Date: Sat, 5 Aug 2006 19:12:24 +1200
From: Kiwi
Subject: Jason and Jordan's tale - 2

Hey, welcome to the Westpoint Tales - a series of stories set in a small
New Zealand town over a time-span of 150 years.(This one's in 2005.)

All the usual disclaimers apply - this is Nifty. If you shouldn't be
reading this, then don't and what are you doing here anyway?


Jason and Jordan's tale - 2


He sat on the wooden garden edging, enjoying the peace and quiet, (apart
from the sounds of the traffic outside the high, wooden fence), and idly
plucking a few weeds from the warm soil.

"What's up with you then?" Jordan's older brother stood looking down at
him, hands on his hips, legs firmly planted apart and a question in his
eyes.

"What do you mean, what's up with me? Nothing." Jordan replied, looking
back down at the garden.

"Dad said I should come out here and talk to you. I don't know what's going
on. Is it about Phillip White? I'm sorry about that by the way."

"You are? That surprises me. I didn't think you even liked Pip."

"I didn't much, but I didn't dislike him. He was okay, for a snot-nosed
kid. It's a shame that he's dead. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"No, it sucks. But that's not what I have to talk to you about."

"So there is something. What then? What could be bigger than Phillip's
dying?"

"I'm gay, Michael."

Jordan held his breath as he waited, but, again, there was no
explosion. Michael exhaled noisily, like he'd been punched, and he sat down
next to him.

"Whoah. Heavy. You sure?"

"Of course I'm bloody sure! I wouldn't be telling you if I wasn't, would
I?"

"Okay, okay. Settle down, Little Brother. Or, should that be Little Sister
now?" Michael grinned.

"What? No! I'm not a girl, I'm a boy. Nothing's changed."

"Again, okay. Don't get angry at me, Bro. It's not my fault you know."

"All right, I'm sorry," Jordan sighed. "It's not my fault either. It's just
the way it is.  Thanks, you're taking this much better than I thought you
would."

"Hey. Whatever floats your boat, Little Brother. It's none of my business,
but if anyone starts giving you grief about it, let me know and I'll make
it my business. Okay?"

"Wow. Thanks Michael. I, umm, I do love you, you know." At the odd look he
got from his brother, he hastened to add. "But not in a gay way, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," Michael smiled. "I love you too, as a brother. Now stand up
and give me a hug and then we'll talk about something else."

"A hug? You? Are you sure? Are you feeling sick?"

"No, I'm not feeling sick, I just want to hug my brother. I'm not gay, but
I do love you, Jordie. Less competition for me too, you can have the boys
and I'll take the girls. Now stand up and hug me or I'll smack you one."

"All right!" Jordan rose up and clung tightly to his brother's broad
chest. "Thanks, Michael. You're the coolest big brother and I love you."

"I love you too," Michael hugged him back. "And I think you're bloody
brave. I meant what I said. I'll fight for you, Jordie. I'm on your side,
don't ever forget that."

"I won't. Thanks Mickey, I'm on your side too."

"Yeah. You can bitch-slap them." Michael pushed him away, then, still
grinning, cuffed him on the head. "And don't call me Mickey. My name's
Michael, or Sir to you."

"Okay, Sir Mickey, whatever you say," Jordan grinned back.

They exchanged a few more words, and then Michael went back inside leaving
Jordan sitting there alone again. He felt much better now, that had gone
really well. He'd lost a friend but, somehow, he felt that he'd gained a
brother. Michael was not so bad. Actually, he'd said that he wasn't that
surprised to hear the Jordan was gay. He'd always wondered, now he
knew. Everything was cool.

And then it wasn't. Jordan decided that as everything had gone so well, he
might as well finish the job and tell the last member of his family. He
went into the bedroom and told Sean that he was gay.

