Date: Wed, 16 Jun 2010 06:15:17 EDT
From: BertMcK@aol.com
Subject: Dancing on the Tundra, 17

DANCING ON THE TUNDRA
by Bert McKenzie
Copyright 2010

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to any real
person alive or dead is coincidental and unintentional.

CHAPTER XVII

     Terry slipped back into his apartment.  He checked around
and was relieved to find that Wayne had gone out.  He was alone,
and able to relax and well in his emotions.  He sat quietly on
the couch, closed his eyes and tried to sort out his feelings.
Distrust and betrayal overwhelmed him, dominating his emotional
palette.  He first felt betrayed by his supposed agent.  He had
trusted the obnoxious little man, thinking this obscure agency
would help start his career.  Of course, his opinion was rapidly
declining from the first picture taking session with Collin.  He
found it a little hard to understand why a legitimate agency
needed nude photos of him.  Then came the revelation about the
modeling agency with which he was supposed to meet at the request
of his agent.  But the final capper had been the all too obvious
set up with the phoney casting director.  He kicked himself for
being so stupid, for not seeing through it all sooner, and for
thinking a real talent agency might be interested in him.  True
he had landed a paying role in that awful off-Broadway show that
only ran a week, but that certainly wasn't enough to attract the
attention of any real agents.

     He next thought of Collin.  The man had been kind and
considerate.  And despite his rather unusual fetish for black
clothing, he seemed to be a very normal person.  He was
physically attracted to Terry, just as Terry was attracted to
him.  The photographer had a lot going for him.  He was
moderately successful, dashingly handsome, and really great in
bed.  But aside from that, he seemed to be genuinely concerned
for Terry.  After all, it was Collin who pointed out that Rand
Studio was not a modeling agency at all, but a pornographic photo
studio.

     But Collin had also lied.  He had said his marriage was one
of convenience only.  He had expressed his emotions, fondness,
affection, even love for Terry.  Then, when Terry needed him the
most, Collin had rebuffed him.  It was pretty obvious that Collin
and his wife were not the platonic couple that he had described.
In fact, Collin acted uncomfortably like the faithless husband
trying to cover up his actions and explain away his mistress to
his wife.  And Terry was in actuality the other woman.  He had
never felt so cheap and degraded.  The fact that this experience
followed so closely upon his realizing he had been sent out
unwittingly as a male prostitute only made matters worse.  He
felt soiled, unclean.  Terry jumped up, dashed to the bathroom
and turned on the hot water in the tub.

     Ten minutes later he was soaking in the warm water,
stretched out with his eyes closed.  For a short time he
contemplated suicide.  He had been betrayed; he felt badly.  No
one was going to give him a job in theatre, and no one would
really even miss him.  It would be so easy to get a razor blade
from the cabinet over the sink and quickly slice the faint, blue
lines that were visible at his wrists.  He could then relax in
the tub as the warm water turned from transparent to pastel pink,
to vibrant rose and then finally bright red.  He could imagine
his life force quickly slipping from his body, being pumped into
the surrounding liquid.  He would just fade away.  The hurt and
pain he now felt would flow out of him with his life's blood, and
he could slip into that cold, gentle darkness that was more
intense than sleep.

     Then another thought suddenly popped into his head.  He
pictured Wayne coming home from a bar or party and walking into
the bathroom to take a leak.  He could just see the man's
reaction to the rather gory scene of his lifeless body floating
in a tub of blood.  Wayne would totally freak.  He would come
unglued and fall to pieces.  He would have to call the police and
they probably wouldn't be very sympathetic to his hysterics.
Then he would have to deal with Terry's family.  That would be
quite a scene.  Terry shuddered at the thought of his roommate
having to confront his father.  That was definitely an unpleasant
image, red-neck Harry Hick being told of his son's demise by an
effeminate black pansy.  His father was just as likely to grab
his shotgun and help Wayne to join Terry in eternity.  He heaved
a sigh as his mind turned from thoughts of self destruction.

