Date: Sun, 14 Jan 2007 19:52:03 -0800 (PST)
From: T. Chase McPhee <survivalgame@yahoo.com>
Subject: For The Love Of Michael 07

The story below is a work of fiction, set in the
format of reality. Any resemblances to real people,
alive or in the hereafter, is entirely coincidental in
nature. It is not meant to accurately reflect upon
persons, in towns, cities, countries, nor governmental
areas, which the story is staged. If a sexual scene
involving male-to-male relationships offends you, then
you should not read this story. Additionally, if you
are under 18 years of age, in most state and
countries, you are not allowed to read this story, by
law. Check with your local laws regarding such. %
Sexual safety matters. Remember guys, this is fiction.
In real life, use protection.

%

"For The Love Of Michael" 07
wriTten by T. Chase McPhee

%

A little mismatched, Dean didn't mind wearing his
extra gym suit, with Juan's extra tee shirt,
somebody's pair of socks and sneakers, to band class.

"That was a stupid thing to do!"

"Don't rub it in," Dean said, wetting the reed of his
clarinet.

"What did Michael say?"

"You saw him. Did he come over to me? Say he was
sorry?"

"Sorry, Dean? It's not like he pushed you in the
pool."

"So, he's the cause of it."

"Dean, you walked right out of the lockerroom and fell
into the pool. All the guys were there. We saw you do
it. Michael wasn't around until he came out, much
later."

"I know."

"So?"

"I've gotta wet my reed."

Right out of Dean's mouth, Juan rips the wet reed.

"Owwwwch! Dammit Juan! You could have given me a
splinter!"

"Talk!"

"I'm not saying anything til you give me my reed
back!"

"You're not getting your reed back til you talk!"

"If Mr. D'Allago yells at me, it'll be your fault!"

Juan Alvarez surrenders the wet reed.

"I hope it isn't cracked."

"It's fine. Suck on it."

As soon as Dean places the clarinet reed in his mouth
to `suck on it', Mr. D'Allago enters the room.

"You're not leaving school til I talk with you."

Band class went on as usual. They actually sounded
decent, having taken first place at the `battle of the
bands', five years running. However, this year started
off a little weak. It seems the percussionist moved
midsummer and Mr. D'Allago had to move up the worst
drummer, one whom couldn't keep a beat. The whole band
depended on Jim Hart and he wasn't working out to
D'Allago's expectations.

When Mr. D'Allago spoke, students listened. Kids at
school often spoke of him as a taskmaster on a
plantation. Right out of a Pete Brown novel, he made
his band students tote the line or take a hike. Only
this year there wasn't any interested players for the
percussion section other than Jim Hart. To clang the
cymbals and carry the bass drum, Jim enlisted his
cronies. Scotty Bingham wasn't bad at keeping the
beat. Fortunately all Jeff Stocker had to do is `wear'
the bass drum, like a backpack. He was hefty enough,
standing at six feet tall and being on the wrestling
team, as well, he was built like a tank. So, hauling
the bass drum as Jim Hart beat the hell out of it,
didn't prove a problem. Except for Mr. D'Allago's ears
and the band's footsteps!

"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo, Hart! It's
1..2..3..4..1..2..3..4......" Mr. D'Allagro pounded
into Hart's head.

Everyone was aghast when Michael Malkovich set his
flute down, walked over to Jim, took his hand with the
mallet and tapped the four beats.

"Like this Hart!"

Strange thing is, Jim Hart `allowed' Michael to tap
out the rhythm!

%

Copyright 2007 T. Chase McPhee
This story may not be sold, nor made part of any
collection, without prior consent from the author.