Date: Sat, 14 Apr 2007 08:39:08 -0500
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: And His Eyes Be as Blue as the Sea Chapter 3

Chapter 3: And His Eyes Be Blue as the Sea

                By Timothy Stillman

Elmer Gantry was drunk. He was lovingly, loquaciously drunk. Or something
like that, Alton thought, as he saw the bar still open. Its Christmas
lights gleaming and gaudy. Its cardboard Santa in the window emptily
haughty. Some cars in the parking lot. The snow falling roundabout. And
the night late when the cold wind blew. All the seasons of love, Alton
decided, as he headed to the parking lot, half tripping over a mound of
stones covered by the night snow, are to be forgotten about. What did he
ever think he knew? What popularity comes with your girl ditching you and
Matt who used to be a friend, when you can't see straight because you
are so sad, it cuts your heart in half? He stood at the bar door. He
stood in the night that his fleece lined jacket could not protect him
from.

He used to love Christmas. Used to love everything about it. All the way
back to last year. Things change with such rapidity in love, such
vapidity, so he went inside into the heat furnace where men and some
women sat at the bar and in booths and all was red like hell and all was
red like a horrible cold; this place was where the smell of booze lay
hard and fast, like a grin that had gone too mean all of a sudden. Like a
grin that had gone too haughty too fast and left you standing there at
about age nine or ten again. The mirror over the bar with the leather
padded seats, as Alton eased himself onto one, covered with snow fake
foam and covered with reindeer flying to a never to be reached moon. And
the man beside him was a talker. Older. Long away from university.
Bulbous stomach. Heavy beer in front of him. And he talked. Like lonely
people do. And Alton tried to ignore him. Everybody did it to him, why
not to it to everybody else.

The man was a shambler and he punched Alton on the arm. Alton drew away
and tried to hide in his own perfect night, that would come with books to
read and hearts to sew together and love to give up, and move away from,
because people used people, and to his horror as his beer came from the
little bald guy behind the bar, as Alton sipped off the foam, noticing
his left hand trembling just a bit, as the night swirled down his throat
and kept some remnant of warmth into him, saying it's not the end of the
world boy-o and the man beside him, smelling of cold and booze and
cigarettes and that particular kind of horrible loneliness that Alton had
read Christmas was peppered with for some people, as he talked, Alton
ready to move to a booth or another stool, he realized the peculiar need
for human companionship. That sturdy little rudder of flame inside
himself that said anyone could talk and he could listen if he wanted.
There was no law requirement that he had to respond. As if there were
other hearts broken and he thought of Matthew and of Jo, and considered
the human equation that was all gone and lost and smashed as he seemed to
be doing to himself.

The man beside him, three sheets to the North wind, was funny really and
he said funny things, that came with long greasy hair and a need for a
shave, and Alton remembered Matthew like it was long ago, and studded
with the need to get back with him, studded with the need to prove to him
and to Jo that there were needs and all kinds of needs, that this could
be a flower springing to life, blossoming forth in this Christmas coming
night and he thought of old friends he could call, and he hadn't meant
it, he hadn't meant to throw it in Jo's face, but he knew all the time
now that he was with her, if she would give him another chance, he would
be thinking of Matthew, and would remember the companionship of their
jerking off together. Would remember the feel of it, his friend, his best
male friend, beside him and them both erect. Okay they were drunk. They
were sleepy. But they had touched somehow. And that was is for Matthew.
Because who can live a life this long and all of a sudden, whamo, you're
gay and you never knew it before.

He found himself in the chatter of the bar, in the clatter of the noises,
over the country music wailing from the juke box, the man beside him, the
interloper, he did not hear the words the man spoke, as much as he felt
them, and, true, they might not be the man's words at all, but they
scotched memories in Alton's brain, Alton of the Long Golden Sun Hair
and someone beside him whose name he would never know, whose face he had
not looked at, who was incidental to Alton and essential somehow, he
thinking this later, at the same time. He wanted to be with Jo. Naked.
The last and final night they had made love. He wanted to be back in
balance, to kiss her breasts and to feel her underneath him. And he
wanted Matthew to get it through his thick head this was what Alton
wanted. This being thrown off track was not right. Matthew sitting there
beside him. And telling Alton he was in love with him. Where the hell did
that come from? Little pitchforks of hurt and anger went down his throat
with the booze. He ordered another.

The colored lights of Christmas blinking on and off behind the bar and
over the mirror that was cloudy like Alton's memory was getting. The man
beside him more of a mumbler, more of a revenant, and he thought unbidden
and unwittingly, that this was Matt is some years to come. This was Matt
lonely on Christmas. His teacher going to fancy parties and reading books
and loving quietly someone in his own studious way, not abrupt as he had
been with Alton, not rude, because he had been quite a kind man all
semester to all his class, and Alton liked to think especially to him,
for some reason. So maybe the teacher was gay. Maybe he was scared and
scarred, he thought, sipping the sour warmth again, and letting his head
turn a bit toward the man beside him without the man noticing though he
was mumbling something, like for jokes, like for sadness that gets all
geeky and gawky and ridiculous because things hurt too much and you have
to back away from it, all of it, and try to find yourself which has
slipped its bearings and fallen too deeply inside you, so you can never
pull it up again, like recalcitrant socks. And Alton laughed in spite of
himself at the image.

