Date: Sun, 3 Jul 2016 12:01:27 -0400
From: MGTBILL@aol.com
Subject: DYLAN'S  VACATION BACK HOME CHAPTER 33

DYLAN'S   VACATION BACK HOME



CHAPTER 33



by  Donny Mumford



It's five o'clock  Sunday afternoon and Chubby and I are in my living room
watching  preseason football on TV. My attention is only partially on the
game  because I can't stop thinking about Robby bumping into Danny at the
Dairy Queen, and then both of them deciding to play in  a pick-up softball
game. It's quite the coincidence Danny bumping into  Robby like that, especially
considering my short and  unexpected exchange with him outside Stop and
Shop this  morning.

Interrupting my  musings, the Moms come in from an afternoon of shopping.

As usual,  they're exuberant with their greeting, "Hi boys! Hope you've  both
had a wonderful day." Then in their bubbly manner they tell us about
running into two of the waitresses they work with during their shopping  trip,
and about a very nice salesperson who waited on them, and about  seeing two
mothers with young boys that reminded them of going shopping with  Chubby and
me when we were little guys.

We're attentive,  grinning, and nodding our heads until finally my Mom
glances at the TV  and goes, "Oh no, it's football season already?" She says,
'Oh no,'  because their twin fiancés love NFL games and the moms occasionally
endure  watching the games with them. Chubby goes, "It is indeed football
season,  Dee. Actually, for the Patriots it's been football season pretty
much all year." Both moms have a couple of shopping bags  from Macy's that
they've dropped on the kitchen table. After getting  glasses of iced tea, they
turn their attention to examining each new piece of  clothing and together
reaffirm that each item was the perfect purchase. Of  course, they were
together commiserating about each item before buying it,  but still feel the need
to do it again now that they're home. Chubby and  I roll our eyes at this
familiar ritual; one we'd rather not  witness, but it would be rude of us to
just get up and go downstairs  to finish watching the game there, so we grin
and bare it. The Moms  are so obviously enjoying their lives, which allows
us to fully  enjoy ours too.

Finally putting  aside their new purchases, Tris says, "Sorry to interrupt
your game, but  would you guys be willing to help Dee and I prepare Sunday
dinner for our guys?"  She means the four of us, plus Rider and Bud. Chubby
says, "Sure, no problem,  Mom. Dylan and I will run over to Stop & Shop and
get something  for dinner." I'm sprawled out on the sofa, suggesting, "How
about the  classic Sunday dinner of roast beef with mashed potatoes and
gravy." Chubby nods  his head, "Sure, we'll keep it simple with a salad and some
dinner rolls."  My Mom says, "That's perfect, but let's have asparagus too,
if you don't  mind. Our guys like asparagus." Chubby clicks off the TV and
Tris gives him a  fifty-dollar bill, asking,  "Is this enough?" Chubby grins,
glancing at me and telling his mom, "It's  more than enough, Mom, I'll bring
you the change." It's like this: We've been  doing all the grocery shopping
since getting our drivers licenses. It's been  over three years now, and
the moms haven't been in a supermarket in all that  time, so they're not sure
what things costs nowadays.

In the Jeep, Chubby  says, "Um, isn't roast chicken the classic Sunday
dinner, bro?" I give him a  blank stare, then mutter, "Really? We're going to
quibble about that?" He  shrugs, mumbling, "Just saying..." I'm like, "I
suggested roast beef  because our moms can prepare something simple like that,
and it's easier to  carve than a whole chicken." Chubby goes, "Yeah, but I'll
do the carving anyway,  and you know as well as I that we'll determine the
roast's cooking  time, make the gravy, and the mashed potatoes." I add, "And
cook the  asparagus." He nods, "Uh huh. In other words, the Moms make the
salad." I  go, "They can do that no problem, but it easier and less trouble if
we throw a  salad together ourselves. Too many cooks can spoil the meal, or
something like  that."

The simple truth is  the moms basically can't cook. Oh, they can scramble
an egg for breakfast,  although they rarely have more than coffee and a store
bought muffin for  breakfast.  The exception being Sundays, off course,
when Chubby and I  usually do a big brunch. Except for Sundays our Moms haven't
been home  at dinner time for twenty years or so. Not since starting their
waitressing  jobs as teenagers. They eat dinner at the restaurant and
therefore their  lack of a need for culinary skills. It's a topic about which they
 and their fiancés exchange light-hearted banter from time to time. The
discussions always end the same way, after some gentle ribbing by the guys,
they say it's no problem because the guys love to cook anyway,  and they're
good at it too. It's not a common practice, but there  are husbands who do
the cooking in their households, mostly because they  like doing it. I like to
cook, more than Chubby I think, although he's good at  it too.

When we get back from  grocery shopping the fiancés have arrived and
they're having cocktails  with our moms. We exchange smiling greetings, then
Chubby gives his mom the  change from the fifty-dollar bill, telling her, "We'll
get the roast  started so you guys can enjoy your drinks." Mom and Tris are
their  usual appreciative selves, and both fiancés ask, "Need any help,
guys?" We tell them everything's under control. Chubby preheats the oven  and
puts the roast in a roasting pan. Then, while we wait for the oven to come
up to temperature we prep the asparagus by cutting three inches off the
ends, then peel the potatoes and get them in a pot of water.

