Date: Sun, 06 May 2001 21:10:56 -0700
From: The Pecman <thepecman@yahoo.com>
Subject: Groovy Kind of Love 24-Epilogue

GROOVY KIND OF LOVE
*******************

-----------------------------------------------------------
   For the disclaimer, please read Part 1.
   This story may be reprinted anywhere on the Net, as long
   as it's done intact, without changing a single word,
   and preserving my copyright & Email address. And that's
   Copyright 2001 ThePecman@yahoo.com. All rights reserved.
-----------------------------------------------------------


Chapter 24

Pete and I had one more day at the beach together. We were
both so exhausted from all the sex, we mainly sat around
the beach house, just listening to music.

I'd switched his stereo over to the local Top 40 AM
station, radio 138. The fast-talking announcer came on
after a Schlitz beer commercial.

"This is Jim Stanley with the Stanley Steamer, and right
now, as the parade of hits continues on WLCY, here they are
with the number one hit in the U.S. of A., The Archies,
with... 'Sugar, Sugar'!"

I grinned. How a cartoon group could have a hit at all was
completely amazing to me.

"Turn that shit off," Pete moaned, putting a pillow over
his head.

"Hey," I said. "I think it's kinda catchy."

"It SUCKS!" he yelled from under the pillow. "It's fuckin'
pop trash!"

I leapt on the bed and rolled over next to him. "C'mon,
Pete," I said, putting my hand on his chest. "It's just a
song."

"Don't you get it, man?" he said, throwing the pillow
across the room. "Rock and roll is falling apart. This
bubblegum shit is totally worthless. There's no _art_
there, man."

I rolled my eyes. "Jesus, Pete," I said. "I thought you
believed in 'moderation in all things.' Isn't it okay to
have a frivolous, silly pop song once in awhile?"

He looked at me quizzically, then smiled and shook his
head. "Touche, you asshole," he said, laughing. "But I
still wanna know how a fuckin' comic book group has a
number one hit, while Cream breaks up."

I nodded. "Who was that guy you liked so much in that
group?" I barely knew of Cream, because all I listened to
was Top 40 radio.

"Clapton. Eric Clapton," he said. "The guy's a phenomenal
guitarist. You just wait, you'll hear his name again."

"C'mon, Pete. That music's too serious," I said, shaking my
head. "You can't snap your fingers or dance to that shit."
I knew 'White Room' and 'Sunshine of Your Love,' because
they were hits on the radio, but that was about it.

Pete winced. "You asshole," he said. "There's more to life
than music you can dance to. Music should be a thing of
beauty, not some three-minute piece of shit on the radio.
Look at what groups like the Moody Blues and The Who are
doin', puttin' classical music and rock together on an
album! Now _that's_ art, man."

The song ended and the DJ intro'd the next one. "It's 88
degrees here in Great Tampa Bay, at fifteen past the big
boss hour. Now, a golden oldie from the past, from the year
nineteen hundred and sixty six... here's The Mindbenders
with... 'Groovy Kind of Love.'"

"Oh, no," Pete moaned. "That song is so fuckin' corny!"

"Shut up, man!" I said. Corny or not, I always loved that
song. I started singing along with the music and lay down
with him on the bed, then leaned over and kissed him.


"Anytime you want to
you can turn me on to
Anything you want to,
anytime at all...

When I taste your lips,
Ooh I start to shiver
Can't control the quivering inside.

Wouldn't you agree,
baby you and me
Got a groovy kind of love."


Pete grinned and shook his head. "Corny!" he yelled.

The song went into its instrumental break. I rolled over
onto his chest and looked him right in the eye from two
inches away.

"No, it's not corny," I said, quietly. "Not if you believe
every word of it, with all your heart."

I continued singing with the radio and wrapped my arms
around him.


"When I'm in your arms,
Nothing seems to matter
My whole world could shatter
I don't care.

Wouldn't you agree,
baby you and me
Got a groovy kind of love...
We got a groovy kind of love."


Pete smiled and nodded and kissed me. "Okay," he said, at
last. "Maybe when you sing it, it's not so corny."

I smiled back at him. "That's how I feel about you, man," I
said. "I swear."

"Groovy," he said.

I lay my head on his bare chest, and he put his arms around
me. We slept for another hour.

                        *   *   *

At the end of the day, we sat on the beach and watched the
sun set. I could hear the laughter of children at the motel
next door, over the giant stone wall that separated the
properties. I looked over and saw from a distance a kid
about 12 or 13 up on the high board.

Gee, I thought. That could've been me just a year or two
ago. He saw me watching him and grinned. I waved, and he
waved back and then bounced and dove into the water below
with a terrific splash.

I felt strange. I knew inside I was only supposed to be 14,
but somehow, I felt a lot older now.

"What're you thinkin' about, babe?" asked Pete, lying next
to me on the towel.

I sighed. "I was just thinking of how I'm getting older," I
replied. "I think hanging around with you and all the 16
year-olds at school is making me age more rapidly. Some
kinda time/space continuum deal, like that astronaut at the
end of _2001_."

Pete smiled and kissed me on the nose.

"So, are you my star child?" he whispered, grinning. He
kissed me again, passionately this time, on the lips.

