look!"

	Dave moaned and yelled, just above a normal voice, when they
carefully removed his pants. Slowly, the three turned Dave over on his
stomach and they saw tape and bloody bandages packed in the crack of his
buttocks.

	"This guy's just had surgery!" Darryl said. "Is that right,
Charlie? Did you just come from a hospital?"

	"Yeah, but they...they kicked me out because I...I couldn't pay
their bill," Dave lied.

	"It was probably some Catholic hospital. Charlie couldn't donate to
the Pope at the Vatican and they threw him out on the street. That's
typical!" Mildred remarked. "Wilbur, run to the closet and get the large
first-aid kit. We can clean up his blood and apply fresh bandages."

	"Mildred, don't you think he'd be better off in a hospital?"

	"WILBUR! Didn't you just hear what Charlie said? He's afraid the
police will be there and besides, if the hospital kicked him out once,
they'll do it again. NOW GO GET THE KIT!"

	"All right."

	"Daryl, why don't you go into the donations' bin and find him some
clothes to put on? Find me a towel or something to cover his private
parts. I shouldn't be looking at them while I'm doctoring his rear end."

	"Good heavens, Mildred!" Daryl replied, "You talk as if you've
never seen a man's penis up close before."

	"Well, maybe I haven't, and I don't want to start now. So, GO ON!"

	Mildred edged Dave's trousers down his legs after removing the
galoshes. Perhaps it was contrary to her Christian lifestyle, but while
Daryl and Wilbur were gone, she did take to peek at Dave's well-endowed
genitalia. She wondered how many whores and harlots had felt Dave's massive
organ between their legs? He was a 'looker' all right, and probably had
lots of women attracted to him. Mildred was more than certain that God had
sent Dave to her to win him over to the Lord!

	Dave cries became louder as Mildred pulled off the taped bandages
and removed the padding stuffed in his rectum and colon. She used a
washcloth and warm water to wash his inner and back thighs. She carefully
pried his butt cheeks apart to sponge the area, but this created even more
pain for Dave. The crowning blow was when Mildred poured half a bottle of
alcohol onto his wounds, followed by hydrogen-peroxide, which sizzled when
touching an open sore.

	Dave screamed, "Goddamn-it-to-mother-fucking-hell! Are you trying
to kill me?"

	"Curse all you like, Charlie, only leave the Lord's name out of
your language!" Mildred warned.

	Next she took a cotton ball and swabbed every incision and wound
with Merthiolate which burned Dave like hell.

	"Jesus Christ!" Dave exclaimed. "Why don't you take a fucking knife
or gun and kill me instead of torturing me to death?"

	"Huhn, huhn, huhn! Charlie! I told you not to take the Lord's name
in vain. It's not the medicine I'm using on you. It's God's way of
punishing you for saying the things you did."

	"Oh, fuck! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!" Dave cried.

	After fifteen minutes of brutal agony for Dave, Mildred completed
her doctor's chores on Dave's backside. The bleeding had stopped and
everything appeared to be sterile and anti-septic. She applied new gauze
pads and tape to the open areas and then she stood up to leave.

	"Now, Wilbur, you and Daryl can wash the rest of his body. I think
that should be done by another male. See if you can find a pair of pajamas
that will fit him and find out if he feels like eating. There are some cans
of soup and broth in the kitchen. He SHOULD eat something to build up his
strength. Let him sleep in my bed tonight and we'll move him to the outer
room tomorrow. Don't upset him with a lot of senseless questions. We'll
find out all we need to know in the morning when he feels more like
talking." With a parting glance at the man lying on her bed, she quietly
turned and left.

	Dave was glad that Mildred was gone. He was grateful for what she
had done for him, but not the way she had executed it.

	Wilbur and Daryl used the same basin to dip their washcloths
in. Wilbur started wiping Dave's forehead and face while Daryl began
washing Dave's feet and legs.

	Dave was almost totally conscious by now. "Hey, have either of you
got a cigarette?" Dave asked them.

	"No, Charlie," Wilbur replied, "neither one of us smokes. It's
against our beliefs...smoking, that is."

	"What kind of place is this?" Dave asked.

	"It's a free mission. There are many volunteers who work here, but
only Mildred, Daryl, and myself stay here full time."

	"You mean a place for homeless people?"

	"Some, but we also supply a haven for people of all ages who are
substance abusers...people whose lives are ruined by alcoholic
drinks. Others who have no place else to go. We show them the true
way...the way to Jesus. Only He can soothe their hurt and forgive their
sinful ways. Our job is to show them how to find Him."

	"Are you a Christian, Charlie?" Wilbur asked.

	"I suppose...I was baptized when I was a kid," Dave replied.

	"Then you WERE saved?"

	"Maybe...at one time, I was...but look at me now. Saved from what?"