After putting the  roast in the oven there's nothing else we need to do
right now, and since  neither of us feels like a cocktail and we're bored with
the preseason football  game, we take a walk around the condo complex. The
temperature's dropped  enough late in the afternoon that it's kinda nice
being outside.   We're silently sharing a cigarette as we follow the brick path
that  meanders along the manicured front lawn of  the condos. I'm dealing
with a nagging suspicion that I've  forgotten something that I was supposed to
do today, then I remember  it, and go, "Dammit! I knew it," and Chubby ask,
"What?" I wave my  hand, mumbling, "Oh it's not that big a deal, we've
still got two weeks to  take care of it, but Robby and I were supposed to drive
to North Andover and sign  papers for the college apartment today. We also
need to know if you're  joining us again this year." Chubby goes, "Oh man, it
was a tough decision  but like I hinted to you a while back, I've decided
to try dormitory life. John  Beverly and I already sent the form to 'housing'
and, as juniors, we expect  we'll get a room together. Living in a coed
dorm we'll meet a lot more  girls, ya know?" Disappointed I mumbles, "Oh yeah?"

and he goes, "That's  basically the reason I'm willing to give it a try.

John has had great luck  with the women the last two years, plus dorm living
is cheaper than the  apartment." I go, "Really? Huh! I'm disappointed, Chub.

I liked living with you  a lot." He hugs my shoulders, "I'm sorry, Dylan,
but I'll be hanging out at  the apartment almost as much as when I lived
there."

Obviously he's wrong  about that; we won't see each other nearly as much
with him living in one  of the dormitories, and it hurts my feeling that he's
doing this. It's  because of John Beverly's influence on Chubby and I don't
like it one  bit! I'm too fucking old to pout though, which is my first
inclination. In the good old days, a little pouting from me and Chubby  would
give in to anything. Now that I've lost my pouting weapon, I consider  giving
Chubby the silent treatment which would make him feel bad,  except I don't
want him to feel bad. Instead I act my age and say, "Well, that  really
sucks! Way to ruin my junior year, bro!" Hmmm, saying that was, I  think, worst
then pouting. He goes, "Oh c'mon, Dylan, please don't be  like that. Ya
know, I never mentioned it before, but at times last year I  felt like a third
wheel in the apartment. I mean with you and Rob being  lovers and all." I
shrug, feeling selfish now for not even considering he  might have felt that
way. To cover up my insensitivity in that regard, I say  something ludicrous,
"Well sure, I can see that, but it's all about me though,  right? It'd be a
bitch if I can't have my own way, don'cha think?" He  chuckles, "Well, yeah,
of course." I go, "So?" and he stops walking to take  hold of my arm,
saying, "I know you're kidding about that, Dylan, but be  serious for a second.

If it's going to make you unhappy that I'm not sharing the  apartment, then
I'll go in with you and Rob again this year... no problem. I like  John Beverly
and we have a lot of laughs together and a lot of the same  interests, but
compared to my feelings for you, he'll simply need to find  himself another
roommate. I wouldn't do anything to make you  unhappy."

Oh great! Now I feel  like a shit. Still trying to backtrack, I put my arm
across his shoulders,  giving him a shoulder hug, saying, "You're the best
brother ever, Chub, but  I was just being my normal bratty self about the
apartment. I didn't  think you'd take it me seriously, so I'm sorry. Of course
I'd rather have you  with me, but it's not going to ruin anything if you're
in the dorm." He goes,  "Yeah? But now I don't feel good about it at all.

Fuck the dorm experience." I  say, "No, no, no! I shouldn't have said
anything! You already sent the form  to Merrimack 'housing', and it's probably too
late by now for John  Beverly to get another roommate; one he likes anyway.

Do the dorm  thing if for no other reason than I'm gonna love hearing your
stories of  the crazy shit you'll run into in the communal bathrooms."  We
start walking again with Chubby making a face, "Jeez, I didn't consider  the
communal bathroom. Hope the toilet stalls have doors." I go, "I think some  of
them do; the newer  ones anyway." I'm just busting balls with that.

We walk a ways, then  Chubby says, "Okay, but you need to tell me the
honest truth, and swear  it on our 'best friends the world has ever known' title.

Swear on  our title that me living in a dorm will not mess you up." I go,
"Hmmm,  swear on our title as the best friends the world has ever seen, huh?"

He  nods his head trying not to grin, as I mumble, "Ya got me there, bro!
But okay,  I swear it won't mess me up too much if you're not in the
apartment, although  I'm going to miss the comforting thought of you sleeping in the
next room.  You know, in case I need you to comfort me about something." He
says,  "Fortunately someone's invented the cell phone, so I'm only a text
message away. You need comforting... I'll come running." I go, "Well, okay
then, it's settled."

It's not the same  though and we both know it. But hell, the truth is we've
never lived  together prior to the college apartment, and we won't be
living  together after college, so this is a good start preparing for the
inevitable. I'm always bitching about getting older and leaving things behind;
things that I really liked. Unfortunately that's just the way life  is and I
need to get with the program. Chubby and I began moving away from  the
closeness we enjoyed for seventeen years when we got separate jobs the  summer
after our junior year in high school, and now the separation is  continuing in
our junior year of college. Frankly I feel like having a good  cry about the
reality of that, and maybe I will, but not now. Chubby's telling  me
something about him and John Beverly requesting a room in one of the two  brand
new dormitories that were built over the summer. He goes, "So, if we get
assigned one of those new dormitories we're basically right across the street
from the Royal Crest apartments." I go, "Maybe we can have a string with a
tin-can on each end from my apartment to your dorm room." He says, "Yeah,
that'll definitely work."

Okay, we're back to  joking about it and that's as it should be, but I feel
my eyes stinging when I  say, "Just so you know, Chub: the thought of my
life without you in it  is a very scary proposition for me." He squeezes my
hand, saying,  "I love that you get emotional about what we mean to each
other, Dylan, but  you're never going to have a life without me in it. Bro, I
need you in my  life too. You'll always be the most important part of it
actually." I  nod my head doing a big fake cough hoping to stem the tears, and it
works  pretty well. I swipe at my eyes, and it's all good.

