Date: Mon, 5 May 2014 16:12:55 -0400 (EDT)
From: DJAkeeba@aol.com
Subject: Tragedy on the Potomac, Chapter 3

This is a story about male/male relations, and will include scenes of
graphic sexuality.  You should not read this story if it is in any way
illegal due to your age or place of residence.

This is a work of pure fiction. This story is the sole property of its
author and may not be copied in whole or in part or posted on any website
without the permission of the author.

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TRAGEDY ON THE POTOMAC
by Steven H. Davis

Chapter 3

BLAINE MAXWELL'S JOURNAL

Sorry I haven't been writing as much as I thought I was going to.  Working
on Dad's crew keeps me busy most of the time, except when I'm awake at 3
a.m. in some random hotel room like tonight.  I'm on the Riverwalk in San
Antonio, while Dad's somewhere in the Northeast part of town, renewing his
acquaintance with Betty Ogretz, a teacher he used to see when Taine was
going to Polk.

Taine didn't come with us to San Antonio, and tried to make us believe that
it was because he had to study for an anatomy quiz. He could have done that
here, but I knew the real reason was that he was afraid Dad or I would try
to make him see Rick.

I don't know why he'd think that. We lived in Alamo Heights for almost two
years after they broke up, and I think we only tried a total of three or
four times. Whenever we did, he'd either clam up and hide from us in his
room or look at us with that "how dare you?" face like we had just
suggested he start doing porno movies. So eventually we just left it alone,
hoping he'd get himself settled down enough to give the whole situation
with Rick a real chance.

It didn't happen that way, and Taine just pulled back further inside
himself. After we moved back to New York, he had a pretty rough time for
the rest of high school, getting picked on because of his shyness, his
clothes, and the way he would draw himself inside like a turtle at any kind
of human contact.

He didn't date at all, although I managed to get him to admit that a girl
had given him a handy at the only party he went to. I have to think that
must have been the most awkward handjob in history.

I began crewing for Dad around this time, and we were gone a
lot. Again. Taine didn't seem to resent it as much this time, and even came
on the road with us once or twice, until he graduated with pretty low marks
and decided that he was going to get a job.

Dad offered him a spot on the pit crew, but Taine didn't really get along
too well with the rest of the guys. They were all pretty rough, blue-collar
guys and didn't have much use for a skinny, delicate kid whose only real
efforts at interaction were spurts of ill-timed sarcasm which just got on
their bad sides.

Eventually he decided that he was going to be a fireman and began working
out so he could pass the grueling physical.  Firehoses are heavier than
they look, and the idea of little Taine hauling one up the stairs of a
burning building didn't exactly fill anyone with confidence.  So the
fireman thing didn't work out either, and the next attempt was at becoming
a long-haul trucker.

I have to believe that all these macho jobs were Taine's way of distancing
himself from his sexuality, from his perception of himself as some weak
little gay boy who would never be normal, or what he thought was normal.

But every time that he embarked on one of these escapades, he just proved
to himself once again that he wasn't man enough for the job.

Taine was actually very good at driving a truck, to my surprise. In fact,
he was so good that his instructor had him helping some of the other guys,
none of whom took too kindly to being tutored by a skinny young
punk. Things got rough for him again, and it was on his first cross-country
ride-along with his instructor that Taine realized that long-haul trucking
wasn't his calling either.

I remember getting a panicky call from a rest stop in North Carolina where
Taine was absolutely horrified that the truck drivers looked at him funny
when he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

"Don't these people believe in hygiene?" he pleaded in astonishment and
revulsion.

Yeah, this wasn't going to be the answer.

Finally, I sat down with Taine one day and tried to help him figure out
what to do with his life. What I knew was that we had to minimize his
interaction with other people, let him work with something which would let
him feel like he was doing something useful, and -- most importantly --
find something which he could actually be successful in doing.