	"I know Mildred told us not to pry, but, Charlie, are you running
from the law?"

	"Running AWAY from them to be more precise!"

	"What do you mean?"

	"Didn't you get a look at my ass? It's ruined!"

	"The police did THAT to you?"

	"No, someone else did while the police turned their heads away."

	"Good heavens, Charlie! It looks like someone tried to mutilate
your rear end."

	"That's putting it mildly."

	"Would you like to talk about it?"

	"HELL, NO! I don't want to EVER talk about it!"

	"All right, just calm down while we finish bathing you."

	Daryl paused for a moment. "Charlie...I need to...to wash your
private area and...well, I've never touched another man..."

	"Leave it. I don't want you getting excited if I should get an
erection. Then you'd have a WHOLE lot to tell, 'sister' Mildred."

	"Thanks, Charlie, I'll skip your...your...I'll wash your stomach
instead."

	"What are you two guys. celibate or something? It wouldn't bother
me to touch another guy. What do you guys do for sex?---bang the sister
after you've saved some souls?"

	"We don't have sex, Charlie. We're not Catholic. Although we ARE
celibate."

	"How long do people like myself get to stay here?"

	"Until you've found the Lord," Daryl said as he carefully avoided
Dave's pubic region with the damp cloth.

	"Shit! I might as well've stayed in the fucking hospital."

	"You're safe with us, Charlie. No one's gonna bother you here."

	"That's a relief!" Dave relied, then added, "or is it?"

	When Daryl and Wilbur finished bathing Dave, Daryl shaved Dave's
stubble, combed his hair and they helped Dave into a pair of used, but
clean pajamas. They propped a pillow under his head and both knelt by
Dave's bedside to say a prayer for him. Then they clicked out the lights
with the wall switch beside the door and left Dave alone in the dark with
his thoughts.

	Dave knew that the one he loved most in the world was less than
fifty or sixty blocks from him. God, how he wished he was at his apartment,
locked in Clay's arms and plying him with head-to-toe kisses. He didn't
long for sex. He just wanted to be near Clay.

	His thoughts strayed to Clay and how much he must be worried or
frightened. How much did Clay know? Had he found out about the rape? Had
some flabby-ass NYPD dick told Clay everything? Had Clay tried to find him
at St. Vincent's? Did Clay know the real truth about the two packets of
coke which were found in his sax case? Or would Clay think that he, Dave,
was actually a cokehead as was suspected of a lot of musicians. However, if
Clay DID know he'd been raped, he was certain he could never face Clay
again, ever!

	The two of them had talked and joked about being anal virgins,
agreeing that neither would ever submit unless it was to each other when
the time was ready. But some MOTHER-FUCKING ASSHOLES had robbed Dave of the
one sacred gift he could have given to Clay. This special part of their
relationship would never come to total fruition. Dave's virginity was gone!
Clay would NEVER get to enter that special dwelling and be the first for
Dave to offer himself to, willingly and freely. He had been deprived of
giving his greatest gift. He knew how a woman must feel after being
raped. In many cases, husbands left their wives because they no longer
wanted to go inside where their wives had been soiled by vicious robbers of
their flesh. Many raped wives killed themselves out of shame and Dave could
empathize with them. Dave's life, love, and body was ruined...plus he faced
the possibility of going to prison for a long time due to his negligence of
not throwing away those two goddamned white packets two years ago!

	Dave didn't know that his drug possession charges had mysteriously
been dropped. He was on the lam, hiding with a bunch of Jesus freaks in a
two-bit skid-row mission. He could either kill himself or run the risk of
fleeing the police and spend the rest of his life looking over his
shoulder, waiting to be arrested. Since he had fled, more charges would be
brought against him by the DA and that could mean a couple of years added
to his sentence! FUCK! What should he do? What COULD he do? The
heartbreaking answer to that was...he would never see Clay again...be it in
prison or at flight from the law. He just wanted to die!


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	Meanwhile, Dr. Ed was pondering whether to call Clay and tell him
about the disturbing phone call which he had received at his office. If Ed
had anything positive to relate to Clay, it would have been a different
matter. This was one of those times when 'no news is good news' but 'bad
news is something that shouldn't be told unless it was absolutely
necessary'. How could he ring Clay to say, 'Hey, buddy, I just talked with
Dave and he doesn't ever want to see you again?' without breaking Clay's
heart or without totally destroying him? Ed decided to wait and perhaps let
Dave think about it and come to his senses, and then Ed wouldn't have to
renege on his vow. Ed felt that Dave would change his mind, return to his
apartment...straight into Clay's open arms... all would be forgiven and
they'd live happily ever after.

	It had been over a week since Clay had moved to New York. He had
settled into Dave's apartment, calling it 'home', at least temporarily,
Clay spent most of his days making phone inquiries to Rick, Tom, or
Rachel. No one had heard a word.

