Date: Sat, 30 Sep 2000 19:53:12 +0800 (WST)
From: Christ Sol <webtrash@unpunk.com>
Subject: trapped part 7

Trapped part VII


-=-

It's been a while. Let's see if I can pick up where I left off.

DISCLAIMER: Contains drug refs, violence and adult themes, as well as
male/male sex. Don't like it, piss off.

-=-

Chapter 7.


The bowling alley was crowded, but I knew the guys at the counter and
managed to get a lane pretty quickly. We grabbed our dinner and headed
down to pick our shoes.

Ryan glanced over at Snowy's feet.
"Whoa - big feet. Hey Trent, you know what they say about shoe size-"

He ducked as well aimed potato wedge flew towards his grinning face.
"Behave."

I pulled on my bowling shoes. Who thought of bowling shoes? Who was the
guy who thought "This game isn't nerdy enough - let's make a type of relly
stupid-looking shoes to really push the envelope. What a great idea!"

"Besides, that's a load of bullshit. I mean, YOU have a really big feet
Ryan, and -"
"Finish that sentence and I kick yo' ass, niggah!"
The three of us laughed.  I selected a lightweight ball and headed down to
the enter our names into the scoring system. For some reason, we always
used the names of infamous political leaders. Tonight, I was Lenin, and
Ryan was JFK. We motioned for Martin to take part in our tradition. He
thought for a moment, then bent over the keypad.

Ryan raised an eyebrow.
"Marx? You're calling yourself fucking Marx? Communists, yer fuckin'
everywhere!"
Snowy grinned and winked at me, as I relaxed back in the cool vinyl seat,
throwing the only Karl Marx quote I know:

"All I know is that I am not a Marxist. Karl Marx."
"Figures."
"You're first."

Ryan padded down the alley to the line and threw a near-perfect ball. A
tiny bump on the surface wrecked his shot and he scored a three.

"That beeatch!"

I laughed and wiped the grease from my fingers.
"This bowling alley really hates you, doesn't it man?"

Martin climbed to his feet and grabbed the ball from the receptacle. I
smiled and watched him. He was wearing a tight-fitting polo shirt and I
could see almost every tendon and sinew move under neath the fabric. He
moved like a panther, skulking down to the line and easing the ball down
the centre. Halfway down it lost power and dipped to the left. Gutterball.

He threw up his hands in self-disgust and muttered something
incomprehensible under his breath,  stalking back over to where we were
seated.

"Did I mention how much I SUCK at this game?"
I just smiled. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone dressed in red
and blue as they double-struck out. Not bad. I took my ball and lined up
my forearm with the center pin. Thump thump thump thump clank
rollllllllllllll CRASH. Strike.  Sure, the game's dumb but I still like
winning. Maybe I'm more competitive than I let on.


Eight more rounds later, we were approaching the end of the game. I had
emerged victorious and, in spite of my shaky legs and spinning head, come
close to my personal record. I looked over to see who was scoring so well
on Lane 4. I'm not quite sure whether or not somebody tipped a bucket of
iced water over me at that point, but it sure felt like it.

It was Kevin Mitchell. He looked me in the eye and walked down the lanes
to me.


He was less than four feet from me when I first smelt the bourbon on his
breath. He gave me a lopsided grin and lazily motioned towards our lane
with his head.

"Do you fuck like you bowl?"

I raised an eyebrow. This guy had written Harpoon, Love at Last, and Star
Machine, yet managed to almost disturb me with the worst pick-up line I
had ever heard.  But this was Kevin. Kevin Mitchell. K. e. v. i. n. The
guy from Jebz.

"Who wants to know?", I replied, flashing him my most winning grin.

He giggled and touched my face, in the same place that Martin had not
three hours earlier.

"You're pretty cute, buddy. What's your name, I'm-"
"Kevin. Kevin Mitchell. Brother of Brett, frontman of Jebediah. I'm
Trent. You can call me spoken for."

I glanced over to Snowy for support, but it was more out of shock for what
I just said. I was stunned at myself. I looked back to Kevin, who just
smiled and shrugged.

"If you ever wanna hang out sometime, you know where to find me. Lucky
Lane number four. Catch you later, man." But his voice had lost it's
flirtatious tone. And with a final grin, he wandered back down to his
lane. I followed him all the way back. Vanessa was there, cleaning some
other chick's tonsils. Chris was staring at the scores in disgust. Brett
was smiling and polishing a bottle of Cougar with the fabric of his
armbrace.


Ryan grabbed me and spun me around.
"OK, who are you, and what did you do with Trent?"

I just shook my head, my mouth open.
"What are you, crazy?"

I didn't reply. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. It would certainly explain a
lot. Ryan just shook his head at me in disbelief and picked up his
drink. Snowy had gone to get a printed scoresheet. For the time being, I
was left alone with my thoughts.


"You can call me spoken for."

A trade-off. The love of my life, or the guy who chases a funny leather
ball around a dirt field to pass the time. A guy who wears sky blue cargo
pants with a red Kenji Urban shirt, or the boy-next-door,
footy-shorts-and-tanktop neighbourhood nice-guy. The answer was clear. My
heart had spoken. Snowy came back, looking down as he folded the
scoresheet up and slid it into his back pocket. He looked up and caught me
staring at him, confused and forlorn.

Had I made the right choice? Was this The Guy? And where had my heroin
cravings gone?


<To Be Continued>