"Hey, man!" I whispered, looking around. "Somebody's gonna
see us!"

"Fuck 'em," he said. "I'm goin' off to war, so what do I
care?"

I rolled my eyes. "You'd care if they threw you in jail
first," I muttered.

"Shut up, Wil," he said, then kissed me again.

I grinned and broke off the kiss. "So, how about I fuck you
again, only this time, we'll let the kid on the diving
board watch from next door?"

He laughed. "Moderation in all things, Wil," he said,
wagging his finger. "That means sex, too. Just because you
can jack-off doesn't mean you should do it ten times a
day."

Hmmm, I thought. I'd been doing it two or three times a day
since I got back from Texas. But I hadn't had to masturbate
even once since being here with Pete.

Pete stood up and walked closer to the shore, then looked
out at the ocean. "Man. That's cool, isn't it, Wil?"

I stood up beside him and put my hand on his shoulder.
"Yeah."

We stood there silently and watched the brilliant orange
rays flood the horizon. It seemed even more spectacular
than usual. High tide was coming in. The waves were lapping
closer and closer to our feet, and I heard the seagulls'
plaintive cries in the distance.

"Wil -- tell me somethin', man," he said, thoughtfully. "If
you'd known for sure that Sky was gonna die, would you've
still done everything you did?"

"But I still couldn't save him?" I asked.

Pete nodded.

I thought long and hard, then sighed. "Yeah," I replied,
staring out at the sunset. "Even if I knew there was
absolutely nothing I could do, I guess I'd still have done
it all over again. Only this time, I would've made damned
sure me and Sky were having a shit-load more sex, six
months sooner."

We laughed.

Pete turned and kissed me. "Now you're starting to
understand karma."

He put his arm around me as we watched the last rays of the
sun disappear, replaced by the dark blue of night.

"Time to go, man," he said, quietly. "Grab your stuff."

                        *   *   *

By the time we pulled up in my driveway, it was already
dark. Pete shut off the engine, and once again, he dragged
me off to the side.

"One last kiss for the road, babe," he said, taking me in
his arms.

I began to cry. "This is so fucked, man," I sobbed.

"Shut up," he said, and tenderly kissed me.

"WIL!" yelled my father. "Is that you, son?"

Pete and I jumped apart. "Yeah, Dad," I said, walking
around the motorcycle. I knew my father couldn't see
anything, because we'd been behind part of a hedge, in
total darkness.

"I was just saying goodbye to Pete," I continued, as I
trotted up the porch steps. "He's going into the Air Force
tomorrow."

My dad looked surprised, then nodded. Pete kick-started his
motorcycle.

"You sure you can't stay for dinner, Pete?" yelled my
father.

Pete shook his head. "Sorry!" he yelled. "Goodbye, Mr.
Larson! Take it easy, Wil!"

He gunned the engine, pulled out of the driveway, and raced
off into the night.

                        *   *   *

At about 10:45 that night, the hallway phone rang. I darted
outside my room and answered it.

"Hello?" I said. It had to be Ronnie. Only he would be dumb
enough to call this late at night.

"Hey, Starchild," said Pete. "Listen, man, I forgot to tell
ya. The key to my place's behind the rock in the garden.
Second one from the left. Don't forget, I'm leavin' you the
bike while I'm gone. I don't want it just to sit in the
garage and get rusty. It's yours for the duration, once you
get your license."

"I should have that in a week or so," I said. Dad had
promised to help me get my learner's permit just before
school started in two weeks.

"Good," he said. "Listen, Wil, I... I don't have much time.
In case anything happens, I want you to know..."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You promised nothing was going to
happen!"

Pete sighed. "Nothin's ever for sure," he said. "Just like
my dream about my Dad, and my dream about Sky. With Dad, he
was dead ten days later. But I knew about Sky six months
before it happened."

I rolled my eyes. "Heeby jeeby chili-beanie!" I said, in a
goofy voice. "The speerits are about to speak!"

"Are they friendly spirits?" said Pete, in Rocky the Flying
Squirrel's voice.

"Friendly?" I said, laughing. "Just listen!"

We both chuckled. Pete and I had both loved the old
_Bullwinkle_ cartoon show.

"WIL!" called my dad from their bedroom. "It's much too
late to be on the phone. Call whoever it is back in the
morning!"

"Pete," I whispered. "I gotta go. Love ya, man."

Pete paused. "You're one in a million, Wil."

"One in two billion," I corrected him.

He laughed. "Whatever. Don't forget all the stuff we talked
about. And thanks for everything, big guy."

I shook my head. "Send me your military mailing address
when you know what it is," I said. "I'll write you at least
once a week, and tell you what kind of tenth-grade bullshit
I've gotta deal with this year."

"WIL!" yelled my father through their bedroom door. "Good
night!"

"I love you, Pete!" I whispered into the phone. "Gotta go."

"Goodbye, Wil," he said. "I love you too."

I hung up the phone. I heard a strange murring sound, and I
looked down to see Samantha the cat rubbing against my
legs. I picked her up and she purred happily and licked my
face.

                        *   *   *

The school year started off with a bang. I hardly had time
to miss Pete, because Coach Byers had us begin swim
practice ten days early, in late August. I was a little
rusty from having taken the entire summer off. Within a
week, though, I was very close to matching my best times in
Freestyle and Breaststroke again. Coach agreed to let me be
backup for Aaron, in case he wasn't available to do
Butterfly for a meet.