	Clay sat at Dave's computer desk, mulling over all the proposed job
interviews or offers which came to him via Tom, Rachel, or Ed. Lined up
were lists of clinics, hospitals, large private practices, or just a single
physician looking for an assistant to take his overflow patients. Clay was
honest with himself; he had had it with ER work which was more like a
cattle call than a roster of private patients whose names a doctor actually
got to know. In an ER, Clay would see the patient's name on his work-up
sheet and seldom associated a face with the name. There was the 'broken arm
patient', the 'dialysis patient', the 'pregnant girl in cubicle three',
etc. They all received Clay's good care and best medical attention, but
they were merely nameless people who would only be in the ER for a few
hours before being discharged or sent to a medical wing at the facility for
further treatment.

	Clay almost dismissed any offers from hospitals. He felt he'd 'been
there, done that'. However, if he were chief resident on a particular wing,
he would have the opportunity to oversee all patients and their charts and
get more complete, personal knowledge about them.

	Some of Ed's contacts were with physicians with private practices
on Park and Lexington Avenues, the fabled 'East Side'. Granted, the rich
were just as susceptible to illnesses as the less fortunate, AND they paid
much higher doctor's fees, but Clay was looking for a facility down in the
trenches where the 'real' people lived and might appreciate the care he
could give them...plus the fact that the lower-income patients didn't
always get the best quality in a physician. More often than not, the
doctors who treated the poor were not in their position for dedication but
only because they couldn't find better jobs... and some were not even
qualified. Many times their diagnoses were mere guesswork since there was
low funding; never enough money for running tests, scans, and blood
work. As long as the job looked interesting and he thought he could offer
help, salary wasn't that important, provided he made enough to pay Dave's
rent and with enough afterward to live on.

	Clay was not a big eater, so the price of food was no object. As
for entertainment, he had no desire to go to high-priced Broadway shows,
nightclubs, or expensive restaurants. He was satisfied going to the Rustic
Inn every night, always hoping Dave MIGHT show up. Jay, the owner of the
'Inn', got to know Clay very well and never added a cover charge to Clay's
tab if all he drank was a coke or club soda with lime. Besides, somewhere
in the walls of the 'Inn', echoes of Dave's horn were still
reverberating. Even though Benny, Dave's replacement, played the trumpet,
Clay could close his eyes and somehow make Benny's sound magically become
the voice of a saxophone.

	Rick, Ray, Leo, and Benny always played the old familiar standards,
which Clay knew and remembered from his afternoon LP jazz sessions with his
dad down in Florida. One night while Clay was at the 'Inn' for his nightly
visit, Benny played, 'The Boy Next Door'. It was only natural, since Clay
had become a close friend to Rick, the piano player, and more than a mere
acquaintance to Ray, the bassist, and Leo, the drummer, that Clay would
strike up a platonic friendship with Benny. After the set, Benny came over
to Clay's table and sat down.

	"Hiya, Clay," Benny said, motioning to the bartender to pour him a
ginger ale, his usual drink.

	"Benny, it's good to see you," Clay replied. "You're sounding great
as usual."

	"I like it here. The crowd is nice and educated. They appreciate it
when we play."

	Clay took a long look at the handsome trumpeter. He was around Clay
and Dave's age. His brown hair was cut short and combed back and up in the
front, a la Ricky Martin. His eyes were so green that one would think that
Benny wore colored contact lenses. Benny was out and out handsome. Clay did
his best to bury the thought that jumped into his head---'Benny, if it had
been you playing the first night I came in here, instead of Dave...'.  But
the thought soon vanished, although under different circumstances Benny
would have been attractive to Clay. Benny noticed Clay's silent stare at
him.

	"Hey, Clay, is something wrong?"

	"No, why?"

	"The way you were looking at me just now..."

	"I...I was deep in thought, man.  I apologize." Then, to cover his
embarrassment, Clay came out with, "Benny, I don't know how to ask this of
you..."

	"What is it, Clay?"

	"I know this sounds ridiculous, but, well, you know I come in here
almost every night..."

	"Yeah, I've noticed."

	"I don't usually stay for more than one set unless it's a weekend
night."

	"And...?"

	"I really hate to ask you..."

	"Go on, Clay, ask it!"

	"I was wondering if you and Rick could play, 'The Boy Next Door' in
a set before I get here or after I leave? Ya'know? Not while I'm here?"

	"That's no problem. Our list of tunes is certainly not carved in
stone. Why? Does that particular song have bad memories for you?"

	"I know it's stupid, but...I always think of my...my dad when I
hear it. The song was his favorite," Clay lied, convincingly.

	"You and your dad were THAT close?"

	"Very."

	"You know an old June Christy/Chris Connor tune, 'Get Out Of
Town'?"

