Date: Sat, 5 Jun 2010 05:28:17 EDT
From: BertMcK@aol.com
Subject: Dancing on the Tundra, 6

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 VI

     Terry's problem eventually vanished without his having to do
much of anything.  By mid-semester Gary had gone to the house
mother, the dean of student affairs and the campus housing office
and finally obtained permission to move off campus.  It was a
policy that all freshmen were required to live in the dorms, but
the policy wasn't as strictly enforced for male students as it
was for females.  In this particular case it was finally decided
that it would be in Gary's best interest that he find other
accommodations.  Rumors of what had happened in Terry's room
circulated throughout the floor and finally the entire dorm in
just two days.  No one knew who the other sex partner was, but
Gary was instantly identified.  When graffiti like "Kill the
Queer," started appearing in the elevators and dorm bathrooms
Mother Barry finally got involved and called Gary in for a
conference.

     From his attitude it was obvious that Gary suspected Terry
of being the originator of the rumors.  In the next couple of
weeks that followed Gary stopped talking to Terry and everyone
else on the floor for that matter.  He visited his room less and
less, coming in only to change clothes or books.  Apparently he
had already located another place to sleep.  After the initial
shock wore off Terry wanted to talk with Gary.  He realized the
treatment his roommate was receiving from the others, from a cold
shoulder or a reproachful glance to outright hostility, was
essentially his fault.  But Gary went out of his way to avoid
Terry.

     The real source of the rumors had to be Brent.  Terry had
told no one else of the incident except Mother Barry and he was
pretty sure she wouldn't start circulating such stories.  Terry
felt guilty over the entire mess.  If he could take it all back
he would.  To this end he visited with Brent.  Surprisingly
enough, the boy seemed somewhat sympathetic to Gary's plight.  He
assumed it was Terry who had caused the rumors to be spread.
Brent assured Terry that he could not be the source.  After he
suggested that Terry talk with their house mother, he told no one
else about the incident, except perhaps Stewart, his roommate.
But Brent had extracted Stewart's solemn promise not to tell
anyone else.

     Terry wondered if another roommate would be assigned to him
when Gary finally vacated in late October.  He had the entire
room to himself and although the autonomy was nice, he found that
he really missed the company.  Consequently, he began spending
more and more time in Brent's room, visiting with his friend.
Eventually, Brent had to gently but firmly explain that he needed
his space.

     Around this same time Terry began to get involved with the
theatre department.  As a major he was required to put in a
certain number of extra hours working on the productions, so he
elected to volunteer his free time in staffing the box office.
It was a fairly easy job and one he enjoyed.  He delighted in
being able to reserve the seats and sell the tickets.  It gave
him a sense of power to know that he was the one responsible for
bringing the audience and performers together.

     One afternoon while he sat in the tiny cubicle a friendly
voice hailed him.  Terry looked up from his freshman comp. text
to see Father Schmidt standing at the window.  The priest smiled
warmly.  "Well, for gunny sacks," he said jovially.  "I didn't
know you worked here."

     Terry was surprised that Father Schmidt was even aware of
him.  Although he attended Mass regularly, so did about three
hundred other students.  "I'm a theatre major," he explained.

     "I'm sorry.  What's your name again?" the priest asked.  "I
never forget a face once I learn a name."

     "Terry Michaelson," Terry said.

     "Yes, of course.  You're the boy from Bishop Benton over in
Springfield."

     "Yes," Terry said, surprised that the priest would know
this.

     "Father Joe told me to keep an eye out for you," the man
said with a grin.  Perhaps he didn't mean anything by the remark,
but Terry immediately tensed.  He thought he had left all of his
high school troubles behind.  Now he wondered what it was that
Father Joseph had told this priest.  Of course it made sense that
his high school principal had known what college he had chosen.
It also made sense that these two priests might know each other.
But why should they discuss him?  Terry wondered if Coach
McPherson had told Father Joseph that he was a pervert.  He
wondered if Father Joseph knew about prom night, or if he had
relayed any of this to the campus pastor.

     "I need two for Friday night," the priest said, jerking him
out of his speculation and back to the business at hand.  The
house for Friday was already pretty full so the choice of seats
wasn't the best, but Terry did what he could.  Father Schmidt
handed him the money, then said, "I'd like to leave them here if
I could.  I'm afraid I might lose them between now and Friday."