Sean was not okay with it. Sean was mad, he was really angry and he was
practically spitting sparks at him. "You dirty bastard! You dirty fucking
arse-bandit. You stay the hell away from me. If you touch me - if you even
think about touching me -"

"I wouldn't touch you with a forty-foot pole."

"You try it and I'll shove a forty-foot pole up your arse. Or maybe you'd
like that? I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you if you come anywhere near
me. Dirty bastard."

"Sean, settle down. No-one's going to touch you. We need to talk about
this."

"Fuck you, Jordan Taylor. Or, actually - not. I don't want to talk about
it. I don't want to talk to you ever again. Stay the hell away from
me. Faggot!"

"No problems, Dickwad."

Jordan sat down and continued unpacking his boxes. That exchange stung,
but, whatever.  You win some, you lose some. Sean would come around, when
he calmed down. And if he didn't? Well, too bad. Good practice he
supposed. He wasn't going to hide who he was anymore and if people couldn't
handle it, well tough. Not his problem.

At dinnertime they ate a meal of take-aways from the shop. They would NOT
be making a habit of that, but just for tonight, it was easiest. Sean and
Jordan sat on opposite sides of the table and ignored each other. If that
was the way it was going to be, well, whatever.

After cleaning up, Jordan watched TV for a bit, then showered and went to
bed. It had been a big day. He was surprised to find that the bedroom had
been neatly divided in two.  Someone, presumably Sean, had nailed up a
length of clothes line rope and pegged up some sheets to make a flimsy wall
between the two single beds.

"Good job," Jordan said aloud. "Now I don't have to look at the bigot."

The only answer was a snort from the other side of the sheets.

He passed a long and largely sleepless night. When he did sleep, he dreamed
about Pip and all the other friends they'd left behind, and he woke up
crying each time.

Early next morning he got up, dressed, and went back to sit down by the
water in the lagoon. That could easily become his favorite place. After a
while there, however, he stood and went back home. He hadn't brought a
jacket and it was getting cold and looked like it was going to rain.

Sean was out in the street, kicking a ball around with a couple of other
kids. He ignored him but was secretly pleased that his little brother
seemed to be making some new friends already. ('Yay for him.') He didn't
want to join them, he probably wouldn't be welcome anyway.

After eating some breakfast, he showered again , dressed in his best
clothes and went out to find a church - any church. It was Wednesday
morning, but somewhere should be open. If he couldn't get to Pip's funeral,
at least he could be here, thinking about him.

Up the main street, he saw the sign pointing to the information centre, and
went around there to ask about a church. He didn't have to ask as he saw an
old wooden church up the road, on the corner of the next block along, so he
walked along there. The place was deserted but the big double doors at the
front were wide open, so he wandered in and took a seat. The town clock
struck 11am., and Jordan began to cry, again.

He was still sitting there thinking and crying when the clock rang out 12
midday. The funeral service would probably be over by now, then they'd go
and bury Pip in the cold, hard, ground. Forever. It was just SO sad. 'Wait
for me?' This time he'd gone first. He'd gone early - far too early. Damn!

"Hello, Son."

Jordan nearly jumped out of his skin at the quiet voice beside him. He
looked around at the elderly priest standing in the aisle next to him. He
hadn't heard him come in.

"Sorry, Lad. I didn't mean to startle you. What's the matter? Do you want
to talk?"

"No. I, umm. I'm sorry, I'm not a catholic you know."

"That's all right, Lad. I just see someone who's obviously upset. I don't
care whether you're a catholic or not."

"But, I shouldn't be in here. This is a catholic church."

"Yes it is, and the doors are wide open. Anyone's welcome to come in for a
visit. So, what's wrong? Do you want to talk about it?"

"Would you still want to talk to me if you knew that I'm gay?"

"I don't see why not. Is that your problem, that you're gay?"

"No. That's not a problem at all, not for me."

"Good for you. What is it then?"