	"Quite well," Clay replied.

	"Well, that was my old man's song for me...only it was more like,
'Get The Fuck Out Of Town!"

	"You two didn't get along?"

	"Like the Jews and the Arabs, only we didn't have suicide bombs to
strap to our waists."

	"That serious, huh?"

	"My dad hated my guts...only I not only hated his guts, I hated
everything about him."

	"What about your mother?"

	"Oh, she was glad when I left Kansas, too. She got tired of
breaking up my fights with my dad."

	"No brothers or sisters?"

	"Nope, just my trumpet and me. That's the only friend I had."

	"But you're young and good-looking! No close friends? No
girlfriends?"

	"Shit! If I'd had a girlfriend back then, my dad would've been all
over me, buying me presents and cars. He hated me because I wouldn't hurry
up and get married and give him a bunch of snot-nosed grand-kids."

	"And you weren't willing to date some girl to string him along?"

	"Nope! It wasn't in me to be a phony. I couldn't do that even if it
meant presents or even peace with my dad. Besides, no girl would date me in
high school!"

	"I'm sorry, Benny, but I find that a little difficult to believe."

	"Not if you were known as KHS's number one cocksucker!"

	Clay almost choked on his glass of club soda. "Pardon?"

	"Shit! I don't mind if you know it! I've been 'out' since I was
fifteen. That's when the band director caught me giving a blowjob to the
drum major. Word spread like a Kansas twister! The friends' who I thought
were my friends wanted nothing else to do with me...and the girls? You can
imagine what THEY thought about me."

	"So your dad found out?"

	"Sure, the whole town knew!"

	"Did you leave after high school and go to college?"

	"No, I didn't finish high school. I took a job at the country club
in Topeka, bussing tables, scraping out food, emptying ashtrays. Then, one
night, the club was having this huge dance...twenty-five bucks a
couple...and they hired this traveling band to play. It was the old Benny
Goodman orchestra, but of course, he was dead and some other guy fronted
the band. There were only about four guys who traveled with the band, the
rest were pickups from the local musician's union. The charts were great
and the band wasn't half bad...except for the solo trumpet player. He
sucked! I could play rings around him without even a mouthpiece. So, during
the second intermission...just before they went back on the bandstand, I
jumped up and grabbed one of the trumpets sitting there and started playing
Berigan's, 'I Can't Get Started'. By the end of the first chorus, the whole
band had joined me and I was wailing like crazy, blowin' from my balls. The
crowd went wild! Then the leader came up to me while I was cleaning off
tables and asked how would I like to travel with the band? Hell, there were
only a half dozen regulars who traveled from town to town. He offered me
two-hundred bucks per week. Hell. I was making minimum wage for twenty
hours work at the clubhouse. My dad was glad to see me leave...and so I
left."

	"How long did you travel?"

	"About a year and a half. I got some spot work in L.A. and some
more pickup gigs in Vegas. Then I made the huge leap to New York. I even
changed my name from Doug to Benny. I thought, 'What the hell? Benny
Goodman...Bunny Berigan...'. It sounded better for a musician. How many
Doug's to you know that ever made it big?"

	"Off hand, I don't know of any."

	"You see? My point exactly!"

	"So where do you live?"

	"At the 'Y', over in Jersey. It takes about an hour to get there
when I leave here. Besides, it's cheaper over there, not a whole lot
cheaper, but some anyway."

	"Jesus! That must be depressing!"

	"It can be unless you know just what time to take a shower."

	"Oh?"

	"Yeah, all the cock I can stuff into my mouth!"

	"Benny, I'm not saying this because I'm a doctor, but please be
careful!"

	"You mean about AIDS and stuff?"

	"Yes."

	"Oh, I know whose sperm to swallow and whose to spit out!"

	Clay gave Benny another long look. What Benny had revealed of his
private life seemed impossible. He was so overt about his being gay and in
Clay's opinion; Benny was leading a very dangerous lifestyle. No doubt, if
Benny could afford to live elsewhere, he could have his pick of any
available male stud in New York...talent, looks, personality...and a sense
of daring.

	Benny saw that the next set was about to begin. He swigged down the
ginger ale Tony had brought him and then stepped back up on the
bandstand. He picked up his trumpet and before starting to play, he looked
back over at Clay and said, "This one's for you, Clay."

	Benny had played only two bars of the intro before Clay recognized
the song the two had just discussed, Bunny Berigan's, "I Can't Get
Started". Clay closed his eyes and thought back, remembering how the
original recording sounded. In Clay's opinion, Benny sounded better.


<><><><><>

	The following morning, Clay still hadn't made a decision as to
which job to pursue. So he wrote a list of "possibles" on a legal pad"; the
"improbables" he cast aside. Next he took his list, twelve in all, and cut
them into rectangles, folded them and tossed them in a mixing bowl. He
would choose a total of three. That would be plenty to investigate for one
day.