Someone bumped against his back as they went to pay their bill, and Alton
hunched over his beer more tightly, and this was the way with drinks, we
become children again, and we hunger and it comes out tear stained and we
are embarrassed at the words and what we did, the next morning. And Alton
felt the man's words, like shadows on a winter day falling on snow,
feeling guilty and not allowed. Feeling the world is stumbling, when
it's really only you and the other inhabitants of a planet that must be
as scared as lonely as hurt as confused as Matthew and Jo. Okay. And he
felt sorry for the teacher and for them and for everybody. Everybody has
their loves, and okay, Alton was loved, once, by Matthew and Jo and
previous girl friends and maybe other guys who were keeping it secret
like Matt before they both got drunk. And he kept getting this insipient
feeling this was Matt beside him. A man in his forties maybe. A man who
worked with his hands. Alton had glanced at them. They were calloused and
leathery looking. A man who had spent his years regretting. Or probably
more like it Alton was using him as a mirror to play off of, to say this
is Matthew in his cups, this is Matthew without a friend in the world,
this night soon of Christmas when the thoughts get maudlin and foamy as
the fuzz on the top of the beer he had just finished off. Think of Jo.
Dammit. Think of Jo. How you hurt her, how you threw the news in her
face, to make her like you more, to make her laugh with you at Matt, and
Matt I'm sorry, God. I'm sorry you love me. Or loved me. I didn't do
anything to lead you on. If you had told me earlier, then I don't have
this time warp man sitting beside me.

Is he you? Or is he the husband of some other Jo who has been having an
affair on him and he has just found out just in time for Christmas cheer?
Alton thought of his penis now and smiled as it got harder and pushed
against his jeans. It all comes to that, he thought, it all comes to
where you put it or in whose hand, and I am not a mean person, but these
are mean thoughts and what is happening to me and why can't I get out of
here and call Jo and call Matt and what the hell call the teacher I used
to respect till he blew me off, for who knows what reasons, and say look
everyone I was the high school golden boy. Okay, I remember one boy in my
gym class who was always looking at me surreptitiously in the changing
room and one day I saw his penis harden as we showered there, and he
turned away shy as cat's milk when I looked at him and I was brave and
superior-no I wasn't. I have never felt that way. I have never felt
anything but eyes on me and eyes on me gauging every move I make, every
word I say, I am competing with an image of me and I just want to get out
of here, and so thinking, Alton accidentally knocked over his beer right
onto the lap of the man beside him who had been affecting him in some
really spooky way.

Alton jumping up. Apologizing. Really sorry. Really stupid of me. The man
said gruffly in a voice that said he had given up and given in a long
time ago, forgetaboutit and got up and walked stumbled out of the heat
into the cold wind, as Alton saw all the eyes on him, college boy, the
townies thought, stupid drunk college asses, and Alton paid his bill and
left after the man. Who was standing by his, of course, pick up truck.
Alton stood there in the night, zipping up his jacket, the snow falling
less heavily on his hair and shoulders but the cold was piercing enough.
The man with too much stomach was leaning against his truck on the
driver's side. Pressing his front into it. Alton's family had money.
That was not his fault. Matt's family had little money. That was not
their fault. Matt saw the man he walked toward unsteadily and he wondered
if he had gotten it all wrong in his too smoothed by booze brain, and the
man was like the teacher Alton had once had such affection for. Maybe
he's me, though. Maybe I should remember where and who and what I am. In
a matter of days and hours everything named Alton Floyd was in flux.
Floyd was pink and that was where it stopped, the last joke, as he stood
by the man. The man noticed him in some few seconds, felt Alton, former
star everything. Felt the shadows creep up on  him. And the man said
without looking up and over at him, let's gets a room, in the sad sorry
sodden voice that knew Alton would say yes, and in the same sad sorry
sodden voice that knew the man would ask and that Alton would say yes, he
did so.

They got in the truck. Them Motel Six was a few blocks away. It was all
of it awkward and fleshy and Alton thought it was going to be horrible.
Thought this is a way for me to exorcize Matt, to say hello to Jo again,
not to tell her, God, he would never do that again and the man kept
apologizing, the booze heavy on his breath, and Alton stayed outside the
office of the motel till the man got the room and in they went, Alton
haltingly, the man knowing what would happen and that spelled dejection
for him. He held Alton in his arms as he pushed him to the bed with cheap
covers in the cheap room with the dim lighting and Alton to his amazement
held his arms around the man and felt his good warmth in the too cold
room as the man, nameless, as was Alton here and maybe forever, nameless
himself, felt the man unzip his jeans and feeling for Alton's penis
which was in spite of every thing, especially the fear of danger, who was
this man?, would there be hurt?, would there be pain? And in the innocent
still regard of naivety that Alton was still form from, he thought he had
to do it right, he had to make this man happy as he felt the beard
scratches on his face as the man tried to kiss him and Alton reflexively
pushed away, so the man, knowing always knowing, that booze had to be the
template of his release and sorrow was to be his induction into momentary
sex, pretend love, as he pulled away from Alton and felt the young man's
penis through his briefs. He looked at Alton, asked, said he was sorry,
they didn't have to go through this, and Alton said nothing, just
nodded, fearing.