We've walked  completely around the condo complex and now were going down
the  alley towards the back of our condos. We go inside through the door to
the basement hearing laughter coming from above. It's the moms and  their
fiancés. Chubby and I smile with him pointing up as he says,  "That's a big
concern we used to have that we can put to rest.  The moms will be getting
married eventually so when we move out for  good it won't be some major
traumatic event for them." I nod, "And we won't  have guilt complexes like we're
abandoning them." We go upstairs and  Tris tells us Bud's joke that caused the
laughter we heard a minute  ago. It's this:  'What did the duck say to the
bartender?  Answer: 'Put it on my bill.' Chubby and I actually grin because
that corny  joke is so fucking bad it's almost worth a snicker... almost.

Realizing the  corniness of the joke, Rider says to Chubby and me, "If you're
going to be  a comedian you need to know your audience," meaning our moms. I
wonder if  corny things seem funnier to older people than they do to us?
Seriously.

In the kitchen  Chubby turns the heat on under the potatoes, as mom's
asking, "Won't  you join us for a drink, boys," and to be polite Chubby and I
have a beer and  hang-out with our moms and step-dads to be. We've talked about
it, but  we can't decide who's getting the better step-dad and that's
because  they're identical twins and so alike in so many ways it's disconcerting
at  times. We're hoping those four are going to be as tight a  family group
in the future as our original four have been for  twenty-one years and
counting. That our moms are happily married will be a blessing for Chubby and
me, but more importantly for the four of them.

For conversation we  tell them about Chubby's decision to try dormitory
life this year,  and then the twins laughingly tell some stories about some of
their college dormitory fiascos. Chubby and I exchange glances, rising our
eyebrows. These guys apparently were not the goodie-two-shoes we thought
they were, whatever the fuck goodie two shoes actually meant originally.

They basically experienced similar drunken frat parties and spring  breaks as
the ones Chubby and I have lived through. My brother and I have  often
mentioned how amazingly perfect the twins are for our moms; basically  a fairytale
romance that almost seems too good to be true. It's almost like two  sets
of identical twins marrying. Fingers crossed!
When we  finish our beers, Chubby takes the roast out of the oven  and
makes gravy from pan drippings while I mash the potatoes, then whip  them with
an electric beater adding cream and butter. The asparagus go into  a pot of
boiling water for a few minutes until just barely tender, then  butter, salt
and pepper are added. At the table, dinner rolls and the salad  are passed
around first, and dinner begins without anyone saying grace. I  kinda miss
hearing Ryan rattling off his memorized prayers. I'm not religious,  but if we
said grace before dinner like the Wilcoxs do I'd get to hold  Chubby's hand
since we sit next to each other across from the moms.  The fiancés sit at
each end of the table. It's how the four of  our original family group
decided the seating arrangement  would be when the six of us ate together.

It's after seven  o'clock by the time we're finished dinner. My thoughts
turn to Robby  and what he's been up to. On the balcony having a smoke with
Chubby, I  give Robby a call. He picks up right away, saying, "Oh, I was just
about to text you, Dylan. I'm really tired, babe. Getting up at your place
around five o'clock this morning, and then never going back to sleep
wasn't too smart on my part. Um, do you mind if we don't have a date tonight?
I'd like to get to bed early." I go, "No, that's okay. How was the soft ball
game?" He says, "You really don't mind if we skip our date?" I'm like, "It's
 okay. I can understand you being wicked tired. I'll see you tomorrow at
work. I'll probably be staying in tonight myself." He goes, "Love you, babe.

See  you tomorrow." Huh, he didn't want to talk about the soft ball game I
guess.  That's odd, and there was no mention of him riding off from the Dairy
 Queen with Danny Monday either, who by the way, called me 'stuck up' when
I  turned his sexual proposal down. Isn't 'stuck-up' a phrase used primarily
 in middle school. Ya just don't hear a lot of twenty-one year old guys
using that particular phrase. Sure, 'asshole', or 'shit for brains'; ya  hear
that quite often, but 'stuck up'? Not really. And it's odd Robby  never
mentioned us supposedly signing for the apartment today, nor did he  inquire
about Chubby going in with us on this year's apartment. Curious,  but he must
have had something else on his mind. Maybe we both had  Danny Monday on our
minds, but for different reasons.

As I'm thinking about  that, Chubby's iPhone buzzes and as he's taking it
out of his pocket my phone  goes off too. We shrug and grin at one another.

That's pretty cool:  both our cellphone ringing almost at the same time.

>From  what Chubby says into his phone it's obvious he's talking to a  girl. My
caller ID reads, 'William W.' I wonder who that could be. I say, "Hey,
Willie," and he goes, "Hi, Dylan!  Ah, I'm hoping it isn't too soon to  ask you
to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night. I mean, it was just  yesterday I
stopped in to say hello, so I hope I'm not rushing things." I go,
"Tomorrow night, huh? Hmmm, let me think?" Well, Robby has a planning  business
session every Monday night, so why not go out with Willie.  Yeah, except I'm
still feeling a little weird about my reaction when seeing  him yesterday. I
had this funny feeling low in my stomach, or maybe it was my  groin area that
was feeling jittery. Oh, what the hell, I go,  "Rob has a business meeting
on Monday nights, so yeah, why not?  Let's catch up on our  lives."

Yesterday  Willie inferred that us having dinner together wouldn't  mean
anything more than just two old friends having dinner. In  other words,
they'll be no extra curricular activities of a sexual nature. I'm  all in for not
doing that, although I'd be lying to myself if  the reemergence of Danny
Monday wasn't on my mind, and because of that I  could probably justify some
extra curricular activity. That's if I had the  inclination for it, which I
don't. Anyway, I want to believe nothing  happened between my boyfriend and
Danny Monday, and honestly I don't think  anything did. It seems a bit curious
though: I mean, a  couple hours after I turned down Danny he just happened
to turn  up where Robby and I were, and then off Robby goes to a soft ball
game  with him. Coincidences do happen of course, it's just that this one is
slightly suspicious.