     "Sure, Father," Terry replied as he slid the tickets into a
small envelope and dropped them in the paid reservations slot.
"We'll have them here for you.  Curtain is at eight."

     When he got back to the dorm that afternoon a letter was
waiting for him.  It was from Paula.  Terry hurried to his room,
closed the door, quickly tore open the envelope and scanned the
contents.  He had invited the girl down for the play, assuring
her that he would get tickets.  They were doing "Man of La
Mancha" and he was sure it would be a spectacular production.  In
fact, Terry was disappointed that he didn't get to try out for
the show, but auditions were held the second week of school and
he was still new enough at the time that he didn't know about
them, or even where to look to find out such information.

     Paula said she would love to come down but could only make
it for the Sunday matinee.  She had a club meeting on Saturday
for a new organization that she had just joined.  Although it
wasn't exactly what he had hoped for, still Terry was excited.
He ran down the hall to tell Brent about Paula.  The door to the
room was open and loud twangs from an electric guitar could be
heard.  Terry knocked on the metal frame and peeked his head in
to see Stewart sitting on his bed, playing at his guitar.

     Stewart fancied himself a musician although his major was
undeclared, and he was eternally looking for a rock group to
join.  Unfortunately he wasn't really good enough to be accepted
by any real bands.  The only thing he really knew how to play was
"Louie, Louie."  Whenever he was in the room one could hear the
loud, buzzing chords of the refrain.  As Terry looked in, Stewart
began to strum the same sounds once more.  His eyes were closed
in concentration and for the moment Terry was able to observe him
unaware.  The boy was extremely thin with long, bony fingers that
reached around, gripping the thin guitar's neck in a strangle
hold.  His arms, legs and chest all matched to give a gaunt,
starving musician appearance.  At the moment he was propped up on
his bed, leaning against the wall, the guitar in his lap.  From
the angle at which Terry saw him, he appeared nude, and Terry
could easily count each rib in his thin torso.

     Terry stood quietly in the doorway, not wanting to be rude
and interrupt the boy as he struggled so hard over the simple
chords.  But then he shook his long, shoulder length locks and
began to sing, never opening his eyes.  "Louie, Louie, oh baby.
Me gotta go.  Oh oh oh oh oh yeah."  The off-key moaning was all
that Terry could take.

     "Excuse me.  Excuse me, hey, Stewart."  He had to raise his
voice to be heard.

     The discordant sounds came to an abrupt end as the long
haired singer opened his eyes and looked at Terry.  "Shit, man.
Did I leave the door open?"

     "Yeah," Terry said.  "I didn't mean to bother you.  I was
just . . ."

     "It's cool," Steward replied as he sat the instrument gently
aside and scooted to the edge of his bunk to jump down to the
floor.  Terry stifled a gasp as he realized Stewart really was
nude, his phallus partly erect.  "Man, I meant to close the door.
Some chick might walk by and come in to rape me if she sees my
wang like this.  Pull it shut, will you?"  Stewart reached over
and snapped off the amplifier sitting on the floor by the desk,
then he began to rummage through a desk drawer.

     Terry pulled the door shut behind him, then leaned against
it, staring openly at the naked figure in front of him.  "I . . .
I was just . . ." he stammered.

     "Sit down, guy," Steward said as he pulled out a plastic bag
of what looked like dried parsley and a package of cigarette
papers.  He then dropped back on Brent's bed, his legs spread
wide and his penis standing up as he began to roll a joint.  "Sit
down and share a toke or two."

     "I didn't mean to interrupt," Terry said again, his eyes
drawn to Stewart's genitals.

     The musician looked up and noticed Terry's stare.  He
laughed as he reached down to fondle himself.  "Oh, it's cool,
man.  I always like to play my guitar in the nude.  The
vibrations feel good on my dick."  He smiled a conspiratorial
grin.  "I guess you seen lots of hard dick from that queer
roommate you had.  I bet he was always hot for you."

     "What?" Terry said in stunned surprise.

     "You're a good looking guy.  You know those queers are
always on the lookout for good looking guys like us."  He lit the
foul smelling roach and took a deep drag, then leaned back on the
bed and began to stroke himself.  "But you know, sometimes I
think I might let one of them queers suck on me if I couldn't
find pussy.  After all, a mouth's better than a hand any day."