     But what would he do?  What could he do?  His short-lived
career was over; his short-lived relationship likewise.  Terry
pulled the silver chain attached to the plug and listened to the
water as it gurgled down the drain, creating a miniature
whirlpool between his bare feet.  He quickly stood up and grabbed
a towel, vigorously wiping himself dry, then looping it around
his waist, he left the room and crossed the kitchen to the sink.
Digging in the cabinets overhead he produced a tumbler and a
bottle of blue Curacao that Wayne had bought for a party some
time back.  Terry filled the glass with the bright blue liquid,
marveling at its color.  It looked just like glass cleaner.  He
put the bottle back, then dug under the counter to find a bottle
of Windex to compare the colors.  It was almost a perfect match,
the Curacao being a tiny bit darker and much thicker, being a
liqueur.  He sat the bottle of Windex down, then took his glass
into the living room and sat on the couch, taking a big swig.  He
coughed and choked as the alcohol burned his throat.  He hadn't
been prepared for the strength of the straight booze.  As he
gained control of his throat and began to breathe again, he felt
the alcohol hit his empty stomach, causing a warm fire that made
him feel good inside.

     Terry thought some more about what he should do to
straighten out the mess his life had become, but no solution
presented itself.  On a sudden inspiration he stood up and went
back to his bedroom, returning in a few minutes with his address
book.  He sat on the couch, took another cautious sip of the blue
liqueur and picked up the phone, dialing a long distance number.

     The line clicked through, and then the phone on the other
end began to ring.  In a few moments a strange feminine voice
answered, "Hello."

     "Is Paula there?" Terry asked.

     "I think you have the wrong number," the voice said angrily.

     "I'm sorry," he apologized and hung up.  He looked up the
number again in his address book and carefully dialed so as not
to make a mistake this time.

     The same female voice answered.  "Brown's residence," it
said curtly.

     "May I speak to Paula," he requested.  "It's Terry
Michaelson."

     "There's no Paula here," the irate voice said.  "You
obviously misread the phone directory.  My husband's name is
Paul."

     "I'm sorry," he replied and was about to hang up, when he
remembered he was given the number in Paula's Christmas card last
December.  "Is this . . ."  He was about to recite the number to
check if he had dialed it correctly when another voice came on
the line.

     "Who the hell is this?" it demanded.  It sounded like his
old friend, only deeper, more resonant.  He was so shocked he
didn't answer at first.  "This is Paul Brown, asshole.  There's
no Paula here."

     "This . . . this is Terry," he finally managed to reply.

     The phone dropped to instant silence.  For a long moment he
thought the man on the other end of the line, who sounded
remarkably like the friend from his youth, had hung up.  Then a
much more familiar voice said, "Terry . . . Terry Michaelson.  Is
it really you?"

     "Yeah," he replied softly.

     "My God, how are you?  I haven't heard from you in about
three years, except for a lousy card at Christmas."

     "I'm okay," he replied hesitantly.  "For a minute I thought
maybe I had the wrong number."

     "Oh that," she said with a harsh laugh.  "You know how it
is.  You get hassled because of your sex life.  Virgy and I had
the phone listed as Paul Brown and I pretend to be a guy when we
get calls so we won't be bothered by any straights."

     "Oh," he said, still a little confused.

     "So where you calling from?" the voice asked.

     "New York," he admitted.

     "New York?  As in New York City?"

     Terry quickly told her about his decision to move, his fight
with his parents, his small part in the awful show.  Before he
knew it, it all came tumbling out, the relationship with Collin,
the agency trying to turn him into a hustler.  He soon realized
he was sobbing into the receiver.

     "You need to get away from there," Paula said when he had
calmed down a little.  "Why don't you come out here for a visit.
Minneapolis-St. Paul is beautiful in the fall and Virgy and I
would love to have you.  We've got plenty of room."

     "I'm sorry," Terry apologized.  "I just wanted to talk.  I
didn't mean . . ."

     "You got any money for a ticket?"  He told her he was just
about totally broke.  "No problem.  I've got a great job, making
money hand over fist.  Listen, I'll cable you enough for a bus
ticket out here.  You come for a nice visit.  If you like it,
we'll find you a place to stay.  You know, we've got theaters in
the Midwest too."

     Perhaps a change of scenery was just what he needed.  Terry
agreed, they made some quick arrangements, then he hung up.  He
sat the phone back on the table and took another sip of his
drink, savoring the burning glow as he felt it trace its way down
his throat and into his stomach.  It couldn't begin to melt the
tundra that imprisoned his heart, but it certainly felt good for
the moment.  He sat the glass down on the floor beside the couch,
then stretched out, closing his eyes and thinking about his plans
for the future.  He would move to Minnesota and stay with Paula
and her lover.  Maybe he would have an easier time of it in the
Midwest.  Perhaps his theatrical ambitions were just a bit much
and he had over reached himself in coming to New York.  "Let's
face it," he said to himself, "I'm just small potatoes in the Big
Apple."  The phrase struck him as funny and he began to laugh
hysterically.  Finally, still chuckling to himself, he drifted
off to sleep.