Willie and I discuss  restaurants and agree that my favorite Italian
restaurant is our best bet  because he won't be twenty-one for a few more months,
and we wants a  cocktail before dinner. After ending our conversation I try
analyzing my  feelings for Willie. I'm cognizant of the fact he's been known
to get me  wrapped around his dominant little finger at times, but I think
he's  changed and overall I'm feeling good about him and our dinner date. I
really like him, and the memories of things we've done together are pretty
special when I think about them, especially since I tend to only remember
the  good memories.

When I click off from  Willie, Chubby tells me his phone call was from Mary
Jo. Huh,  and mere hours ago she told Chubby to go fuck himself,  then she
calls him. The long and short of it is, they're going out  tomorrow night on
what Mary Jo is calling a trial date to see if Chubby's  matured since
their break-up. Chubby goes, "MJ says there's not going to be any  hanky/panky
during the trial period. Ha ha, no hanky/panky, my ass!" All I can  do is
chuckle at the way Chubby says things, then wonder if my brother might  be
hornier than me.

The rest of the night  we watch a movie from Comcast's ON DEMAND. It's a
recent  action flick starring Denzel Washington who's in about  half the
movies ever made it seems. Him and Samuel L. Jackson. They're both  excellent
though so we don't mind. We watch the movie in my basement  sharing the chaise
lounge and not doing much talking. His physical  closeness makes me feel
good and I fall asleep with my head on his shoulder  about the time Denzel
blew-up his fourteenth bad guy.

Chubby wakes me by  gently shaking my shoulder. I'm groggy and tired so I
guess the last two days of  odd sleeping patterns has finally caught up with
me. We walk upstairs  together hearing chatter from the moms and their guys
from the balcony above us.  So they moved their party to Chubby's balcony
and are apparently making a night  of it. Chubby and I hug and do our quick
kiss goodnight, then he gives me an  extra tight hug, murmuring, "I love you
more than anything, Dylan,"  and I lean into him, mumbling, "Me too, Chubby."

He goes out the front door and  up to his condo as I'm wondering how he's
going to get to sleep with our four  parents acting like college students at
a frat party. It's always surprising to  me that the moms and their guys
party hardy, seemingly having as good a time as  us younger guys. That bodes
well for the future I guess. I do my usual bathroom  stuff and then, grinning
to myself, put on my just-washed Donald Duck  jockey shorts in honor of my
brother. Before falling asleep I'm thinking  about Robby, and wondering what
Danny Monday's latest intentions might be  regarding my boyfriend.

The alarm goes off  seemingly five minutes after I get in bed. Last night I
set it for  half an hour earlier than normal because I need to shower  this
morning, plus it's my turn to make Chubby's and my lunches this week.

Thinly sliced left-over roast beef from last night's dinner is what I plan on
using for today's lunch. For each of us I'm making two roast beef  sandwiches
on Kaiser rolls with horseradish sauce, there's  a bag of potato chips for
each, and large Cokes, plus individual  serving sizes of Tastykate peach
pies for dessert. I've just  finished making our sandwiches when Chubby lets
himself in. After  putting our lunch in a soft-sided cooler, Chubby and I do a
quick hug and kiss.  No time for a cigarette this morning so Chubby carries
the cooler  as we go down the steps to the Jeep with him chuckling and
saying, "Can you  believe our parents? They partied until after one o'clock this
morning." I go,  "Well, the moms don't need to get up until ten this
morning so they'll get  plenty of rest. Bud and Rider are the bosses of their own
company so they can  get to work whenever the hell they feel like it." At
the Jeep, Chubby says, "I  don't think it works that way when you're the
business owner. You've gotta set  the example, so they're probably getting ready
for work right now with  hangovers."

I drive us to work  and when we get there we find the other guys in Robby's
crew  are already here, so it's fist bumping in the locker room along  with
lying tales of sexual conquests over the weekend, followed by  taunts of,
"Bull shit alert, you never..." In other words it's business as usual.  When
we're outside the locker room though there's a more formal, less  playful
atmosphere. Chubby's basically the acting boss of our crew with  Robby keeping
an eye on us, along with his other responsibilities  of overseeing two of the
other lawn cutting crews, and planning the  weekly work schedule for all
three crews. The fourth crew is different in  that it's staffed by older, more
experienced men who have worked for the  company at least ten years.

When we're both  wearing the t-shirt and baseball cap featuring the
company's logo we're  outside sharing a morning cigarette as Chubby rehashes his
decision to  experience dormitory life until Dallas calls him, probably
something to do  with Chubby dating Dallas' sister. They joke about that a  lot.

As Chubby walks over to commiserate with Dallas, Robby  saunters over to rub
my shoulder, asking, "How ya feeling this morning, babe?"  Some of the guys
on the various crews know Robby and I are boyfriends, but not  many, and on
the job we obviously refrain from overt acts of  affection. I tell him,
"Well, I gotta admit it was awesome getting nine  hours sleep last night." Then
I tell him about Chubby and me making Sunday  dinner and our folks partying
like college students, then the movie Chubby  and I watched. He goes, "It
sure sounds like you had a sober, fun  night alright. Have a good day too,
babe." His boss, Rory White, calls to  him and off he goes without sharing the
details of his night. I know  him well enough that I'm pretty sure he had
something to tell me, but he  never got around to it. I'm also pretty sure he
has a cold because of the  hoarseness in his voice.

Here, at  work, it's extremely unusual for Robby to give me any extra
attention like that private conversation we just had, so if I had a  suspicious
nature I might suspect him of having a guilty conscience about  something.

The thing is, considering our agreed upon side-sex arrangement he  shouldn't
feel guilty even if he did do it with Danny, or someone else. We're  still
good as gold as long as we don't discuss details. For purposes of being  open
and above board I suppose I should have mentioned Willie calling me  last
night and our dinner date tonight.  For some reason I didn't.  Maybe because
Robby looks a little under the weather. Well, he did tell me he  was going
to get to bed early last night, so it could be he's coming down with a  cold
for real.