     "I've gotta go," Terry said as he quickly opened the door
and slipped out.  He rushed back to his own room, closing and
locking the door behind him, then fell face down on the bed.  He
could feel his body responding to the image of Stewart that was
still burning into his mind.  "I'm not queer," he said to
himself.  "I just get turned on easily.  It has nothing to do
with guys.  I'm not queer."

                            *   *   *

     A couple of days later Terry volunteered to work in the box
office on the nights of performance.  He had purchased tickets
for Paula to join him at Sunday's matinee, but he would work the
ticket window on Thursday, Friday and Saturday.  Betsy, the box
office manager was grateful for the help.  Terry had managed to
do such a competent job that she allowed him to help close out
the books and make deposits, jobs that should have remained her
responsibility.  On Wednesday morning she even asked him if he
would be willing to take over the office on Saturday night so she
could go out on a date.  "Sure.  I'd be glad to," Terry told her.
He was bursting with pride that he had some authority and
responsibility in the department.

     Wednesday afternoon brought torrential rains.  Terry's one
o'clock class was canceled so he went back to the dorm and sat in
his room, trying to study.  The rain beat on the window with a
staccato rattle, amazing in that anything so wet could make such
a dry sound.  Terry tried to concentrate on his biology text as
he lay on the lower bunk and listened to the sound.  Suddenly he
was aware of another tone, a deeper rhythm to the rain.  It was
as if there was a full bass line underscoring the snare drum on
his closed windows.  It resounded in a continual pattern of five
beats:  three tones, a pause, then two tones, a pause, then the
pattern repeated itself.  After a while the continual sound
worked its way into his subconscious so that Terry could no
longer concentrate on the book.  He closed his eyes and tried to
think of anything else, but the insistent rhythm kept grabbing
his attention.  Finally Terry could stand it no more, so he rose
from the bed and decided to go investigate.

     He opened his door and listened.  The sound seemed louder in
the hall.  Terry stepped out and began walking down the corridor.
He was halfway to the stairs when he finally identified the
rhythm.  It was the driving bass line of "Louie, Louie" coming
from behind Brent's closed door.  Stewart must be in, again
playing on his guitar.

     Terry decided to quickly return to his room.  He picked up
his biology book and sat at the desk.  His eyes read the page,
but his brain didn't comprehend the words.  It kept returning to
the steady beat, worrying it like a tongue on a sore tooth.  He
wished Stewart would cut out the music.  How could anyone
concentrate with that eternal pulse beating so insistently down
the hall?  He had half a mind to go ask the would-be musician to
knock it off.  He even stood up, but then he thought of catching
Stewart as he did the preceding week.  He didn't want to walk in
on the naked young man getting off on the vibrations of his
guitar.  Yet he had to do something to get his mind off the
infernal cadence.

     Terry grabbed a towel and decided to go take a shower.  He
was sure the sound of the water would drown out the electric
guitar.  Then too, this time of day was an excellent time to use
the communal bathroom, as it was always deserted in the
afternoons.  He slipped off his shoes and socks and walked
barefoot down the hall to the bathroom door.  Sure enough, the
tile covered room was empty.  He stepped to one of the narrow
shower stalls and turned on the hot water, then began to disrobe,
hanging his clothes and towel on a nearby hook.

     Inside the tiny cubicle the warm water splashed on his skin,
refreshing and reviving him.  He let its force massage him as it
sprayed with stinging intensity against his tense muscles.  Terry
stuck his head under the jet and allowed the water to soak his
thick blond hair, running into his eyes and ears.  He delighted
in the sound as well as the feel of the shower.  For a moment he
strained his ears but could hear no hint of the pulse that had
driven him to the shower room in the first place.  Terry decided
that when he was finished he would take his books and go up to
the meditation room on six and study.