                            *   *   *

     Wayne came home late, well after midnight.  He opened the
front door and stepped inside, noticing Terry stretched out on
the sofa.  He very quietly closed and locked the door, then
stepped over to his friend.  Terry seemed to be asleep, stretched
out on his back, his eyes closed and dressed in only a towel.
Wayne shook his head and clucked his tongue, then walked into the
kitchen.  He stepped over to the sink to get a drink of water,
then noticed the bottle of glass cleaner on the counter.  He
picked it up, and looked at it curiously, wondering why it was
sitting out.  Wayne turned and glanced into the living room, then
spotted the half empty tumbler of bright blue liquid sitting on
the floor beside couch.  Suddenly he dropped the cleaner,
emitting an ear piercing shriek.  "Lordy, he's done drank a glass
of Windex and now he's in a coma!"

      The scream roused Terry and he opened his eyes, trying to
remember where he was through the blur of intoxication.  "What's
going on?" he managed to mumble.

     Wayne dashed to his side, grabbing the phone.  "You just lay
still, honey.  Wayne's gonna save you," he said as he dialed the
operator.  "Get me the police," he cried into the phone as the
voice on the other end answered.  "It's an emergency!  He's tried
to kill hisself by drinking a whole bottle of Windex!"

     "Wayne?  What's the matter?" Terry asked as he tried to sit
up, fighting to regain consciousness and control.  The effects of
the alcohol made his movements sluggish.

     "Don't you worry, honey!  I won't let you die!  You lie
still.  You've been poisoned."  Just then a loud knock came on
the door.  "They're here!  Thank God the police are here!" Wayne
shouted, hanging up the phone on a very confused operator who
kept asking for a precinct number.  The frightened black man ran
to the door and threw it open expecting to find police or
paramedics or some other form of help.  Instead he found one lone
man dressed all in black.  "Oh my God!  It's a priest," Wayne
cried.

     "Hi, I came to see Terry," the man said.

     "He's not dead yet.  Don't you go giving him no last rites."

     "What?" Collin asked as he stepped in, seeing Terry sitting
on the couch, still lost in a drunken haze.

     "He drank a whole bottle of poison," Wayne wailed.

     "What kind?  What did he take?" Collin asked as he dropped
down beside Terry.

     "Windex, there in that glass."

     Collin picked up the half empty tumbler and sniffed it.
"This isn't Windex.  It's some kind of booze," he said.

     "It's blue shit," Terry chimed in, slowly coming around.

     Wayne took the glass and sipped it.  "It's my Curacao," he
declared.  "I thought he drank glass cleaner."  The black man
took the tumbler into the kitchen, shaking his head.

     "Come on," Collin said, helping Terry to his feet.  He
guided him through the apartment and into his bedroom.  Collin
gently put Terry to bed, then stripped off his own clothes and
climbed in with him.

     "I just don't get it," Wayne mumbled.  "First he scares me
half to death by making me think he's poisoned himself, then he
goes to bed with a priest."

                            *   *   *

     Terry had a very long and uncomfortable ride to Minneapolis.
He hated buses and the trip just reinforced all of his reasons
why.  It was long, bumpy, cramped and there was a woman with two
small children who sat immediately behind him for most of the
trip.  One child ran up and down the aisles or sat behind him and
constantly kicked the back of his seat while the other kid cried
non-stop for hundreds of miles at a time.  Still, Paula was
paying for the ticket so he couldn't be too choosey.

     When he awoke the morning after the incidents that spurred
his trip westward he found himself in his own room, but not
alone.  It took him a moment to realize that it was Collin who
was in bed with him.  He got up and quickly dressed, then walked
out to the kitchen to fix coffee.  Wayne was already sitting at
the table with a steaming cup.  "So when did you start dating a
priest?" he asked.

     "He's not a priest.  He's a photographer," Terry replied.

     "Oh, so this is the married man."

     "Good morning," Collin called as he stepped into the room.
He was wearing black bikini briefs and a black t-shirt.  Wayne
rolled his eyes, gathered his robe about him, picked up his
coffee cup and retreated tactfully into his bedroom, closing the
door behind him.