Chubby calls the  guys in our crew over, and we stand at the line painted
on the blacktop for  that purpose. Four landscaping crews in a row with a
supervisor  standing in front of each one. It's like an Army formation only
with a  lot less guys. As we stand here fidgeting, Robby talks to each
supervisor for thirty seconds or so, handing out assignments. He talks to Chubby
last, glancing up at me a second, and then he pats Chubby's shoulder  and
goes off to do whatever it is he does. Chubby turns to us, saying,  "Um, Dylan,
sorry about this, bro, but they need an extra man on  Murphy's crew today.

They're apparently working a huge property, or  some such shit, and we're
lending them you. Murphy's that big dude..." I  interrupt, "I know who he is, "

and start walking towards the other crew  with Chubby saying to my back,
"Only for today, Dylan." I wave my hand  back at him so he knows I heard him,
but continue on to Rex Murphy's  crew. This summer, unlike other summers, it
seems guys get switched around all  the time, but be that as it may I'm
still pissed off I need to be 'that  guy' today, and on a Monday no less! Rex
sees me coming and waves his arm  at me, yelling, "A little hustle, huh?"

Nobody likes working  with a different crew because you get the shit jobs
the regular guys don't  want to do. It's Robby who chooses the guy who'll
work with basically strangers  for a day or two, or even a week. Chubby didn't
pick me to do it, so I  don't know why I was kind of surly with him. Hey,
maybe this is what Robby was  going to tell me when he came over earlier, but
then chickened out. If so  his visit had nothing to do with Danny Monday
like I thought it may have.  Anyway, Rex Murphy's crew is sort of the elite
crew as most of the guys  have been working here for years. They've been here
years before that first year  Robby and I worked as rookies together on the
lawn cutting crew. Rex's status is  different than, say Chubby's. Chubby is
Robby's assistant supervisor while Rex  is a senior supervisor, the only one
who doesn't report to  Robby.

Anyway, I jog  the ten yards past our crew and two other ones to Murphy's
crew feeling  self conscious because everyone's watching me do it; then I
take a  spot at the end of the five guys who are standing almost at  attention.

Rex looks at his clipboard, then at me, and says, "Dan Newman,  right?" I
almost burst out laughing thinking about me being Daniel for two  months in
Georgia, but keep a straight face, muttering, "It's Dylan, not  Dan." He
says, "So sorry, dude, it just has a 'D' before your last name and  I took a
guess. You'll be working for Bull all day, er, Bull Bulnanski  who's standing
right next to you." I've seen the guy next to me in the  locker room on and
off as long as I've worked here, but was never  introduced. He always seemed
a brooding, unhappy person. He glances at  me so I mutter, "How ya doing?"

without getting a response. Rex says  to his crew, and me, "Okay, you've got
your assignments, so sign-out the  equipment you'll need and let's get a
move on guys. Today's gonna  be a busy one."

Robby told me last  spring, after a business meeting his dad insisted Robby
sit in on, that the  company was raising the hourly wage of everyone in
landscape and design,  including the lawn cutting crews. As a consequence they
want a more professional  attitude from everyone and, as I noticed from my
first day a few weeks  ago, that means taking the job more seriously with
more regimentation and  hustle, and no goofing around with practical jokes and
the like. With Robby's  crew we still have a good time while maintaining
enough of the  professionalism his father expects. Our's is the youngest crew
by far and we  all like each other. The guys on Murphy's five-man crew are
all older guys and most of them are full time employees working snow  removal
in the winter months, as well as whatever excavation jobs the  company get
hired to do. They don't goof around even a little bit 'cause this  is their
livelihood.

This guy, Bull,  bumps my arm and says, "Lets go," and as we jog together
towards the equipment  garage, he tells me, "Try not to refer to me at all,
but if you must,  call me, Bull. " I shrug, frowning at him. He's like
thirty-five  years old with tattoos aplenty and he's built like a brick shit
house, as the  saying goes. Bull's nickname most likely came from his last name,
but he's a  muscle man about five feet, eight inches tall, sort of like a
bull, so maybe  that's where his nickname came from. His head's oversized,
he's clean shaven  except for a dark goatee, and he wears his hair in an
extreme Marine  type haircut. I'm betting he was in the military before this job.

Bottom line:  Bull does not seem like a whole lot of fun. Comically, the
Dickers &  Son baseball cap sits on the back of his head like the  yarmulke
Jewish men wear on the crown of their heads in Temple. The hat is much  too
small for his big head, but maybe there's no such thing as a hat big  enough
for Bull's head.

Inside the equipment  garage he tells me, "Get one of those hand trucks and
bring it over to the  equipment counter." The hand truck he pointed to is
actually a five foot by  three foot flatbed on wheels with a railing at one
end that I use to push it.  The wheels are like the wheels on a desk chair,
they go in all directions so  it's a challenge pushing one of these things. I
wrestle it over to Bull as he's  finishing signing-out equipment. He looks
at me, then asks, "What are  you waiting for? Put all this shit on the
cart." All this shit consists  of a wheel barrel, shovels, buckets, weed whacker,
heavy duty plastic trash  bags, and a chainsaw." As I'm loading everything
he picks up  a hoe and a pair of heavy work gloves, then drops them in the
wheel barrel.  I'm thinking, 'Don't over exert yourself!'. I mumble, "I guess
we're not  cutting grass today, huh?" He blows out an exhale, like he's
annoyed, then  mutters, "Brilliant deduction. For starters we're working on a
severely  overgrown arbor, and later you'll be dealing with plugged-up
drainage pipes  for a decorative pond. That'll keep you busy for the next three
days and  I'll tell you the rest then." I've no idea what all that means, but
I  know what 'the next three days' means and I don't like the sound of  that
at all.