     He thought about how rude Stewart was to play an amplified
guitar while others were trying to study.  True, he didn't play
it during quiet hours from seven till nine each night, but still
he was inconsiderate.  Terry figured he was probably just trying
to stimulate his body with the vibrations.  The image of Stewart,
sitting naked on Brent's bunk jumped unbidden to Terry's mind.
He thought about how the boy looked and what he had said.  He
would let a queer suck him if he couldn't get pussy.  Terry
thought about that statement and he started to tremble.  Looking
down he saw that he was becoming aroused.  "It's just the thought
of pussy," he told himself.  He wondered how it would feel.
Would it feel as good as his hand when he masturbated?  Would it
feel as good as a mouth?  He had never been sucked, but he knew
from experience that others sure enjoyed it.  He wondered what it
felt like.

     "I've got to stop this," Terry said to himself as he turned
off the water.  "It's a sin."

     "What is?" a voice asked from behind one of the stall doors
to the toilets.  Terry had spoken aloud as he opened the shower
curtain and reached for his towel.  Now he jumped in surprise at
the voice, and turned quickly, his towel held in front of his
erection.  "What's a sin, man?" the voice spoke again.

     Terry saw two bare feet below the stall door.  "Nothing," he
replied as he tried to quickly wipe off the excess water.

     "Don't bullshit me, man," the voice said.  "You been beating
off in the shower, ain't you?"

     "No," Terry protested as he grabbed for his underwear
hanging on the hook.

     "It's cool.  I came in here to do the same," the voice said.
The stall door suddenly swung open and there sat Stewart, playing
with himself in full view.  "I thought that might be you, man."
Terry couldn't help but stare, watching as the skinny boy
continued to manipulate himself.  "I know we ain't supposed to,
but when a guy gets so horny what else can he do?"

     "Yeah," was all Terry could manage as his throat seemed to
close.

     "So what ever became of your roommate?" Stewart asked, never
stopping his movements.

     "I don't know," Terry said quietly.

     "Too bad.  You and me could have had lots of fun with him.
You ever let him go down on you?"

     "No."

     "Too bad.  Bet it would have felt good.  You ever go down on
him?"

     The question seemed to snap the spell that Stewart had cast.
"No," Terry said angrily and quickly began to dress.  So the
insinuations were finally starting.  Just because his roommate
was queer, people were thinking the same about Terry.  This guy
was probably only trying to get Terry to volunteer sex with him.
But he wasn't as clever, or as good looking as Jim had been in
high school.  Terry pulled on his jeans and almost ran back to
his room.

                            *   *   *

     Friday evening in the box office Betsy allowed Terry to
handle all of the paperwork and fill out the deposit slips.
Everything balanced perfectly with the exception of two paid but
unclaimed tickets.  She double checked his work and showed him
where to place the deposit in the main theatre office over the
auditorium.  He was ready to take over for her on Saturday.  She
handed him her keys and told him she would pick them up before
the show on Sunday.  Terry was excited by the prospect of being
totally in charge.  He had finally been given some
responsibility.  His life was subtly changing.

     Saturday Terry slept late, then he and Brent went to the
park, taking their books so they could study.  It was
unseasonably warm for November, so they were able to dress in
shorts.  Terry wore a tank top that set off his well proportioned
chest, shoulders and arms.  Brent opted for a long sleeve sweat
shirt in an attempt to hide his body.  The two boys stretched out
on the tops of two picnic tables that were placed close together.

     Terry tried to concentrate on his studies, but he kept
getting distracted by nature.  It was such a beautiful day, the
air soft and warm like the false promise of spring.  He glanced
over to see Brent staring at him, also obviously having trouble
keeping his mind on schoolwork.  "What's wrong?" Terry asked as
he noticed the odd expression on his friend's face.

     "What?  Oh nothing," Brent said, his mind obviously having
been lost in thought.  "I was just thinking what a good build
you've got."  Terry blushed in surprise.  "I mean I wish I looked
as good as you do.  I wouldn't have any trouble getting girls
then."

     "It's a combination of dance class and cafeteria food,"
Terry joked.  He had enrolled in advanced jazz dance as one of
his P.E. requirements.  "And besides," he continued as he looked
critically at his friend, "you're looking better.  I bet you've
lost twenty pounds since the semester started."

     "You think so?" Brent asked, suddenly enthusiastic.  "I
guess you're right about the food here.  You know I do think my
clothes are getting too loose.  Maybe next semester I'll take a
dance class.  I should never have let my advisor talk me into co-
ed badminton.  It's boring and I'm awful at it."  They sat in
silence for a bit, then Brent spoke up again.  "You shouldn't
have any trouble finding a girlfriend with your looks.  Even
Stewart was saying what a good looking body you have."