Partly because of what we went through together on the ski
boat back in March, Mark and Barry were both pretty nice to
me, and we actually started hanging out occasionally. They
avoided bringing up Sky's name, except to tell me they were
glad I seemed to be doing okay. Even though neither Mark or
Barry could ever be substitutes for my friendships with Sky
or Ronnie, I at least felt like I was becoming more
accepted on the team and was making some inroads with the
older kids.

On Labor Day weekend, just before school started, I got
home from swim practice and my mom called to me from the
kitchen.

"Wil, honey!" she said. "You just missed Pete! He was
calling from some Air Force base out in Oklahoma. He said
he's leaving for the Philippines in an hour, and just
wanted to say hello."

Shit, I thought, as my heart sank. "Did he leave a number?"
I yelled, running into the dining room.

She shook her head. "No. But he said he'd try to call back
later, on your line."

About an hour later, my phone rang, and I ran out in the
hall and picked it up in mid-ring.

"Pete?" I said.

"Hey, Wil, it's me, Mark. Listen, man, me and Barry and
some of the guys from the team wanted to call and see if
you could come over for a barbecue at my place tomorrow
afternoon. Should be really cool."

"Listen, Mark," I said, quickly, "I gotta keep this line
open. A friend of mine's supposed to call me long-distance
any moment. I'll call you back, okay?"

"Well, gee, Wil," he said, glumly, "you don't have to get
all huffy about it."

"Gotta go, Mark! 'Bye!" I slammed down the phone.

FUCK, I thought. You just know that was probably the one
moment Pete picked to call. I went back in my room and
flipped on side 2 of The Beach Boys' _Friends_ album, which
I really enjoyed. I really should make a tape of this, I
thought, so I wouldn't have to get out of my bed and turn
the record over.

As I lay there and listened to 'Busy Doin' Nothin',' I
thought how strangely appropriate that song was for me at
that moment. I felt like I was just treading water, just
waiting for the next stage of my life to begin. Even though
I didn't have Pete in town any more, and Sky was gone, I'd
decided to stay at Tampa Central. I was beginning to think
maybe that was my karma. Jesus. That fucking Pete and his
mystical bullshit.

Suddenly the hallway phone rang. I leapt out of my bed and
caught it on the second ring.

"PETE!" I yelled.

"Hey, hold it down, man," he laughed. "It's me!" There was
a buzz of voices and the sound of jet engines in the
background.

"It's about fucking time, man!" I said, holding my voice
down so my mom wouldn't overhear me. "Four weeks, and you
didn't call or write or anything." I was fuming mad.

"Shit, Wil," he said, apologetically. "I swear to god, man,
I'm really sorry. I've thought about you every single night
I've been here. You and 'little Wil,' that is."

We both laughed. God, it was great just to hear his voice
again.

"Listen, man," he continued, "we're finally done with basic
training and they're shippin' us out to Nevada, then 24
hours later, we go out to the U.S. base at Manila. I still
won't know my APO address for another week, but I'll get it
to you as soon as I can."

I closed my eyes. "I really miss you, man," I said,
sighing.

"Me, too, Wil," he said. "If we're lucky, I'll get some
time off in December and can come back to Tampa for three
days over Christmas. If all goes well, we can hang out at
the beach house then."

Fuck. December sounded so far away.

"Listen, Wil -- there's somethin' else I wanted to say."

Suddenly, I heard some voices arguing in the background,
and Pete yelling "Okay, okay!"

"Damn," he said. "I guess it can wait. Listen, Wil, a
buncha other guys are waitin' to use the phone, so I gotta
go. Don't forget all the stuff we talked about. Keep an
open mind, man."

"I will, Pete," I said. "Thanks. Don't forget to write me."

"I won't," he said. "I love ya, man."

"I love you too, Pete," I croaked. I hung up the phone,
wiped the tears from my eyes and went back to my bedroom,
just in time to hear The Beach Boys singing 'Transcendental
Meditation.' That stuff was such bullshit, I thought.

                        *   *   *

I saw the Taylor twins in my mind. The summer heat was
intense. We were back in the hayloft, and we were rolling
around and around in a tangle of sweaty bodies. Our mouths
were everywhere, and my stiff manhood flopped around and
wound up on top of one of the brothers' firm, white asses.
I grinned, leaned down, and kissed the back of his neck.
Then I started thrusting back and forth in between his
round, muscular globes, letting my endowment slide up
towards the deep groove in his back.

"I said, MR. LARSON! Do you have the answer to this
equation?"

I looked up from my seat. Every eye in the class turned to
me. It was the third week of school at Tampa Central, in
late September. Even though I'd managed to evade having to
take English for 10th grade, I was still forced to take
Trigonometry.

I looked up at the formula written on the blackboard. It
looked like indecipherable Egyptian hieroglyphics to me.

The teacher, Mr. Hueburger, was fuming. "Perhaps you can
come up here and we'll go over it for the class, Mr.
Larson."

I blanched. There's no way I wanted to move, with this ten-
inch lump throbbing between my legs. I looked down and
could clearly see the outline in my jeans.