	The first name he drew from the bowl was St. Bart's Memorial
Hospital; the second was with a private practice, headed by a Dr. Howard
Guest, who specialized in Hodgkin's Disease; and the third was Tribeca
Clinic which specialized in HIV, AIDS, and other STD's. Looking at the
three, his obvious choice was with Dr. Guest since Hodgkin's Disease was
Clay's major in pre-med and in his later graduate study at med school. But
a game was a game; he wouldn't renege on the rules he had set for
himself. He would visit all three places and see what the jobs entailed,
make a choice of the three and place it in another bowl until he had four
to choose from, provided that he explored the rest of the twelve, three per
day.

	Tribeca Clinic was closest to Dave's apartment, so by nine-thirty
he was touring the clinic and being interviewed by the Administrator...or
rather, Clay was interviewing HIM. Whatever job he picked would be his own
choice without being influenced by staff hierarchy, salary, work hours, or
fringe benefits. Clay's only priority was that he must take a day-shift job
so that he would have his evenings free to spend with Dave once he returned
and was able to go to the Rustic Inn nightly.

	He spent less than an hour at Tribeca Clinic. Clay had never known
anyone with HIV or AIDS and, in spite of his love for animals and human
beings, he found the clinic too depressing. Granted the prognosis for
recovering from Hodgkin's was no greater than AIDS, but since he had seen
his dad slowly deteriorate with Hodgkin's, he felt he could cope with it
better.

	Dr. Guest could only allot Clay fifteen minutes of his time in
between patients. Clay took an instant dislike to Dr. Guest as soon as he
walked into the anteroom of his office. It was too posh and elaborately
decorated. Dr. Guest might be very dedicated to treating Hodgkin's but his
office surroundings made Clay feel that Dr. Guest was in practice only for
the money, not really caring for his patients.

	Of the three, Clay liked St. Bart's Hospital the best. Ed had
called Dr. John Parker, the administrator and told him about
Clay. Dr. Parker and Ed were old buddies from college and med school. At
that time, Ed was leading a straight life and was dating the girl that John
Parker married once she and Ed had parted ways. Ed had told John what a
terrific 'lay' she was and after John's first date with her, he concurred
with Ed's opinion.  So the two of them had screwed the same woman. Instead
of developing a rivalry, Ed and John perversely found that they had
something more in common and their friendship became stronger.

	After John and Frances married, Ed became a regular guest at their
house. The three of them remained close until Ed applied for his position
at Cole. So if Ed recommended Clay highly to John, then Clay must be a
pretty special doctor. John's chief of staff at St. Bart's was Dr. Hugh
Brantley and John was looking for an assistant for Hugh. Usually in large
hospitals, assistant chiefs of staff came through the rank and file doctors
who were ladder climbers and Clay knew that if he accepted the position
sight unseen, he was bound to ruffle the feathers of some staff physicians
at St. Bart's who were seeking the job. This troubled Clay, as he didn't to
take away some other doctor's chance for advancement and piss off most of
the staff, but Clay DID like the facility, Dr. Parker, AND Dr. Brantley.

	When he returned to Dave's later that afternoon, he took a
refrigerator magnet and put a list of his preferences on the
door,St. Bart's being at the top of his list. Of course, he had nine other
places to visit before making a final decision.

	He walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror and
said, "Doctor Clay Lawson...assistant Chief of Staff! I kinda like that!"
Clay also realized that by taking a position with one of Dr. Ed's closest
friends, he would stay in good grace with Ed and Cole Institute if he
should choose to return. Then he walked back into the bedroom and looked at
the empty bed and screamed, "Damn it, Dave! Why aren't you here to help
make my decision for us? Where the fuck are you? Why won't you call?"

	Having spoken his desperate soliloquy, Clay couldn't stand to be in
the empty apartment. He took off his suit and tie and put on a pair of
Dave's jeans and yellow shirt. He found a pair of matching yellow sox in
Dave's dresser; put them on with a pair of Dave's brown loafers. He looked
at himself in the mirror and laughed because he looked like a co-ed out of
the 50's. He remembered how Van Johnson looked in his dad's old MGM VHS
tapes, always wearing bright red socks...maybe it was Gene Kelly who wore
yellow socks with a yellow shirt.  He might have looked out of style, but
his appearance suited his mood. He wanted to find a quiet cafe, have
dinner, go for a walk, probably through Washington Square and kill time
until it was time for the quartet to start their first set at the Rustic
Inn.