     Terry instantly felt a chill go through him at the mention
of that name.  "How well do you know Stewart?" he asked.

     "Pretty well, why?" Brent asked.

     "He said some things to me that bothered me," Terry said
hesitantly.

     "Like what?"

     "You know about Gary?"

     "You mean him being a queer?  So what's that got to do with
anything?"

     Terry thought for a moment before responding.  "I think
Stewart may be that way too."

     "No, he's not," Brent said quickly and angrily.  "Just
because he walks around in the nude all the time doesn't mean
he's queer."

     "He was asking me about blow jobs," Terry argued.

     "Well maybe he thinks you're one," Brent lashed out.  "After
all, you're a good looking guy without a girlfriend and you lived
with one for half a semester."  Terry slammed his book shut and
jumped off the table, breaking into a run back toward the dorm.
"Terry . . . Terry, wait.  I'm sorry," Brent yelled after him.

                            *   *   *

     The lobby was filling up fast with men in suits and women in
long dresses.  And then there was a generous number of college
students in the typical student uniforms of bell bottom jeans.
Terry sold quite a few tickets and the rack grew empty as his
seating chart filled.  There was a long line of people at the
window picking up reservations that had been made previously.
The house opened and the theatre-goers slowly began to filter
into the auditorium, clearing out the lobby crowds.

     "Well snakes alive, Tommy," a friendly voice said at the
window.

     "Terry," he corrected.  It was Father Schmidt.  "Can I help
you, Father?"

     "I'm here to pick up my tickets.  Remember, I left them on
reserve so I wouldn't lose them."

     Terry blushed and looked down.  He did remember all too
well.  Those tickets had been for the Friday night performance.
The previous night he and Betsy had discussed how odd it was that
the priest had paid for his seats and didn't show up.  "We had
those for last night," Terry explained uncomfortably.

     "No, they were tonight.  I said Saturday.  I told you
Saturday," the man said angrily.

     Terry quickly apologized.  "I'm awfully sorry, Father.  I
must have misunderstood you."  He lied and took the blame in the
old tradition that the customer is always right.

     "Well what are you going to do about it?" the priest asked.

     Terry quickly grabbed the seating chart and the envelope
marked "House."  A small number of prime seats were held back for
just such occasions.  They were to be used for visiting
dignitaries or to correct mistakes.  If not needed they were sold
to anyone at the window immediately before curtain.  "I have two
seats here I can give you," Terry said as he held out the tickets
and indicated their location on the seating chart.

     The priest scowled.  "These aren't the seats I chose."

     "Actually these are much better.  They're in the center
section on the aisle."

     "Where are my seats?"

     "We held them for Friday," Terry explained again.  "But they
were over here on the side."

     The priest stared at the chart, then looked up to glare at
the boy.  There was a long, uncomfortable silence.  "I'm not at
all happy about this," the man finally said.

     "I'm awfully sorry for the mix up, but these are better
seats."  Finally the priest reached out, took the tickets and
walked away still scowling.  Quite a line had accumulated behind
him and Terry had to work furiously to get them all served in
time for the curtain.  At last the ushers closed the doors and
the show began.  Terry sat back on his high stool and breathed a
deep sigh.

     "Way to go, Terry," one of the ushers said as she stopped by
the window to hand him her badge before she left the building.
"I had to seat that priest you pissed off.  He kept bitching all
the way down the aisle to the woman he was with about how you
screwed up their seats."

     "I gave him house seats," Terry explained.

     "I know but he was still mad."  She smiled at him.  "You
going to the cast party after the show?"

     "I don't think so," he responded.

     "Well then I guess I won't see you later."  She then turned
to leave.

     He was uncomfortable over the scene Father Schmidt had made.
Terry had apologized, accepting the blame for a mistake that he
knew was not his, and the man had received better seats than he
had originally reserved.  What else could be done?  Yet the
priest treated Terry like a criminal, as if he had deliberately
sabotaged the man's pleasant evening.  It certainly didn't fit
with the Christian philosophy that the man continually preached
in the lecture hall every Sunday morning.  Terry began to realize
that perhaps this man was only a human after all and really no
better than anyone else.