He's double-checking  the list he has, then a mumbled, "Okay, we got
everything. Push all this shit to  the truck in back. I'll meet you there," and he
goes over to slap hands with a  guy, saying something to him that makes
them both do an overly boisterous  laugh. Neither of them looks in my direction
though, so I don't think I'm  the brunt of their joke. I start pushing the
cart towards the front door, and if  there's a more unwieldy piece of
equipment than this piece-of-shit flatbed  carrier I can't imagine what it would
be, plus it's overloaded. Trying to  turn this thing out the door the
shovel's handles gets caught in the  door jam and pulls half the crap off the cart
making a lot of noise.  Cursing under my breath, I put everything back on
the cart and  then struggle mightily pushing it around to the back of the
building.  It ain't easy, and when I get there a guy's leaning against the
truck smoking a cigar and looking at me funny-like, then he asks, "Why  the fuck
didn't you just push that down the middle isle of the equipment  garage,
and through the back door? There's big-ass doors on both sides of  the
building." I gawk at him like I'm an idiot, and he tries  clarifying, "All I'm
saying, kid, is ya didn't need to push it all the way  around the outside of the
building." Shrugging at him, I mumble, "I  didn't know the garage had a
back door," and he shakes his head chuckling,  saying something under his
breath. Asshole!
Okay, if this is the  truck we're using today, then where's Bull? Pushing
this piece of shit  cart around the truck I'm sweating like crazy and it's
not even  seven-thirty in the morning yet. I hear Bull bellowing from the
other side  of the asshole's truck, and now I see him. He asks, "Where the hell
ya  been, Newman?" So we've got our own pickup today. It would have been
helpful if  Bull had been a little more specific about what truck I was to push
this cart  to. Using a pickup truck today makes me think back to the
special  project I worked just before the Wildwood vacation. The one where I
helped  plant shrubs and other stuff at a town hall.

Bull and I load the  stuff onto the bed of the pickup without either of us
saying anything. When  everything's on the bed of the pickup, he says, "Roll
that thing back to where  you got it. I'll drive around and meet you in
front." Wiping my face, I  mutter, "Got it," and start pushing toward the back
door this time. The  flatbed cart is even more unwieldy when it's empty, but
it's a much shorter  trip back.

When the cart's back  in its spot, I go  out front and there's Bull in the
pickup talking to a guy who's standing  next to the driver's side window. I
jog up to the truck hearing Bull say to  the guy, "Okay, here comes my
flunky for the day, I'll catch you later, Ned." I  get in the passenger seat and
without even looking at me, never mind saying  anything, he drives off the
parking lot. The silence is killing me, so I  finally ask, "How many years
have you been with the company, Bull?" He  glances at me, then with a little
head shake he makes a rude snorting  sound, then looks back at the road. So
much for chit chap. It's a forty minute  drive in rush hour traffic to one of
the two richest towns in the state: Weston.  Massachusetts. No talking, no
radio, no nothing, so it's  an awkward forty minutes for me. Obviously I
don't try starting  another conversation, not after that first one  bombed-out.

Finally Bull turns onto a long driveway, then stops  at a turnoff twenty
yards before the mansion of a house. We sit idling next to  Murphy's truck.

Bull and Murphy argue about something I can't hear as I  watch the guys
unloading the grass cutting equipment. The front  yard is ridiculously large with
pathways throughout the area, not unlike  Ryan's front yard in Georgia. It's
going to require an ungodly amount of edging  with the weed whackers; so,
if I need to work on this crew today, I think  maybe I'm glad to be with
grumpy Bull.

After saying a few  words to Rex, Bull continues up the driveway giving a
thumbs-up to his friends  on the crew as we go by them. He drives right past
the house to the  backyard that's almost as big as the front yard. It's
broken up into  sections with gardens and patios, and a pool at the far side
next to a tennis  court. This reminds me of Willie's back yard except this one
is bigger. We  get out of the pickup and I take a chance asking Bull, "Is
this the  biggest property Dickers & Son services?" He says, "Yep," then he
nods at the truck bed, "Get everything off," and he walks down to a  section
at the very end of the yard that doesn't seem to go with the  rest of the
back yard. At the entrance to this section is an  arbor of latticework covered
with climbing vines and  other mysterious vegetation. It's so overgrown
Bull can hardly squeeze  through it. On either side of the arbor are high
hedges, so to get through to  the other side you need to go through the overgrown
arbor  itself.

I get everything off  the truck and lay it out on the gravel road. Bull's
back from his inspection of  the project, saying, "Hand me the fucking
chainsaw and follow me with the  wheel barrel, shovel, and a rake." I pass the
chainsaw to him and he walks  toward the arbor as I load the rake and shovel in
the wheel barrel, then follow  him. It's about ten yards to the arbor and
halfway there I hear the sound a  chain saw makes, then it sputters out. As
he walks, Bull pulls the rip  cord again and the  chainsaw roars its steady
scary chainsaw noise. I  hate chain saws. Bull begins cutting through the
growth on the inside of the  arbor as I stand back a few feet unsure of what
I'm supposed to be doing. Bull  attack the vegetation while I listen to five
minutes of  the lowering and rising sounds a chainsaw makes. When it cuts
through the  thick vines and other harder material the chainsaw makes a lower,
slower  noise as it fights its way through, then it makes a  higher pitched
noise cutting through lighter growth. It's all very  disconcerting to me and
I half expect to see one of Bull's hands dropping  to the ground along with
the other cut stuff.