Just as I started to protest, the 4th period bell sounded.

"Saved by the bell," I muttered, letting out a sigh.

"Don't forget your homework assignment," yelled the teacher
over the din. "Pages 66 to 71, all the exercises from
number one through number 45."

I stayed in my chair and waited desperately for my erection
to subside. I idly picked my books up from under my seat
and pretended to go over some papers in my notebook. The
class was almost empty now.

Suddenly, I heard a voice from my right. "Hey, Wil."

I looked up, and it was Ginny, grinning at me.

"Hi, Ginny," I said. I breathed a little easier, once I
realized I could finally get out of my seat.

"So, you wanna come over and maybe see a movie this
weekend?" she asked. _"Butch Cassidy_ is playing over at
the Britton Theater, and it's supposed to be really good."

I smiled as I leaned over and grabbed the rest of my books.
"Yeah," I said. "That'd be great, Ginny."

She leaned over and gave me a peck on my cheek.

I looked around. "Strictly platonic, right?" I whispered.

She grinned and nodded. "I swear!" she said, raising both
palms in the air.

"Attention, please!" suddenly barked the school PA system.
"Will Mr. William Larson please report to the principal's
office! Mr. William Larson, to the principal's office,
please."

Uh-oh, I thought, my face turning red. This couldn't be
good.

"What's all _that_ about?" said Ginny.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Maybe Mr. Hueburger is gonna have
me flogged for daydreaming," I said, irritated. "Look,
Ginny, I'll call you tonight, okay?"

She nodded. "Thanks, Wil," she said. "The movie's gonna be
cool."

I rushed down the crowded hall to the principal's office.
Three glum-looking students were standing in front of the
large counter in front of the administration office.

I walked up to the front of the line. "I'm Wil Larson," I
said to the harried clerk. "What's up?"

She looked down at a pile of papers on her desk. "Oh, yes,"
she said, handing me a small form. "You had a message from
your father. He said it was an emergency, and that you
should call his office immediately. Here's the number. The
pay phones are over there."

She pointed to a group of three well-worn black pay phones
on the wall. I walked over, dropped in a dime, and dialed
the number.

"Shit," I said to myself. "What if Mom's been in a fender-
bender? What if Sharon's fallen off the slide at school?
What if the house has burned down?" I let my mind race,
until I heard the phone click.

"Good morning, Southern Atlantic Engineering!" chirped the
phone receptionist.

"Yes, Mr. Ed Larson, please," I said. "Tell him it's his
son, returning his call from school."

"One moment please."

After a moment's pause, the phone clicked again.

"Wil!" said my father.

"Hi, Dad," I replied. "What's up?"

"Son, I've... have you seen the paper this morning?"

I'd missed reading it, since I'd been late for swim
practice and had to dash over on the motorcycle. As it was,
the coach yelled at me for nearly two solid minutes, and
made me swim extra laps.

"No, Dad," I said. "I hadn't."

He paused, the took a deep breath. "Son, it's about your
friend Pete. I didn't immediately see it because it's
buried deep in Section B. Listen, I think you should..."

I didn't hear the rest. I slammed the phone down to the
floor with a crash and tore out of the office, as the other
students and office workers gaped at me.

I raced up the staircase to the school library on the
second floor. I burst through the doors and ran up to the
front desk.

"HEY!" I shouted. "Where's this morning's _Tampa Tribune_?"
I said, loudly.

The elderly librarian glared at me. "Shhhhhhhhh! Please,
lower your voice."

"Just today's paper!" I snarled.

She shook her head and pointed across the room to a group
of newspapers, which were displayed like flags, sticking
out from the wall on wooden sticks.

"Thanks!" I whispered. I ran across the room, found the
_Tribune_, and flipped to the center section. A small
headline on the bottom said, "Seven Dead, 10 Injured in
Helicopter Mishap in Philippines."

My heart froze. I read the entire story on the front page.
Nothing there. I frantically turned the pages until I
reached the very back.

Finally, I got to the third paragraph.


"Also dead was Technical Specialist Peter Joseph Woods, 18,
of Madeira Beach, Florida. The radar operator was being
transported to the U.S. training base near Manila for a
three-week assignment. No known relatives are..."


I couldn't read the rest, because, suddenly my eyes didn't
seem to be able to focus anymore. I stumbled out of the
library and back down the stairs, then walked out the main
entrance to the sidewalk.

I was halfway home when a car drove up beside me and
honked.

"Son," yelled my dad. "Get in. I'll take you home."

I turned and nodded. We rode home in silence. Before I
walked upstairs, I turned to my father.

"I'll be okay, Dad," I said, quietly. "Lemme just have a
couple days off from school. I'll go back Monday. I can
handle it."

My Dad reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. My
family was never what you'd call "touchy-feely." It was
more understood between us; we didn't hug that much.

He nodded, and I went back up to my room. I put on Cream's
_Goodbye_ album and sat on my bed.

                        *   *   *

Somehow, I made it intact through the weekend. Part of me
still felt numb, but I was able to get through swim
practice alright. Ginny was able to get me a list of all
the homework assignments that I'd missed, and I'd managed
to finish them all.

Monday, we sat together at lunch in the cafeteria in
silence.

