TRANSPORT
by Zipper Bird <xgort@yahoo.com>

FORWARD

There's no sex in this story. I'm sure you can relate though,
because unrequited love is far more common than other forms. This
story, unlike my others, is all true. Want more sex? Go to the
authors page and follow a link to my other stories.
-------------

The sky over Binghamton is black and I look up to see if I can
find the moon, hidden behind thick clouds, but it is not even a
dull glow in the opaque night. As I set out from the warmth of
the library, walking fast, to be assured of being early enough to
get a place on the bus, the frigid moisture-laden air blowing
across campus makes my neck cold. It is ten degrees below zero,
and windy! I shiver and pull my collar points together, holding
them in front of my chin with one hand. "I should have worn a
damn scarf," I think to myself as the cold wind bites my neck.

The street lamp near the student union is out. If it weren't for
the light shining from the front door of the building, I wouldn't
be able to see the three busses lined up at the side. I have bad
night vision. I should eat more carrots.

The city bus stops running at 7:00 PM. These are college-run
busses, driven by students. They go to nearby Johnson City,
Binghamton and Endicott, neighborhoods where students live.
Ordinarily, I would never stay until 9:45 PM in the library. It
is winter finals week and everyone is studying furiously. I spend
most of the evening trying to find books for a German history
paper. My planned topic is "Gypsies in the Holocaust" but it
changes due to availability of books.

Instead, I decide I'm going to write about Hitler's relationship
with his niece Geli Raubal. They probably had an affair. It is
just like me to have the intention of doing serious scholarship
but end up delving into conjecture and quirks. At least I'll get
to mention the rumor about Hitler's supposed monocryptorchidism -
- having one testicle. Maybe I'll conclude that it is the reason
for Geli's suicide.

"Where's the other one!" she screams, and ends up taking an
overdose of sleeping pills that very night.

Maybe I shouldn't make their relationship the central topic of
the paper but concentrate on the theme "Hitler's ball" and how it
leads him to genocide. He can't draw a human figure, because his
own body is not whole. A simple prosthetic testicle would have
gained him entrance to the Vienna Art Academy and spared the
lives of millions. Anne Frank would be alive and known as the
Voltaire of Holland. Art schools should have open admissions.
Everyone who wants to be a painter, should be one.

I have a legitimate reason for this topic choice; all the books
that mention gypsies in the holocaust are checked out. Perhaps
dealing with Hitler trivia is more down my alley anyway. I find
only one book though, with a thin chapter devoted to Geli's
relationship with Uncle Adie. I'll have to fabricate my other
sources for the footnotes, making titles up in German, since I
don't think the teaching assistant who grades the papers knows
German very well. I'll tell him I belong to a German book club --
a Book-of-the Month Club about Hitler's peccadillos and
proclivities. It'll be okay, everyone likes sex. Sex sells.

Already there are about 25 people on the bus but I get an aisle
seat near the back. It is almost too dark to see the girl sitting
next to me. She is wearing a snorkel coat with the hood on.
Everyone is too cold to talk, just waiting for the bus to fill up
and go.

It's times like these when students at Cornell jump into the
gorge, but this is Harpur College, and most students feel a
little less pressure about finals.

I think about Anne Frank eating rotten potatoes and fighting with
Mrs. VanDam. I see her starving and ill in the concentration
camp, her eyes luminous with intelligence, as in her school
photographs, and then resigning herself to death with the hope of
an afterlife. Such thoughts make me feel calm, and lucky to be
facing a crowded bus ride back to a warm apartment, not several
days to a death camp. This thought also calms my anxiety about
writing a stupid paper. So I have to fabricate a few sources, so
what.

I shift my thoughts to plans of what to say if teacher confronts
me on my sources. "Okay, I made it all up," I'll say. "I can't
fathom the reality and horror of the Holocaust at this point in
my life -- I can't even get laid." Well, I probably won't say
that.

I'll fix myself an egg when I get back to the apartment. That's
what I'll do. I wish I could fix an egg for Anne.

Students file on the bus in a steady stream now and I wonder if
they're going to turn anyone away. I don't see how they could. It
is too cold out. Many people have no other way of getting home
since this is the last bus.

A lighter thought comes to mind, of college students of
yesteryear cramming into phone booths. Of course, they did that
for fun, not to get to a phone. I wonder if any of them near the
back or bottom of the booth were suddenly gripped by sheer
terror. Usually the thought of being crushed up against other
people on a bus ride is unpleasant but tonight I look forward to
the body warmth and can hardly wait until they all get in and the
door is shut.

The amiable student driver gets up and shouts "Okay people, move
it on back, we got a lot of guys to fit on still."

People groan at the inconvenience. With all of the seats filled
and the aisle filled too, the students begin to double up the
line in the aisle. It's the only way to fit this many people on a
bus.

"This transport must be filled to capacity," I imagine a phantom
voice say in German. I feel increasingly lucky to have a seat as
people crush past me filling every available inch of standing
room. I notice a person oozing toward me who looks like Barry,
although it is dark and I'm not sure. I know Barry's name but he
doesn't know mine. Usually Barry drives a bus, but tonight he is
on as a rider, just another regular student.

I have had a mild crush on Barry for a year, although he isn't in
any of my classes, and I can't believe he is being squeezed
closer to me and that he is going to end up right next to me. He
does. In fact he is pressing against me and as the bus starts to
move, he grabs on to the back of my seat and leans over me. He is
practically covering me. His leather jacket is open and I am
inside it. My head brushes his chest as the bus jerks and jolts
its way down campus drive.