"My friend died. He wasn't gay, he was just my friend. He was fifteen and
now he's dead, in a motorbike accident. They're burying him right now, back
in our hometown and I wish I was there for him."

"Of course you do. Fifteen, that's really tragic. Look lad, what is your
name?"

"Jordan. I'm Jordan Taylor. My family has just moved here to Westpoint and
I can't be at my friend's funeral."

"Well Jordan, you are with him in spirit and that's what is important. If
your friend can see you, I'm sure that he'll understand."

"If he can see me? Don't you know?"

"No I don't. Not for sure." the priest looked ahead and nodded at a statue
up at the front of the church. "There's only one person that I know of who
came back from the dead, and he didn't tell us what it's like there. My
name is Father John. You can call me Jack if you like."

"Okay then. Thanks - Jack. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, Jordan. I'm sorry about your friend. What was he
like?"

He spent the next half hour talking to the priest. He was a nice old guy
and Jordan felt much better by the time he left the church. He thought that
all Christians hated gayboys?  Not all of them, apparently. The subject
didn't come up at all. They just talked about Pip and life and stuff.

Back out in the street, it was raining. "Great."

And, he didn't have a jacket. "Great, great and double great."

Jordan ran back up to the main street where the overhanging verandahs
sheltered the sidewalks from the elements. While he stood there, waiting,
outside the music shop, a kid walked past. Jordan looked at him and
thought, 'Awww!'

It wasn't that he was cute, though he was, kind of. It was just that the
kid looked so sad.  Sad and lost and alone. But you can't just walk up to
strangers in the street and give them a hug. Not even if you want to, even
if you can see that they need it. Bugg'rit.

The kid's sad eyes looked at Jordan, then quickly slid away when he smiled
back at him.  He kept walking and was soon out of sight on the crowded
sidewalk. Bugger.  He wondered what had happened to make a kid look so
miserable.

Oh well, he probably didn't look that joyful himself - because he
wasn't. He didn't feel as miserable as that boy looked though. There's
always someone worse off. Poor little bugger. Jordan sighed, he'd never
know.

The boy wasn't that little, he was probably somewhere around Jordan's age
and he was probably just as tall, if he straightened up. But he was hunched
over, and sad, and alone.  'Awww.'

The boy's clothes were ordinary - low-slung baggy blue jeans, blue t-shirt
and open black jacket. He had some sort of sneakers on his sockless feet
and a dark-coloured beanie on his head. Strands of, ordinary, dark-brown,
longish, hair stuck out below the beanie. His smooth skin was pale and had
a few spots here and there, and he was a bit overweight.  The only thing
that was different about him was the thick, round-lensed glasses that
magnified his red-rimmed, brown eyes. That and the air of sadness about
him.

Jordan felt sorry for him, but he guessed that he'd never know why.

A couple of girls walked past. They looked him up and down and smiled at
him. He just nodded at them and looked away. He wasn't very interested. He
never was.

The rain stopped and the sun came out instantly. That was much better. Now
everything sparkled in the sunshine, like a million tiny diamonds had been
scattered along the street.  Jordan looked up and down the sidewalk, then
started walking in the opposite direction to home. He'd have to go back
eventually, but he couldn't be bothered with Sean's amateur dramatics at
the moment.

A couple of blocks along, he passed the supermarket. In the busy carpark
outside, people were smiling and chatting to their neighbours as they
loaded the groceries into their cars in the sunshine.

Would he ever really feel at home in this town? It would be nice not to
feel such an outsider. How did that song go? Something about a street where
old friends meet and greet you in the same old way.

Yeah, that'd be nice. Trouble was, he didn't have any old friends, not in
this little street.

'Oh well, it can only get better from here, Pip.'

Across the intersection at the end of the block, on the opposite corner,
was the St.John's Theatre. ('Yes! Movies. Coolness.') He crossed over to
check out the coming attractions.