I felt in my gut that Taine couldn't handle another disappointment or he'd
start harming himself again.  He was already sinking into another of his
self-loathing depressions, where he saw himself as useless, alienated from
humankind, and a hateful waste of oxygen.  When those feelings took hold of
him, Taine would disappear into his room for days at a time, and would
often re-emerge with cuts.

Dad tried to understand.  He really did, but Sly Maxwell was the kind of
person who took life by the balls with great zeal and gusto, and the way
that Taine's mind operates wasn't really within his realm of comprehension.

So it was up to me.

I did understand, somewhat, based on my experiences with Elden
Croyle. There were times, when I was held captive in his house of horrors,
that I wanted to die.  That I would rather be dead than watch that locked
door slowly open again, revealing another of Elden's sadistic friends, all
horned-up and ready to make me suffer the tortures of the damned for their
amusement and pleasure. I eventually escaped, but there were long, dark
nights when I thought I never would, and death seemed like the only way
out.

Those experiences only partially helped me to understand Taine, though.  I
mean, it wasn't as if he was tied down in a bed for constant torture by
sadistic sex maniacs.  What had he really been through? Everything that
happened at Polk -- the murdered dog, the vandalized car, and so on --
hadn't actually happened to him.

They had happened to Rick, and to Dad, and they happened because Rick had
stood up to Taine's bullies so that Taine wouldn't *have* to suffer
anything bad. And then my Dad and Rick's dad Rex had taken care of that,
too, making a little visit to the bullies' homes and spelling out in no
uncertain terms to their parents what would happen if they ever did
anything which could be proven in a courtroom.

Taine had everything then. He was left alone at school, he had Dad's love
and acceptance, he had his brother (me) back in his life, and, most
importantly, he had Rick's total and unconditional love and adoration.

Rick would have killed or died for Taine, and then Taine just flipped
out. He broke up with Rick, he left Polk, and we moved to Alamo Heights,
where he got bullied again, all because he couldn't deal with being gay,
something -- and this is the strange part -- for which he had never
suffered one single ounce of rejection over that entire period of time. In
the middle of Texas in 1981, the only person bullying Taine for his
sexuality and his romance with Rick was Taine himself.

And he was still doing it. Pit crew, fireman, long-haul trucker. I was sure
he would try to be a longshoreman next or join the Marines if I didn't step
in and help him find something to do which made allowances for his
fragility, his shyness, and his ego while still avoiding anything which
smacked of weakness.

And then it hit me.

Taine had always been a dark soul. He liked horror films, sad Goth songs,
pictures of dark angels and blackened, bleeding hearts. He had always been
fascinated by death. He needed to work in isolation, safe from too much
interaction with people. Well... interaction with *living* people, anyway.

"Mortuary science," I suggested excitedly. "Funeral homes, embalming. Dead
people. You could work pretty much by yourself. You wouldn't have to deal
with a bunch of assholes.  And it's something that not every person has the
balls to do..."

I knew I was being manipulative, but I couldn't just stand by and watch him
run himself into walls over and over again by taking on jobs which were
both dangerous and, frankly, beyond his capabilities.

Fortunately, Taine loved the idea, and after I had a long, high-pressure
talk with Dad, he agreed to enroll my brother in the local community
college, after which time he would enter the nearby funeral academy to
learn what we were all sure would be his true craft.

What I didn't take into account or even consider for a second at that time
was that working with dead bodies every day could do far more psychological
damage to Taine than anyone could have predicted. It would increase his
feelings of alienation and horror (or mortification, not to put too fine a
point on it) at simply being alive in this world, a prisoner of his own
mind and body in a sense very similar to what I experienced in Elden
Croyle's awful spare bedroom.

That's what I couldn't get my head around at the time: that the reason I
felt so responsible for helping Taine was that we had been to the same
place. I went there for a few awful weeks, and I went there physically.
Taine went there mentally and emotionally every single day of his life.

And with my brilliant, ill-conceived idea for finding him "the perfect
job," I had just made things infinitely worse.

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Thank you for reading Chapter 3.  To be continued...

Once again, I'm always happy to hear from readers at DJAkeeba@aol.com.

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