     "What are you doing here?" Terry asked angrily.

     "I came to see you, to be with you."

     "What about your wife?"

     A guilty look crossed the man's face for a fleeting instant,
and as quickly disappeared.  "I told her I had a business trip.
I figured we could spend a couple of days together, maybe drive
down to D.C. and see the sights."

     "I can't," Terry replied coldly.  "I'm going out of town to
visit an old friend.  I don't even know if I'll be back."

     Collin looked visibly disturbed.  "What do you mean?  You're
moving away?"

     "Yeah, at least for a while."

     "What about us?" the photographer whined.

     "What about us?" Terry fired back at him.  "I like you.  I
like you a lot, but I told you at the beginning I didn't want to
be the other man.  You lied to me."

     "No," Collin protested.  "I only bent the truth a little.  I
don't love her.  I'm only staying with her because her money
opened my studio."

     "But does she know that?"  The man looked down at his feet.
"When you get things worked out with her, then we'll see about
us."

     "But I'm in love with you," Collin said, looking back up at
Terry.

     "I'm sorry, but I can't handle that the way things are right
now.  I've got the address of your studio.  I'll drop you a
line."

                            *   *   *

     The bus unloaded its passengers at the downtown station in
Minneapolis.  Terry climbed off and picked up his suitcase,
looking around for Paula, but there was no one in the waiting
room who resembled his friend.  Terry walked over to the row of
chairs in the center of the room and was about to sit down when
he heard his name called.  Looking up, he saw he was being hailed
by a stocky man with black hair who was approaching him.  The
man's eyes looked familiar, as did the shape of his face.
Suddenly the familiarity hit him, knocking him almost off his
feet.  "Paula?"

     She grabbed his hand in a firm clasp, then pulled him close
for a quick hug.  "This yours?" she asked, grabbing his bag and
they were out the door and walking down the street to her car, a
late model Oldsmobile.

     As she sped through traffic, Terry turned to look at her.
She had put on quite a bit of weight and really bulked out, but
not in the way usual to women.  Her hips didn't seem larger than
normal and her breasts were non-existent beneath the loose
fitting sweat shirt.  The short cut of her hair added to the
masculine look, as did the set of her jaw, the way she had
carried herself when she walked to the car, and of course her
voice.  She had dropped it into a lower register which gave it a
masculine affectation.  The woman sitting beside him was not the
girl he knew from the past.  He knew she had accepted herself as
a lesbian, but this was beyond that.  The image she presented was
not a bit feminine or even female.  If he didn't know better he
would have assumed she was a man.

     He couldn't contain himself anymore.  "Paula . . . you're so
different."

     "We need to talk," she said as she turned off the main
thoroughfare and onto a smaller residential street.  "Virgy and I
are really happy with who we are, but who we are is not what
others think."  Terry simply stared at her, not comprehending
what she was saying.  "I've got a good job," she continued.  "I
drive a big eighteen wheeler, long hauls."

     "You're a truck driver?" he asked in astonishment.

     "Yeah, and I really like it.  I make great money and I'm
really happy."

     "Well, that's great," he replied, trying to sound
enthusiastic.

     "But this is a man's world.  I'd never get jobs if they
thought I was a girl."

     "So that explains the hair cut and the clothes."

     "You got it," she smiled, a grin a bit too wide, showing too
many teeth.  "Here I'm Paul Brown, not Paula.  It started out as
a simple typo on my driver's license, and then I found how easy
it was to pass for a guy.  Since then I've had all my records
changed.  It only took a slightly altered birth certificate and a
couple of formal letters complaining about the 'errors' in my
records."

     "So nobody knows you're really a girl?"  Terry was
astounded.  To look at her, she could be a man, but he never
thought she'd be really masquerading as such.

     "Well of course Virgy knows.  And you.  But that's it.  To
the rest of the world I'm Paul.  I just wanted to clue you in
before we got home."

     They pulled into a driveway beside a modest bungalow and
Paula killed the engine.  The two of them climbed out of the car
and headed up the porch steps.  "Hi, Mr. Brown," a little boy
shouted from the next door yard.

     "Hi, Scotty," Paula called back in a deep voice.