"I'm sorry I never got to meet Pete," she said, quietly, as
we ate our meatloaf.

"Yeah," I said. "He was really cool."

A moment passed. I could hear Nilsson's song "Everybody's
Talkin'" playing on the cafeteria radio speakers.

I started singing quietly along, and stared out into space.

Ginny reached out and squeezed my hand. "Wil," she said.
"You're gonna get through this."

I looked over at her and nodded. Tears were in her eyes.

"Yeah," I said. "I got through Sky and Melissa. I can
survive this."

She nodded, and we went back to our meatloaf.

                        *   *   *

Two weeks passed. I was progressing at the gym, and had
managed to convince Mark and Barry to exercise with me as
well. I was working out harder than ever, and was
determined to build myself up for the team. Friday after
school, I raced home on my motorcycle, anxious to get my
homework done so I'd have the weekend free for another one
of Mark's boat trips.

"Wil, honey!" my mother called, as I slammed the front
door. "There's some mail for you on the coffee table."

I threw my books on the couch and looked over. There was an
official-looking business envelope, with the return address
"Law Offices of Stanhope, Thornton and Wilson," from
Clearwater. I tore it open.


"Dear Mr. Larson:

Our client, Mr. Peter J. Woods of Madeira Beach, recently
made you a beneficiary of his estate. In light of his
recent untimely demise, we request that you call our firm
immediately to schedule an appointment for the disclosure
of his last will and testament."


The rest of the page was a blur. "Mom!" I called. "Read
this." I wiped a tear from my eye.

She walked into the living room and took the paper from my
hand. "Oh my gosh," she said. "Pete must have loved you an
awful lot, Wil."

I sighed. You don't know how much, Mom.

                        *   *   *

As it was, the estate was a lot more than I expected. Pete
had inherited about $60,000 from his mother and father
already, and it was in a savings account over at Southeast
Federal. He also owned the beach house free and clear,
since that was left to him by his grandmother. The other
money could be used to pay the $2000 yearly property tax
and all the upkeep on the house for a long time. The
attorney explained that he could set it up so that this
could come from the interest on Pete's account, and we'd
never have to touch the principal.

"The money and property are in a trust fund in your name,
Wil," he explained. "You can keep the motorcycle and Pete's
personal possessions now. You'll have full access to the
rest of it when you turn 21."

I rolled my eyes. "Pete was 18," I said, irritated. "He
could spend his own money anytime he wanted, but I have to
wait until I'm 21."

"Son," said my father, sitting next to me in the office.
"Pete may've known what he was doing. Just be glad you're
getting the money eventually."

I shook my head. "You don't understand," I said. "I don't
give a shit about the money."

My father's eyes flared at my profanity, but he let me
continue.

"I'm a lot older than I look," I said quietly.

                        *   *   *

The autumn months passed by quickly. To help get my mind
off everything, I plunged myself into my studies, the swim
team, and the chorus. I wasn't able to get straight-A's
again -- Trig and Humanities dragged me down to a 3.7
average, because I generally got only a B or B-plus in
those two subjects -- but I still stayed on the Honor Roll
all year. I even made National Honor Society.

Ginny was great. We spent a lot of weekends together, just
hanging out, or going to movies. We did finally see _Butch
Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,_ which we both enjoyed --
especially the music.

"That Burt Bacharach is great," she enthused, as we walked
down the sidewalk.

I nodded. The music in the movie was real catchy. I
wondered if Pete would've thought it was corny.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm gonna buy the soundtrack album."

We walked over to my motorcycle. Ginny looked up at me and
said, "Do you think Butch and Sundance knew they were
doomed?"

I shook my head. "It's just a movie," I said. "The real-
life guys may not have died like that at all." I'd read an
article about the film in _Time_ magazine a few weeks
earlier.

"Maybe when you die, you come back later as somebody else,"
she said, wistfully.

I rolled my eyes. "Now you're talking like Pete!" I
muttered.

She laughed. "It's nice to think about," she said, reaching
for her helmet. "If you ever die, who would you like to
come back as?"

I thought for a moment. Maybe Sky and I could come back as
warriors in ancient Greece. Or maybe you could only live
again in the future. Maybe Pete was waiting for me
somewhere, in another time and place. Maybe even on another
planet.

"Whoever I come back as," I said, hopping on the bike, "I
hope maybe next time, God doesn't put me through so much
fucking hell."

Ginny got behind me and held onto my waist. "I think God
was pretty smart to make you in the first place, Wil," she
said, quietly. "You and me both."

I kick-started the engine, and we roared out of the parking
lot and down the highway.

                        *   *   *

A week later, I came home early from school. I'd skipped my
usual workout in the gym. The school was buzzing with the
news that Coach Lucas had just suspended quarterback Scott
Michaels, who had beaten the crap out of Ben Kingston.
Ginny told me that Kingston had been tormenting some little
wimpy kid, Stevie St. James, in the shower during Phys Ed.
She said she'd tried to write up the true story for the
school paper, but their faculty adviser told her they
weren't in the gossip business, and threw it out.

I knew Stevie. He was in my Humanities class. Even though
I'd only heard his voice a few times, there was no question
about him. He was more effemininate than any girl in the
class, let alone Tim McMannis, the gay kid from chorus last
year.