Jo had given Alton a blow job any number of times. Matthew would have
given him one in an instant of Alton had just said it was okay, and the
boy in that changing room too, of the hurt pained eyes, but this man,
bearish, scared and scarred too, remember?, had taken down Alton's jeans
and briefs and had graced him, had made an art of the thing, the too
fleshy lips, the tongue tip touching, the large broken hands caressing
Alton's balls, this was an artist out of time and out of luck and with
too many years on him, this gruff no nonsense man who intimidated who
ordered around at whatever his job was, this man became a Rembrandt at
this moment of oral sex, and Alton was lost in a fever as his whole body
paralyzed and then gripped him and then bowed him like a bow on a violin
that had never been played with such delicacy and with such imagination
and such skill, and Alton held the back of the man's head, the thick
oily heavy black hair under his fingers as the man reached up to under
Alton's shirt, they still had their coats on for God's sake, the need
was that immediate, and the man played with and pinched Alton's tits and
rubbed Alton's smooth chest, and his flat stomach and touched his blonde
pubic hair, and soon and soon the man brought Alton to whimpering climax
and took all of him in his mouth.

Then they lay there. Beside each other and Alton's hand went with
shaking bravery and too frightened courage to the man's crotch and felt
the man's hard on beneath his jeans. He took it out, like a chimp
playing with a toy, giggling a bit, and the man smiling in a dream world,
and held it, far thicker than his, somewhat longer with more throbbing
veins and uncut, unlike Alton's, and the man said, reading and
remembering tomorrow was really yesterday warmed over, it's okay, a hand
job would be most appreciated. And Alton with the man's help did it to
him and tried to please him, but when the man came, Alton turned away.
Questions peppered the air and he felt the man behind him now. Hugging
him like Alton was a little puppy in the arms of some great father like
figure. And the man began to weep, sorry he was not for Alton, sorry he
was to do these things surreptitiously, quietly, being forgotten as it
happened, wondering if there was always to be sadness mixed with sex,
wondering if being together if only for a little while was the worst
loneliness there was, remembering when he had asked his best friend once
long ago, and his friend hit him hard in the face, cutting the man's
lip, making him bleed, then laughed at. And knowing Alton was to laugh at
him too later on. Wondering if he should put some bills on the bed before
he gave Alton a ride back to university or wherever.

Tinkly Christmas music touched like soft cotton snow their ears. In the
bar, in a country style way, and now in the parking lot, all cleaned up
and jackets zipped, they got into the truck, having not said a word after
the hand job. God, these self-abnegating words hateful words jokester
words people used to describe sex, when for the man sex was worship, was
a fresco that deserved painting, was a world that needed creating, was
re-crafting the sun and the moon and the Earth, putting things to right,
making things less lonely so a man didn't have to drink his way through
Christmas and the loveleless marriage back at what was laughingly called
home^×love long gone, wife hating husband, husband perplexed at where the
beauty of it had gone. They had met at university. This very one. Long
time passing. He had been with a few guys before. Nothing serious. Just
jerking around. And she had caught him and a friend at it. Screamed at
them.  Made him crawl to her for forgiveness. And he had indeed been
deeply sorry and ashamed and he had hurt her terribly, had he meant for
her to find out?, especially in this cruel way. So they married. And that
was her increasing punishment for him, the war he walked into every night
when he came home from work. And trying to recapture his youth and that
particular friend she caught him with, the friend who was so embarrassed
and would have nothing to do with him again.

He had driven the boy back to the dorm. They sat there for a while. The
boy mumbled thanks, really, I mean it, thanks. The man had nodded and
said sure, as the boy got out of the truck, closed the door very quietly,
and walked into the snow and up to the dorm building. Shoulders hunched
against the snow and the cold and the pain that was life. The man looked
at him, remembered forever sucking him and how good his hard on had felt
and tasted and his lubricant come, and wanted it again, oh please, but
always the other person just gave him a hand job and never touched his
rumpled hairy body, just that they would do and nothing else, and he
learned to live with it. As he watched the boy enter the dorm. And could
not help thinking, good luck kid, you'll need it, I think I have just
seen myself twenty years ago, and as he pulled out of the parking lot,
the windshield wipers pushing away the snow, the cab of the truck warm
now, he wondered if twenty years from now, that university boy will have
the chilling realization that he has become me?

We are mirrors, clown house mirrors, he thought, identities flow off of
us like water. And the fun house has its way with us every single time.
It's to laugh, he thought, it's to laugh. He turned on the radio. Elvis
was singing, "it's gonna be a blue Christmas without you." And the
night wind blew cold, and Christmas was coming and these were how things
were and are.

(This story is dedicated to James and Edision for inspiration,
encouragement, and many of the plot points and suggestions and ideas^×the
flaws and some bungled prose are solely my own)