     They then went inside where Terry was introduced to
Virginia, Paula's lover.  The woman reminded Terry of June
Cleaver.  She wore a plain house dress with a short apron tied
around her waist and even had the obligatory string of fake
pearls and earrings.  "Welcome to our home," she said as she took
Terry's hand and gave it a weak squeeze.  "I have the guest room
all ready for you and dinner will be in about thirty minutes if
you'd like to freshen up after your long trip.  Paul, will you
show our guest around while I set the table?"  She then slipped
back into the kitchen.

     Dinner was an oddly uncomfortable meal.  The three sat
around a small table in a tiny formal dining room and ate a very
filling meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts.
Terry and Paula were both fairly silent except to answer
questions posed by Virginia.  She tried to keep the conversation
going by making polite small talk.  She asked Terry about his
family and about his career plans.  She hoped he would find their
guest room comfortable and explained that it was eventually going
to be a nursery when they had children.  This statement
unfortunately was delivered just as Terry took a sip of iced tea.
He nearly choked on the beverage.  "You're planning on having
children?" he finally asked when he recovered sufficiently to be
able to speak.

     "Yes, we want a big family some day," Virginia said with a
maternal smile.  "At least two boys and two girls."

     "We plan to adopt," Paula quickly added.

     "I don't wonder," Terry responded dryly.

     The doorbell rang, interrupting this unusual conversation.
"That must be Cynthia," Virginia said as she got up to begin
clearing the table.  "Honey, will you let her in.  I'll be right
there."  Paula went into the living room to answer the door while
Terry helped carry dishes into the kitchen.  "I'll do these up
when I get home," the girl said.  "You and Paul spend the evening
visiting and catching up on old times.  I know how he looked
forward to seeing you again."  With that Virginia wiped her hands
on her apron, then removed it, hanging it on a peg by the sink.

     Terry and Virginia returned through the dining room to the
living room.  A tall, thin, older woman with grey hair and too
much makeup was waiting for Virginia.  "I'll get my sweater," the
girl said and ducked into the hall leading to the bedrooms.
Paula introduced Terry to the older woman, a friend of Virginia's
from church.  Paula's girlfriend returned and the two women left,
leaving Terry and Paula alone.

     "I could help with the dishes," Terry volunteered in the
uncomfortable silence.

     "Nonsense," Paula said.  "That's women's work.  Virgy will
get 'em when she gets home.  I'm going to take you out for a
drink."  The two of them soon left and Paula took Terry to a
little corner bar several blocks away.  It was very obviously a
local gathering spot for the guys in the area.  There were very
conspicuously no women in the joint with the exception of a
rather care-worn looking bar maid.  Several of the men greeted
Paula as if he were one of the boys, which apparently is what
they thought from their comments and greetings.

     When the two had finally settled in a corner booth as far
away from the TV by the bar as was possible, Terry leaned forward
and spoke in a barely audible whisper.  "Paula, this is weird.
Everyone thinks you're a guy."

     "Paul, please," his friend quickly corrected him.  "And I am
a guy.  I'm more of a man than probably half of the fuckers in
this dump."  Their conversation was momentarily suspended as the
bar maid dropped off a couple of draws.  Paula handed her a
crumpled bill, then smacked her on the butt as she turned to
leave.  "See what I mean?"

     "But . . . but what about Virginia?"

     "She loves me for who and what I am, and I feel the same
about her."  Paula took a quick swig of the beer sitting at her
elbow.  "In fact, this is the only way we can have a normal
life."

     "You call this normal?" Terry asked, then realized he had
gotten overly loud.  A couple of guys at the end of the bar were
giving him dirty looks.

     "Yes," Paula replied in a hushed whisper.  "What kind of
life would we have as two women?  Straights beating us up; having
to work in crummy jobs with no protection or security from being
fired by some heterosexual asshole; teenagers making fun of us;
mothers keeping their children away from us.  Did you see the
little boy from next door, Scotty Quartermain?  His dad died in
Vietnam.  Last weekend I taught him how to play catch."

     Terry shook his head.  "But is pretending to be straight the
only way to be gay and survive?" he asked.

     "In this society, in this day and age . . . yes," she
replied.  "You know where Virgy went tonight?  To religion class.
She's converting to Catholicism.  Next week she'll be baptized.
Then we're going to get married at St. Jonathan's."

     "You can't get married," Terry said in shock.  He had long
since fallen away from the Church, but this seemed almost to be a
disrespectfully sacrilegious affront.

     "We're going to do it.  We'll be Paul and Virginia, Mr. and
Mrs. Brown.  And I'm really glad you came when you did, Terry.  I
want you to be my best man."