I sat in the living room and thought for a moment. That was
pretty cool, what Scott did. Maybe it happened because of
what he and I had been through almost a year ago. Or maybe
Scott just didn't like seeing a big guy push a little guy
around. Either way, I'm glad Ben finally got his ass
kicked. That's what I call karma.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I got up off the couch and
opened the door. It was the postman.

"Special Delivery," he said, handing me an envelope and a
pen. "Looks like this one's a little late. Sorry about
that, but we're at the mercy of these foreign countries on
these things. Sign here."

I stared at the onion-skin airmail envelope. It was
postmarked from Manila, Philippines, more than two months
ago, and had a bunch of military rubber-stamped messages
all over it. My hands shook as I handed the pen back to the
postman. He snapped part of the form off the front, and
waved goodbye.

The return address said "Tech. Spec. Peter Woods, #MG-
102479-2205R, APO San Francisco, California 94107."

My heart was pounding in my ears. I sat down on the couch
and opened it up. The letter was a single page, hand-
written in neat block printing, in black ballpoint pen. A
U.S. Air Force insignia was at the top.



"Dear Wil--

"Well, here I am in Manila. I'm sorry I couldn't write
before now, but basic training out in Oklahoma was a bitch
and a half. That was three weeks of living hell, but I feel
a lot better now. I'm probably in the best shape of my
life. I wish you could see me (if you know what I mean).

"The food here really sucks. I'm taking RADAR classes every
day on the base here, and I'm scheduled to go on an
aircraft carrier in ten days, just outside of Mui Ca Mau in
the South China Sea. We're way out of the action in
Vietnam, so don't worry."



Fuck, I thought. Pete didn't even die in war. It was just a
stupid fucking helicopter accident. Not a single shot was
fired.



"I wanted to tell you something that I didn't have the
courage to say to you before. Wil, I know I told you I
couldn't see my own future. But I could see yours.

"I saw you many years from now. You were alive and happy,
and successful, and you looked pretty good. But every time
I saw you in my dream, I wasn't there with you.

"I have a feeling I know what this means. I hope it's all
bullshit, but just in case it isn't, I wanted to send you
this letter.

"I forgot to add one more thing to what I said to you at
the beach house. When you die someday, the main thing
you're going to think about is how many people you've
loved, and who loved you. And I'm just glad I lived long
enough to be able to be with you, even if it was just for
the summer.

"Next time around on the cosmic wheel, I promise, we'll
have an entire lifetime together. I know for a fact it's
going to happen. Remember what you said about that corny
song -- "if you believe it with all your heart?" I think if
you and me believe in this with all our hearts, it'll
happen.

"I gotta run. They're yelling for me to hurry up. They're
transporting us out to a special training base at Clark
Field, just a few miles east of Manila. Once I get settled,
I promise I'll write again.

"Hang in there, Wil, and try not to bang up the bike too
much. I hope it's still in one piece by the time I come
back.

Love ya,

--Pete."



I looked down at the letter and tears filled my eyes. So
he'd known already, but never told me.

"You fuckwad," I muttered. I closed my eyes and leaned back
against the coach.

After a moment or two, I felt a familiar warmth on my left
side. It was Samantha, my sister's cat. She looked up at
me, almost looking concerned, then curled up beside me, put
her head down on my thigh, and closed her eyes and purred.








Epilogue

As I write these words, it's the end of the year 2000. It's
been three decades since I lost my boyhood innocence in the
late 1960s.

I made it through my sophomore year at Tampa Central. The
swim team had a pretty good season, and we made it all the
way to the finals at the state championship, but wound up
losing out to Dade High School, in Miami. I became pretty
good friends with Mark and Barry from the swim team, but we
never had any more shower sessions, like we'd had the year
before. I got the feeling they thought that stuff was "too
homo," judging by some of their passing remarks. On the
plus side, by the end of the season, the three of us wound
up having the best overall bodies on the team, thanks to
our regular workouts at the school gym.

After tenth grade, I decided to try for my GED over the
summer. It took me two attempts, but I eventually passed
and was able to exempt 11th and 12th grade. I went to
Hillsborough Community College in 1970, when I turned 15.
Ginny stuck by me the whole time, and we remained friends
and continued to hang out occasionally. A year later, I
decided to transfer to the University of Texas at Austin,
which is where Rick and Ronnie were going. Once a month,
I'd stay with them over at Uncle Bob's place in Canyon
Lake, just a few miles southwest of Austin, and I spent a
couple of summers out on the ranch as well. As time went
on, the Lannigans and I kind of drifted apart, but we still
kept in touch with each other when we could.

Ginny went to journalism school in Austin, as well. We
continued leaning on each other for a couple of years.
Ginny was there for me when I got dumped by a guy I met at
school. And I was there for her when she had to get an
abortion during her sophomore year. Next to Sky, Pete, and
Ronnie, I think she's the best friend I ever had.