After five minutes of  cutting, Bull back away and clicks off the chain
saw, saying, "Get in there and  clear out what I've cut so far." Carrying the
now silent chainsaw, as  if it's light as a pillow, he goes back to sit on
the pickup's  bumper and lights a cigarette. I could tell him there's no
smoking on a  customer's property, but he already knows that and apparently
doesn't give  a shit. I roll the wheel barrel the rest of the way to the arbor
and  use the rake too start raking out all the pieces of vegetation created
by the chain saw. Thirty seconds later bees are buzzing all around me;  lots
of them! I guess the chain saw scared them off and now they're  returning to
their beehive. I look back at Bull who's shaking his head  looking
disgusted, as if the bees are my fault.  I yell, "BALLS!" as a  bee stings the back
of my hand. I'm backing away from the arbor with Bull  yelling, "For
chrissakes! Get the fucking spray, they're only bees."  Jogging away from the
arbor, totally pissed-off, I go, "What  fucking spray?" He goes, "Bee Bopper
spray of course, what else? It's in  the fucking glove compartment," then he
laughs muttering, "Shit." then  adds, "And go easy with that spay can. A can of
Bee bopper cost  like $70." Thinking this sounds like a bullshit story
similar to the  left-handed-monkey-wrench ploy played on the 'new' guy. When I
look in  the glove compartment however, there is a red spray can of Bee
Bopper. Huh!  Never heard of it, but I take it with me and spray those fuckers
like  crazy. Some drop dead on the spot, but most disappear. I hear  Bull
chuckling, then saying, "Put it back where you got it, then clean out  the
arbor... chop, chop!"

This  job really sucks because all around the arbor area there's  like
stuff floating in the air caused by the chain saw turning some plants  into
pollen or something, plus part of the cut branches are  climbing rose bushes
with big pointy thorns. Damn! I should have put on a  pair of those heavy work
gloves, but I'm not going to walk past that  asshole again to get them. I
rake the cut stuff out of the arbor, then shovel it  into the wheel barrel.

After about fifteen minutes the wheel barrel  is overloaded so I wheel it up
to the pickup truck where Bull,  who's chewing gum now with his mouth open,
says, "Load it in those heavy black  plastic bags, put the loaded bags in the
back of the truck bed, then go  back and get the rest." He gets up,
mumbling, "I'm going to start  chain-sawing from the other side." I'm  still
royally pissed off, so just barely nod my head at him with a sour  expression on
my face. Bull doesn't appear to give a shit about that either. He  couldn't
care less if I'm royally pissed off or not. He carries his  chainsaw, pulling
the cord and getting the machine  making its scary noise  as he's walking
down to the arbor.

Putting on a pair of  dirty work gloves I transfer the cut stuff into
plastic bags getting cuts and  scrapes on my arms and legs below my work shorts.

Filling one and a half  bags, I put the full bag on the truck, and push the
wheel barrel back to  the arbor. Now I see the chain saw cutting through
from the other side as  I'm tentatively racking out the cut material. He moves
the chain saw up,  then down. I try not to be raking when he's bringing it
down. This goes on for  what seems like forever. Four wheel barrel loads and
six filled black  plastic bags later Bull's now meticulously evening out
everything on the inside  of the arbor so it looks like the vines and whatnot
stop growing at  the latticework. The arbor is at least six foot wide so it
was a big job  clearing out the opening. On the other side is a brick path
with weeds between  the bricks. The path leads to a man-made pond that's about
twenty feet  across with water that's a murky green color. It's ugly with
disgusting looking algae growing in it.

When Bull's satisfied  with the arbor, he mutters, "Fuck it," and checks
his watch, saying, "Lunch  time, kid." I make a face, just now remembering my
lunch is in the cooler on the  pickup truck. Bull looks at me, then says
sarcastically, "You didn't  bring your lunch, did you, ya dumb shit?" I yell,
"Yeah, I brought my lunch!  It's in the lunch cooler for the crew I work
with." He shrugs, "Yeah? Well, it  might have been a good idea if you took your
lunch out of that cooler when  you knew you wouldn't be working with that
pussy crew." He's  as sarcastic-sounding as I was when I told him that I did
bring a  lunch. Looking away, I mutter, "I didn't have the chance because Rex
Murphy told  me to hustle the fuck up." He makes a chuckling snorting
sound, then gets  his lunch cooler out from behind the pickup's front seat and
sits in the shade  opening his soft-sided cooler. I light a cigarette then
smell the back of  my bee-stung hand. Bull says, "Put that cigarette out! No
smoking on  customer's property." Fucking asshole!
Walking back up the  gravel road to get away from him, I'm like, 'Is that
Robby's pickup driving  towards me?' It's Robby's pickup alright. Now I'm
wondering if I  should act grouchy or be happy to see him. As he pulls up along
side of me he  looks apprehensive, asking, "What are you doing up here,
Dylan?" I go, "Oh, it's  lunch time and Bull eats with his mouth open making
all those disgusting mouth  sounds." He laughs, "Oh boy, you're royally pissed
off, aren't you?" I  make a face, and he says, "I swear I didn't know
Murphy would put you on  this job. I thought it was strictly lawn cutting."

Exhaling with my cheeks  puffed out, I shrug again. He explains, "The project you
and Bull are  on was discussed last Friday night. Sorry, Dylan, I didn't
know it was  scheduled for today. I'm not involved with Rex's scheduling." I
look  at him blankly, and he says, cheerily, "I brought your lunch for you,
and I'll  eat with you if you're not too mad at me." I mumble, "A bee stung
me," and  always prepared Robby gets a first aid kit from someplace in the
pickup.  Hopping out, he cleans the back of my filthy hand with Handi-wipes,
the  same ones we've occasionally used cleaning-up after fucking in the
pickup. Then he sprays something on the bee sting and squeezes my  hand,
murmuring, "Don't be mad." I snort out a laugh, "I'm not  mad."