The street lights provide an intermittent source of unearthly
yellowish light and as the bus passes under one, I turn my head
to look at Barry's torso, which is inches from my face. Of all
the 5000 students on the Binghamton campus, there are only about
five I'd want to be this close to, and Barry is on the top of the
list.

I am facing Barry's full crotch, packed in the jeans he always
wears. I breath deep slow draughts of air and feel the warmth of
his breath mixed with the smell of his leather bomber jacket.

My thoughts drift back to the previous summer when I saw Barry
nude. Bob, a straight friend who seems gay, and I camp out at
Lake Empire for a week. Bob reads a lot, has an excellent mind,
and loves to argue. The lake is in a remote area, 30 miles from
Binghamton, and it is owned by the college. Most of the students
don't wear clothes at the lake, at least while sun bathing or
swimming. The surroundings are lush and secluded, miles from the
nearest house. It's a bit awkward seeing people you know, nude,
but it is also liberating. Americans are uptight about nudity but
we are students, more liberal and open than most, and among each
other, willing to be natural. Plus we like to see naked bodies
and swim without anything between water and skin.

Bob and I stay up late on Friday night drinking beer, playing
cards in the tent by the light of a lantern with Meg and Niki,
two girls we know from school. We argue whether Gore Vidal is a
great writer. Bob thinks he is. I ask what is his great work, his
L'Etranger, his Tom Sawyer. Bob says it is yet to come. Yeah,
"Myronia Breckenridge III."

The next morning, we drive into Owego for breakfast. When we get
back to our tent and begin spreading the blanket on the lawn, I
notice Barry is near the water, sitting on the grass, playing
cat's cradle with a guy -- probably his cousin I figure.

I know Barry only from seeing him on campus, and that he drives
the campus bus a few nights a week. I get to say "hi" to him on
the night I stay late for orchestra practice. He says "hi" to all
the passengers as they get on the bus. All the drivers do. I sit
in the front seat, behind and across from him and watch him as he
caresses the steering wheel, shifts gears, spreading his legs to
depress the clutch and brake. He is beautiful driving the bus. I
like studying his profile and looking at his body. I fall in love
with him because of his looks and the way he moves, when
standing, when walking, when driving the bus. He is second only
to my cat in the beauty of his movements. My cat sleeps on my
pillow, probably waiting to get old enough to suck the breath out
of me.

I ask a few gay guys about Barry, if he "is," and they say he
"isn't" and that he has a girl friend, but I've only seen her a
few times.

Men are presumed straight until proven gayuity.

I assume he is straight though. I assume I will never be able to
make small talk with him nor will I ever get closer to him than
when I am a passenger on a bus he is driving. With women
especially, I can be witty and charming but my infatuation for
Barry has left me permanently tongue tied in his presence.

At Lake Empire, I lament not having better vision, or maybe
binoculars, although they are frowned upon. Certainly, I would be
willing to hide behind a bush with them to get a better view of
the parts of Barry that I had heretofore only imagined. However,
when he stands up to leave, he turns around to pick up his
clothes and I am awestruck at seeing his whole body. He has a lot
of body hair and the best pubic hair I have ever seen. It is
thick, lush, like the surrounding forest, and it extends to his
navel, as the trees on the other side of the lake grow to the
water's edge. His dick is very long and beautiful.

Barry is Jewish. Had he been born in Germany in the 30's, he
could have died in a gas chamber, joining the likes of Anne
Frank. All gay people love Anne Frank and mourn her death. She,
like us, was trapped, but she made the best of it, facing her
circumstances with dignity, something we all must do. And, after
all, being gay in this age is not like being Jewish in a Nazi
occupied territory during WWII.

Now Barry's Jewish orchids are inches from my face, in jeans
though, and it is a sublime moment in my life and I am fully
aware of it. My head is inside his parted jacket near his chest.
He doesn't seem uncomfortable in this position. I think he likes
me, or knows I like him and doesn't mind it. It is possible he is
not aware of me. This thought occurs to me but seems unlikely. I
enter a dreamy state bordering on ecstasy. I forget my paper, the
Holocaust, Anne Frank, a hungry kitty waiting for me at home. I
get on the bus expecting another mundane bus ride and instead
reality has turned into a sensual dream. What should I do though.
I know what I would like to do. I am too afraid to reach out and
place my hand on his inner thigh or touch his nipple as I would
like. And I know I will think of doing this over and over, and
other more sexual things too, when I get home.

I hope that through mental telepathy or sheer atomic vibration,
he will sense what I am feeling, and respond. As we cross the
bridge to Johnson City I realize my stop is coming up soon. I
don't want it to end but a few people get off and the aisle is no
longer as crowded. Barry stands upright, no longer bending over
me. I decide to skip my stop and get off where Barry gets off,
but I'm uncertain where that will be. The bus goes by my stop. I
feel funny, not getting off there as I always do. I am not going
where I thought I was at all. Fortunately, his stop is only about
12 blocks farther and I get off the bus and stand by the curb
under a street lamp, as if I am waiting for a ride.

I have to walk left, as he goes right. I stand there and watch
him walk down the street. I watch as his figure fades in the
distance. He doesn't look back.

END