The beach property that Pete left me in his will turned out
to be a bit of a goldmine. I held onto it for about six
years, using it during the summer so I could see my folks
on holidays and on school breaks. When I turned 21 in the
summer of 1976, I could legally sell it. I had an attorney
approach Holiday Inn, and we eventually hammered out a deal
where they agreed to put up $800,000 for the property --
double what it was actually worth. I did it in such a way
that gave all the money to charity -- half for a
scholarship in Pete's name, to the Julliard School of Music
in New York, and half for a football scholarship in Sky's
name, to Florida State University. Their lawyers were
surprised by our offer, but they finally agreed to do it,
if only because of the good publicity and the tax breaks.

Much to everybody's surprise, Ronnie turned into a big,
strapping athlete. Even though I dropped out of swimming
after I left high school in 1970, Ron dove into it with a
vengeance. He managed to qualify for the 1976 Summer
Olympic games in Montreal, and wound up winning the bronze
for Butterfly, which is more than I ever could've done. Me,
Rick, RJ and Uncle Bob were all there when Ronnie stood on
the platform and held his arms up, and it was one of the
proudest moments of my life.

After Ron had a brief stint as a swim coach for the
University of Austin for two years, Rick and RJ dragged him
back into the family business. Partly because of my
prodding, he got them into data and communications in the
late 1970s. Since the early 1990s, Ron's been CEO of
Lannigan Communications, which actually now makes a lot
more money than their Uncle's original oil and natural gas
business ever did.

Around the time Ronnie got involved with swimming, I
decided to transfer out to UCLA in California. I majored in
Philosophy, minored in business, and got my Master's
degree. Naturally, I wound up staying in LA and doing
something that didn't require either skill -- I became an
movie editor, cutting some minor independent and art films.
After a few years, I got lucky and wound up editing three
of the biggest blockbusters of the 1980s, and made enough
money that I could afford to buy a million-dollar beach
house in Malibu -- modest by Hollywood standards, but more
than enough for me.

I have a good life today. I still see Rick and Ronnie on
occasion. Rick is married, has about a half dozen crazy
little red-haired kids, and runs Lannigan Industries out in
Dallas with his cousin RJ. RJ got married, too; he told me
at Christmas a few years ago, "you and me got a God-given
responsibility to keep these big limbs of ours growin' in
the family tree." He encouraged me to do the same, but I'm
still thinking about it.

Unlike his brother Rick, Ron never married. He and I
remained friends, but we each wound up living with other
people. In the early 1980s, I met an entertainment lawyer
from Canada, and one thing lead to another. Even though
he's nine years my senior, we've been very happy together
for almost 20 years now. He makes enough money that I can
pick and choose my film projects without having to worry
about keeping food on the table. I love him with all my
heart.

Ronnie comes out and stays with us whenever he's in LA,
which is usually at least once every couple of months. He's
almost unrecognizable from the curly-headed, red-haired
geek I used to know. Now, he's a whirling business dynamo,
barking orders into cell phones and driving his assistants
crazy. Sometimes he brings along one of his Calvin Klein
underwear models to the house, showing off his latest
"himbo," but most of the time, he visits alone.

Late at night, on those occasions when me and my partner
and Ron sit by the fireplace at the house, I still see that
familiar look in Ronnie's eyes. I know that inside, he's
still the same lovable little klutz I've always known --
even if he is worth a few billion dollars. Ron keeps
offering to buy us a bigger house or give me a job working
for his company, but that's not for me. I kind of like the
way things are.

Ronnie did do one thing for which I'll always be grateful.
After he hit it big around 1994, he expanded the
scholarship funds I'd started to $2,000,000 each. One night
as we were sipping wine at the beach house with my partner,
watching the sun set over the Pacific, Ron told me that if
he could find a way to start a third scholarship just for
gay kids at Tampa Central, he'd do it. I laughed, and told
him I hoped he'd let me in on the selection process on that
one.

Ginny lives up in Oregon now. After I left for UCLA in
1973, she transferred to Columbia University and got her BA
in Journalism. She later went to work as a newspaper
reporter in New York. Ginny spent most of the late 1980s
and early 1990s as the editor of one of those tacky
"Entertainment Week" magazines, then got tired of the whole
rat-race and moved to Portland, where she had some
relatives. She got married and divorced twice, and has two
boys of her own. Ginny named one of them after me, and one
of them after Sky. For the last few years, the three of
them have stayed with us over the summer in Malibu, living
out in the guest house.

Scott Michaels played football for Florida State for a year
or two, but then kind of dropped out of sight. Some friend
of Rick Lannigan's told me he'd heard Scott was doing
minor-league football somewhere in the Midwest, but I never
found out where. I was told that Cynthia married Scott
sometime in the early 1970s, but they divorced a few years
later.

Chuck lost a little weight and started wrestling in his
junior year at Tampa Central. Ginny told me he eventually
managed to parlay that into a career, and is still with the
World Wrestling Federation, working under another name. I
don't know what happened to Tim McMannis or Ben Kingston,
or most of the other people I knew at school.

As for me, I still don't know what lies ahead in the
future. I just try to take things a day at a time. Maybe
Pete will be right -- maybe I'm going to be cursed with a
long life. I think of that line from _Wizard of Oz_, the
one where the witch says, "the last to go will see the
first three die before her!" Maybe that's how it'll be for
me. Or maybe it'll be slow and gradual, and I'll get more
mellow and comfortable in my old age. Either way, I'm glad
I'm not alone.