	He was at the park around 7:30. He sat for a while and began
walking east across Broadway into the East Village. This section of town
looked a bit shady as the number of panhandlers and homeless people became
more numerous the further he walked. Across the street he heard a piano
playing and someone clanging a tambourine. He also heard men's voices
singing a hymn, way out of tune. That's when he saw the sign on the front
of the old brick building, "Job's Retreat Mission For The Wayfarers".

	Clay liked to listen to all kinds of music, but he was not in the
mood to go inside the mission and let someone try to save his soul. So he
hurried by as fast as he could. 'These missionaries were not only idiots',
Clay thought, 'but they're annoying!' Little did Clay know that he was less
than twenty feet away from Dave, lying in Mildred's room behind the door in
the back of the mission. Dave had been there almost a week.


<><><><>FLASHBACK TO A FEW DAYS EARLIER!!!<><><><><>


	Dave's so-called respite at Job's Retreat was a nightmare. The day
after Mildred, Wilbur, and Daryl had rescued him, Dave woke up sick and his
ass was hurting like hell. Mildred came into the room to see him around
9:00 AM. Before she said 'hello' to him, she knelt beside his bed for 'a
word of prayer'. Dave kept his eyes wide open while she prayed.

	After her, 'Amen', she spoke to him. "Good morning, Charlie, and
how are you feeling this morning?"

	"I...I hurt," he mumbled.

	"Well, roll over and let's me take a look at your bandages."

	Begrudgingly, Dave rolled onto his side and Mildred lowered the
back of his pajamas.

	She examined him closely. "Well, you didn't bleed any more," she
said, "I guess we can be thankful for that."

	"I suppose I should thank you for saving my life, what's left of
it," Dave uttered, facing the wall.

	"I don't save lives, Charlie, only souls."

	"I'm afraid your rescue was futile then, because I don't have a
soul to save."

	"We all have souls, Charlie. Sometimes they lose their way and they
need to find a new direction."

	"And you wanna be my tour guide, I suppose?"

	"In a manner of speaking, yes."

	"Good luck...my soul train has already pulled out of the station."

	"Charlie, last night, you said something about the police..."

	"I did?...So?"

	"Are you wanted by the police, Charlie?"

	"You...you could say that..."

	"What crime did you commit, Charlie. A good confession might make
you feel better."

	"Jesus Christ! What are you? Some kind of a woman priest?"

	"I'm no priest, Charlie, and I'd appreciate it if you would not use
the Lord's name in vain in my presence."

	"I'm sorry...OK?"

	"All right, but please don't do it again."

	"All right, already!"

	"Now you were about to tell me why you're wanted by the law..."

	"No, you asked! I was not about ready to tell you anything!"

	"Charlie, you didn't kill someone did you? Your wife? Girlfriend?"

	"No, I'm not a murderer so you can relax."

	"By your wounds, I can only assume you've been operated on in the
past few days."

	"Yeah, so what?"

	"You said that a hospital kicked you out because you couldn't pay
your bill. Is that right?"

	"Maybe..."

	"I just can't believe that any hospital, no matter how
uncharitable, would perform surgery and kick anyone out. Why did they
operate in the first place?"

	"Maybe it was an emergency and they did all they could for
free. Maybe their charity for me ran out. I..I overstayed my welcome! How
does that sound?"

	"Like a big fat lie," Mildred said, accusingly.

	"So maybe people without souls don't always tell the truth."

	"Then maybe we should do a little soul-searching and find the
truth."

	"Look, if you suspected me of being a murderer, why didn't you call
the cops and have them pick me up?"

	"Well, for one thing, the police and I don't always agree on our
separate rehabilitation methods."

	"Thank God for that!" Dave announced, suddenly reliving what had
happened to him in the holding tank.

	"Millie..."

	"Mildred."

	"MILDRED! Look, I...I got cash in the bank, see? If I can get to an
ATM machine...oh, shit! I don't have my wallet! All right, if Wilfred and
Jasper will take me to a bank, I'll make a large donation to your mission
here. I just need some clothes and some bucks and you'll never see me
again."

	"Charlie, you're not being reasonable. You haven't seen how serious
and deep your wounds are. Your...your rectum and lower colon are being held
together with stitches and staples. If you were to go outside and walk
fifty feet, they could tear loose and you could bleed to death in a matter
of hours."

	"So what's up, doc? What do you think I should do...stay here and
pass the collection plate every time you hold a service for other soulless
chumps like myself?"

	"No, I never force anyone to serve the Lord until he's ready. But,
I think you should stay here and let us help you until you
heal...physically, I mean."

	"You can't just put a spiritual finger up my butt and cure me. Rise
up thy butt and walk?"

	"I'm sorry, but healing is not part of our duties at Job's
Retreat. We heal the soul...the inner self. Only the Lord can heal your
wounds, but you've got to have faith and trust in Him."

	"Millie...sorry, Mildred, that just AIN'T gonna happen. If there IS
a God, he wouldn't allowed---what happened to me--to happen at all!"