Up the side street, next to the big blank wall of the cinema, was one of
those old people's mobility scooters, just sitting there - immobile. It had
one of the crazy little flags on a fibreglass pole, the carrier tray was
loaded with supermarket bags and there was a really little, frail-looking,
white-haired lady standing next to it.

She did not look happy. She looked as miserable as he felt. He'd never done
anything like this before, but he couldn't resist it. He wanted to help.

"Hello," he said, putting on a smile as he walked up to her. "Having
trouble?"

Her serious little face looked back at him, and she shrugged. "Fucking
thing's broken down again. I'd be better off with a push-bike."

'Whoa!' Jordan thought. 'They don't make little old ladies like they used
to.'

Aloud, he said, "Can I help?"

She fixed him with her steely gray eyes. "Why? What's it to you?"

"Because." He felt awkward under the stare, his voice struggled. This was
one hard little old lady. "Because it's right. It's the right thing to
do. If I was having trouble, I'd want someone . . ."

"Her eyes, her face, softened as she smiled."Good answer. Good boy. You
can't fix it - it'll be the battery. I keep forgetting to charge the
blasted thing. If you really want to help, you can help me push it
home. It's not far, just up the road a bit."

"Sure," Jordan grinned. "We can do that. We should go before the rain
starts again."

"We surely should. You push at the back and I'll steer it."

They pushed it along for a few meters. It was really hard going. Jordan
raised his head and looked at the controls at the front. Then he stopped,
straightened up and stepped forward to put the scooter out of gear. With
the lever in "neutral", he started pushing again. Now the scooter rolled
really easily, too easily. The old lady was having trouble keeping up the
pace.

He stopped again and she looked back at him. "Sorry. The old legs are not
what they used to be. Which is why they bought me this blasted thing in the
first place."

"Look ma'am, it's really easy pushing now and there's no hills or anything,
it would be better if you just sit on it and steer and I'll push."

"You sure? Okay then, we'll try that. Stop if it gets too hard."

She sat on the seat and took the handlebars and he started going again,
really easily still.  The lady's little weight made no difference at all.

"So boy, my name is Doris Metcalf. What is your name and what are you doing
in Westpoint? I haven't seen you around, I'm sure that I'd remember a fine
young man like you. Are you on holiday?"

"No ma'am. Well, yes I am on holiday, but I'll be starting school next
week. We, my family and I, have just moved here. My name's Jordan Taylor."

"Nice to meet you Jordan Taylor. What does your daddy do?"

"He, umm. My parents have bought the corner shop at the top end of the main
street.  They used to live here when they were kids, my mum was a Jenkins."

"The old Top Shop eh? That used to be a good business. It's a bit run-down
and tatty now. They're going to fix it up are they?"

"Yes. I think they hope to."

"I hope that they do. Your mum's a Jenkins girl? Would her first name be
June?"

"Yes it is. June Jenkins, she was."

"Oh," she laughed. "I could tell you some stories about her, but I'd better
not. You tell your mum that Doris Metcalf said welcome home and tell her
that she's doing a fine job of being a mother."

"Thanks." He dropped his head and kept pushing. His face was as red as a
tail-light now.  As they rolled along the sidewalk, several cars tooted and
the occupants smiled and waved as they drove past.

"Hah. Look at them. Fat lot of help they are," the old lady snorted
derisively.

"I'm sure someone would have stopped, Mrs. Metcalf."

"Someone did Jordan. All my friends and neighbours drive on by but you
stopped to help me. You're a good boy Jordan Taylor, I won't forget this."

"It's no trouble, Mrs. Metcalf. Really it's not."

"Shut up and push, Jordan."

"Yes ma'am."


Author's Note : Any comments, questions, criticisms etc., please e-mail me
at canned-heat@hotmail.com

I love getting feedback. If you want to see more - go to It's Only Me from
Across the Sea (http://iomfats.org) Stories by Kiwi.

And be sure to look around while you're there, there are some great stories
there.