We eat under a huge  tree sitting off the back of the pickup with the
tailgate down. Robby tells me  the homeowners for this property are in Europe
until Labor Day. The  Dickers' company has been renovating the grounds all
summer, section by  section. He says, "You and Bull are working on the final
section.  We've promised we'll have everything done before they return. I heard
them  discussing this project in the meeting. The pond is stagnant so we've
got  to clean out the large pipe that feeds it, then get the water
circulating  through a filter and put in some water plants to help keep the water
fresh  enough that fish can live in the pond. Then there's  more landscaping
to be done to totally beautify the area back to the way it  used to be in the
old days. The mansion is a hundred years old, but completely  renovated
inside and outside." I take a bite of my second roast beef sandwich  not saying
anything, just looking at Robby and thinking he's the best  looking guy
I've ever seen even if he does look pale today.

He grins at me, then  eats the rest of his sandwich. Robby's got the
sniffles and sounds hoarse.  After drinking some iced tea, noticing I'm not saying
very much, he  says, "My lunch had a funny taste to it." I mumble, "Oh
yeah? Maybe you  have a cold and it makes things taste different." He sneezes,
then says,  "Anyway, Dad figured there'd be some haggling about the cost of
doing this  last section so he quoted high to start with. He tells them
$35,000  for the work you and Bull are working on. No haggling, the owners just
said  do it. It's a one week job for two guys, plus additional landscaping,
so there's a good profit to be made for the company." Yeah, nice if you're
not one of the two guys making $13 an hour. I'm sure Bull makes a lot more
than that, but I'm referring to moi.

Robby puts all the  trash from our lunch in a bag, throws it over his
shoulder into the back of  his pickup, then asks, "Are you getting along with
Bulnanski okay?" I go,  "We're becoming best friends," and he laughs. After a
glance around to see if  Bull's watching, Robby gives me a quick kiss on the
cheek, "I love  you, Dylan, but I'm coming down with something and don't
want to give it to you.  And, I'll get you off this assignment tomorrow." I nod
and hop off the tailgate.  Robby follows, then gets in the pickup, and
says,  "Um, you know I'm working tonight, right?" I nod, "Yep," and he says,
"You'll probably be here past our normal quitting time. I'll give you  a ride
home so Jeff doesn't have to wait for you." I nod, muttering, "Okay,
thanks," and he smiles, saying, "Hang in there, baby," and backs out of the
driveway. That would have been a good time for me to tell him I'm having  dinner
with Willie tonight, but then we didn't talk about Danny Monday, or  the
apartment at Merrimack, or whether Chubby's going in the apartment with us
this year. I didn't feel like talking about anything  serious.

Taking a deep breath  I walk back to our pickup and see Bull smoking again.

He knows the  property owners are away. He goes, "Having lunch with the
boss's son, huh?"  Ignoring that, I ask, "What now?" He goes, "Get the fucking
weed  whacker and clean out around every single brick in that path. I want
to see dirt  around every brick, not weeds. Then weed-whack the moss off the
bricks." That  little job takes the rest of the day with my arms and
shoulders aching from  holding the weed whacker for hours. While I'm doing that, he
cuts  the hedges surround this entire section. It's a long afternoon with
frequent trips to the hose that's hooked up to an irrigation water pipe.

Gotta keep hydrated, but the water taste like a rubber hose. We  finally leave
at five o'clock earning me an hour's overtime, and  that'll be paid at
time-and-a-half, thank you very much. Bull's  backing the pickup up the gravel
road, and I'll be dammed  but that area looks totally different now. It
really looks good. We  don't talk on the way back either. At the equipment shed,
Bull says, "Clean  everything before checking it back in with the kid at the
desk." Yeah, well  that's another hour of overtime for me. I'm hoping the
'kid' at the desk'  is Seth, but it's some skinny older guy with a hair up
his ass telling me I left  debris in the wheel barrel.  He pronounced it
'deb-bris',  the way it's spelled.

I remembered  to text Chubby around four o'clock telling him not to wait
for me,  that I've arranged a ride home with Robby who's normally here until
six  o'clock anyway. On Mondays Robby goes home for dinner with his dad, and
then  that night there's some sort of meeting at their house around eight
o'clock. Whatever. Before I even finish cleaning the equipment  though, Robby
comes over apologizing again telling me he can't drive  me home after all,
but he's arranged for the skinny guy in the  equipment shed; the one with a
hair up his ass, to give me a ride home. That  ride proves to be less than
lovely. I'm trying to decide if Robby looked, I  don't know, sickly? He
didn't seem himself somehow. All the way home, the guy  driving bitches about his
job, and because he was ordered to drive me home  he bitches about missing
dinner and his wife, who's  apparently going to be chewing his ass for
missing dinner when he  gets there. Taking a page out of Bull's book, I don't say
a  single word all the way to my place. Going up the steps I'm tired and
dirty, and there's stinging little cuts on my hands, arms, and legs... in other
 words, I feel like shit. The bee sting on the back of my hand is swelling
up too. It's not until I'm standing in the kitchen gulping down a  quart
bottle of Gatorade while staring at my dirty fingernails that I  remember my
dinner date with Willie.

It's six thirty  and he's picking me up at seven. Shaking my head, then
taking a deep  breath, I call his cellphone figuring I'll reschedule for
another night. When he  answers I hear traffic sounds coming over the connection
even before he  cheerfully says, "Hi, Dylan. Ya getting ready, my friend?
I'll be there  in a few minutes. I know I'm early, hope you don't mind." Jesus!
He  adds, "See how anxious and excited I am about us being best friends
and going out to dinner together? I got all dressed up for you too."  Balls!



to be continued...    Donny Mumford   thinat20@yahoo.com



donnymumford@outlook.com



========================================================


Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine  published
and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them  for
next to nothing. The books are under ten dollars. They are about a 19 year  old
gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is  a
new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by
typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can  be
found in some detail there. Thank you.

Donny  Mumford


============================================

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