	"You won't even give me a clue?"

	"Nope. Why don't you fall on your knees and ask your God to give
you a vision. Maybe He'll let you in on what happened!"

	"I don't think God will give me a vision, but I WILL pray for you."

	"Oh, gosh, golly, gee whiz! I feel better already!"

	"Charlie, your sarcasm is hiding something deeply painful and you
won't feel better until you're willing to talk about it."

	"How old are you, Mildred? Thirty-five?"

	"Thirty-three."

	"Then according to your Bible, you're supposed to live three score
and ten. Let's see, that gives you about thirty-seven more years to wait
before I decide to talk to you about anything!"

	"Charlie, I'm going to leave you now. I have street duty. I'll send
Daryl in with your breakfast. The best thing you can do is rest. Don't put
any stress on your stitches. Let nature heal you, even if you don't want to
ask God for His help."

	"Can I leave?"

	"If you want to hemorrhage to death...or if you feel you won't be
picked up by the police...then I suppose you can."

	"Then I guess it's the lady or the tiger, huh?"

	"Pardon?"

	"Skip it, Millie! Maybe there's a car behind curtain number three."

	Mildred gave Dave a wry, puzzled look and left. Dave put his
forearm on his forehead and looked at the ceiling. 'God, if I could just
die! God, I hope Clay is all right! I hope he finds someone else in his
life. I wish I were invisible and could see him right now...and he not be
able to see me. Jesus Christ! I'm fucked!"


<><><><><><><BACK TO THE PRESENT!<><><><><><>


	Clay wandered all over the East Village until time to go to the
Rustic Inn. His thoughts of Dave had been temporarily replaced with the
idea of going to work at St. Bart's. As assistant COS, he would oversee the
care of lots of patients being treated by many doctors. He would read
charts, go over treatment plans, review case histories and visit patients
from room to room. He would only have to report any irregularities to his
superior, Dr. Brantley. Otherwise, any documents that he signed off on
would be his responsibility. But, he reminded himself, he still had nine
more job prospects to consider. There was no need to make a snap decision.

	Clay arrived at the Inn during the middle of the quartet's first
set. He stopped by the bar and told Tony he felt like drinking tonight...a
sort of pre-celebration of the possibility of working at St. Bart's. Tony
poured Clay a double shot of Dewar's on the rocks and handed it to
him. Then Clay finagled his way through the crowd and tables to find his
small table near the bandstand was empty, so he sat, alone with the
music---and his thoughts. Rick, Leo, and Ray acknowledged Clay with a quick
wave while Benny dipped his trumpet and gave Clay a friendly wink.

	Most of the songs in the first set were upbeat with an occasional
Dixieland bounce. The third song was Benny's to sing. Once again, he chose
a Chet Baker vocal, the one Turner Classic Movie Channel used at the start
of a feature, "Look For The Silver Lining". Benny had Chet's style note for
note. It sounded like a live recording. Somehow, the "Silver Lining" set
the quartet off into a Jerome Kern mood and the rest of the set consisted
of "Sunny", "All The Things You Are", "Yesterdays", "Smoke Gets In Your
Eyes", "The Way You Look Tonight", "The Last Time I Saw Paris", "They
Didn't Believe Me", and "Old Man River".

	The Rustic Inn patrons loved the songs and especially loved the way
the young handsome trumpeter played and sang them. Clay didn't have to be a
musical genius to know that Benny had talent...lots of it! He was almost as
proficient on his trumpet as Dave was on his sax. Clay wished he could hear
the two of them play together. He also wondered if Jay, the owner, could
afford to keep Benny once Dave returned?

	The band broke for intermission. Leo, Rick, and Ray went to the
back room so that they could go out into the alley and smoke a
cigarette. Benny, instead, set down his trumpet on its stand and stepped
off the bandstand to join Clay at his table.

	"What's up, Doc?" Benny greeted Clay, sitting down.

	"You want a ginger ale or something?" Clay asked.

	"Yeah, Tony's pretty busy. I'll go up and get one in a minute."

	"Your set was terrific, Benny."

	"Thanks! Kern was a 'phenom' composer. Every musician loves to play
his songs. You know what's so different about them?"

	"I have my own ideas..."

	"Well, you see, back when Kern was writing for Broadway and
Hollywood, you know he wrote over a hundred movies scores, a lot of them
for Fred Astaire...any rate, songs back then were thirty-two bars and
out. There were the first eight bars to establish the main melody. The
second eight usually repeated the first eight with a twist or modulation
into the bridge. Then the bridge was eight bars of a throwaway tune to
bridge over until the last eight which was a similar version of the first
eight with tagged on ending. Now THAT'S the way most songwriters
composed. But not Kern, This cat would give you eight bars and raise it a
third for the second eight and then came the Kern bridge. He would write
eight, sixteen, thirty-two bar bridges, which would have been a completely
different tune. It didn't matter to Kern. If he had a second tune in his
head while he was writing a song, when it came time to add a bridge, he
would throw in the second tune before heading back to the last eight
bars. Now THAT was a composer who knew how to write songs!"