I had a dream the other night. It was the first time I
could remember what either Sky or Pete looked like without
having to see a photograph, after all these years. The
three of us were all teenagers again, together in a hot
shower at school, and the steam was as dense as fog. Each
of us was naked, soaking wet, and rubbing soap on our
bodies. And we were smiling at each other.



                    # # # # # # # # # #



-----------------------------------------------------------
Afterward

I want to sincerely thank those of you who took the time to
send in accolades and criticisms via E-mail - over 200
comments just four weeks after the story was originally
posted in early April of 2001, and virtually all of them
overwhelmingly positive. Given that this was the very first
bit of fiction I've ever attempted, it's been quite a
roller-coaster ride.

Many people have asked me how much of this story is true.
Let's just say that more than half of it was based on
things that really happened to me, perhaps cranked up and
exaggerated just a bit. The rest were dramatizations of
what could have happened, if things had gone just a little
differently. The main characters were combinations of real
people I actually knew, and most of the places described -
save for the fictional Tampa Central High School and the
Clearwater Beach Marriott Hotel - really existed in that
era. Some of the individuals' names were real, but they've
been attached to characters that had nothing to do with
them. Nobody died in my real-life experience, nor were
there any other violent incidents similar to those depicted
in the story. And Wil got a lot more sex than I ever did,
dammit.

I want to dedicate the story to my real-life partner for
the last 19 years, Roddy. I never could've made it without
you, babe. Maybe someday, in another life, we can come back
as Wil and Sky, for real.

I'd like to thank several of the many writers who have
contributed to the ASSGM and Nifty sites and fiction
newsgroups over the years: Savoir-Faire, Comicality,
JTMichcock, Mikey Mark, David Lemmaire, Dewey2K, Awrt96,
Exmon, VT Kid, and Ricardo Cabeza, who have all done some
terrific work and inspired me to try my hand at doing the
same thing. Thanks for many hours of entertainment, guys.

Thanks also to Greywolf the Wanderer, Ole, AC, Gep2, and
CouCou for giving me some important feedback that helped me
open my eyes and solve some minor story issues and fix some
errors for this revised version.

I also want to acknowledge the creators behind the Showtime
TV series _Queer As Folk_, which is one of the most
remarkable shows I've seen in a very long time. It made me
think a lot about my own life over the last few years, and
gave me some of the impetus to knock out this story.
Sincere thanks to Ron Cowen, Daniel Lipman, Tony Jonas, and
Russell Davies, for doing an amazing job, week after week.

Finally, I want to also mention a few real people who were
important to me during my life, who aren't around to read
this story today: Richard "Great Rich" Small, Rick Chace,
Andy Cleland, and Fred Chriss. I miss each of you and
think of you often. (No, none of their names or characters
are in this story. Not this time, anyway.)

Thanks much for reading, and please keep the E-mails
coming.

--Pecman
thepecman@yahoo.com

5 May 2001
Los Angeles, CA
-----------------------------------------------------------



The author gratefully acknowledges the following publishers
and songwriters of the songs and lyrics mentioned or
performed in this novel:

"Groovy Kind of Love"
music & lyrics by Toni Wine and Carole Bayer Sager
(c)1966 Screen Gems-EMI Music, Inc. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"Mony Mony"
words & music by Tommy James, Bobby Bloom, Ritchie Cordell,
and Bo Gentry
(c)1967 by EMI Longitude Music. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"My Girl"
words & music by William "Smokey" Robinson & Ronald White
(c)1965 by Jobete Music Co., Inc. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"Wouldn't It Be Nice"
music and lyrics by Brian Wilson and Tony Asher
(c)1965 Irving Music, Inc. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"Ticket to Ride"
music and lyrics by John Lennon & Paul McCartney
(c)1965 by Sony/ATV Music, Inc.
Published by Northern Songs, Ltd. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"Hello, I Love You"
music and lyrics by Bobby Krieger, Ray Manzarek, Jim
Morrison, and John Densmore
(c)Doors Music Co., Inc. (ASCAP)
All rights reserved.

"Hello Goodbye"
music & lyrics by John Lennon & Paul McCartney
(c)1966 by Sony/ATV Music, Inc.
Published by Northern Songs, Ltd. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"The Ballad of John & Yoko"
music and lyrics by John Lennon and Paul McCartney
(c)1966 by Sony/ATV Music, Inc.
Published by Northern Songs, Ltd. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"He Said, She Said"
music and lyrics by John Lennon and Paul McCartney
(c)1966 by Sony/ATV Music, Inc.
Published by Northern Songs, Ltd. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"Revolution"
music & lyrics by John Lennon & Paul McCartney
(c)1968 by Sony/ATV Music, Inc.
Published by Northern Songs, Ltd. (BMI)
All rights reserved.

"Dizzy"
music & lyrics by Tommy Roe and Freddy Weller
(c)1969 Young World Music, Inc. (BMI)
All rights reserved.


-----------------------------------------------------------

Fifth draft - 5 May 2001

(c) 2001 by John Francis.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced
in any form or by any means without the prior written
consent of the author, excerpting brief quotes used in
reviews. This is a work of fiction. No resemblance to any
persons, living or dead, is intended or should be inferred.

-----------------------------------------------------------