	"Damn, you make it all sound so interesting!"

	"Some night when we have time, I'll tell you what I know about
Gershwin and Porter. They were song masters, too! They had their own kind
of tricks and that's why their music will live forever."

	"I'd love for you to tell me about Gershwin and Porter. My dad
wasn't a musician per se, but he knew jazz. He had hundreds of LP's and he
used to give me private 'music appreciation' lessons when I spent my
afternoons with him."

	"Yeah, I remember how you told me how well you two got along. God,
if MY dad had ever spent time with me like that, who knows where I might of
been."

	"Do you think the old songs are coming back?"

	"Little by little. It's like that car commercial on TV, the one
where Rod Stewart sings, 'The Way You Look Tonight'. Now even though
there's no kid in the world that knows that Kern wrote that for Fred
Astaire to sing to Ginger Rogers, the fact remains, at least a kid has had
a touch of Jerome Kern invade his life. Rod Stewart recorded two whole CD's
of old standards."

	"I heard the one that George Michael did...and I liked it a lot!"

	"Yeah, I liked it too. I'd liked to have been there when George did
his recording, I'd've blown my horn---and George, too!"

	Clay laughed, "You're downright incorrigible!"

	"Sorry, I love to suck cocks! Pretty ones and I'll bet George's is
REAL pretty."

	"I'll admit he IS handsome," Clay said.

	"I'll bet yours is real pretty, too!"

	Clay blushed, "Why would you say that?"

	"Because you're so fucking handsome yourself."

	"You're not so bad in the looks department yourself, Benny."

	"Touché!" Benny said. "Is that a compliment or a challenge?"

	"After downing a double scotch, I'm not so sure what I meant."

	"Do you drink a lot?"

	"Hardly ever, due to my being a doctor. Why?"

	"It's just that some kinds can't say what they're really thinking
until they've had a couple of shots under their belt."

	"I...I'm not drunk...not on one drink, at least."

	"Then how am I supposed to take it when you say I'm good-looking?"

	"You said it to me first."

	"Yeah, but I was hitting on you."

	"Look, Benny, I'm in a serious relationship just now and it's in a
lot of trouble."

	"Yeah, I know, with Dave, the sax player. I kinda got that idea
from things Rick told me about your being such a big fan of Dave's and
all. Tony dropped a few hints to me as well."

	"I...I don't want anyone to know about Dave and me."

	"Can I ask you something?"

	"If it's not too personal..."

	"Well, with Dave being...'gone' or whatever...the fact remains he
isn't here. He doesn't play every night at the Inn. I do. I was just
wondering if you were coming here to hear me play?"

	"That could be part of it. You have talent and I enjoying listening
to you."

	"Is that all?"

	"Isn't that enough?"

	"For you, maybe, but not for me."

	"Oh?"

	"Yeah, you see, Clay, I love talking with you like this. I feel
more grown up and educated when I'm with you. You fascinate me and a couple
or three times during the past week, I found myself jacking off in my room,
thinking about what it would be like to go to bed with you."

	"That's impossible right now, Benny."

	"But suppose it wasn't? Suppose Dave had never existed? Would you
go to bed with me then?"

	"I...I don't know...maybe..."

	"At least there's some hope for me."

	"Benny, never in my life have I had one-night stands...NEVER! I'd
have to really feel something special for someone...and it wouldn't be for
just one night. It'd have to be the first of many nights...and in a
relationship. I have to love the person."

	"What if I was to say, I'm head over heels in love with you, Clay?"

	"I'd think you were singing one of Jerome Kern's unorthodox bridges
and you can't find your way back to the main melody."

	"I'm serious, Clay. I think I do love you. I can't get you out of
my mind. I can't wait until I see you walk into the Inn every night. I've
even stopped going to the early morning showers at the "Y". I just lie in
bed and think about you and only you."

	"I'm flattered, Benny, believe me, it's just that..."

	"I'll give you time...time and space...and if you come
around...I'll be waiting for you." Benny looked around to see the other
band members returning to their instruments and he got up and picked up his
trumpet.

	Whether it was spite, a trick, a joke, a memory, or what, Benny
began playing, "The Boy Next Door". After the first eight bars, Clay got up
from his table, gave Tony a twenty-dollar bill, and left.

	God, if there were no Dave, Benny might be the one, but Dave was
out there somewhere, Damn it! Where the fuck was he?"


<><><><><><><><>

(To be continued in "Lush Life"-7)