Date: Fri, 15 Apr 2005 14:56:34 +0000
From: M Williams <kollegekid54321@hotmail.com>
Subject: Living with a Past - Chapter 2

- DISCLAIMER - The following story, novel, or chapter
contains homosexual themes and is not intended for anyone
under the legal viewing age - If depictions of homosexual
activities disturb you - Do Not Continue To Read This Story
- Feedback appreciated

Copyright - 2005 - Max Williams
(Kollegekid54321@hotmail.com)

Chapter 2

     Jason sped pleasantly enough down Montgomery Ave, the
main street of Capetown.  The entire village was a grid of
tightly woven well treed old-growth suburbs squeezed between
Montgomery Ave and the waterfront of Lake Erie, most of the
frontage to which was within the boundaries of Capetown Park
& Beach.  As such, Montgomery Ave was a beautiful, walk-able
street packed with a few large general stores and a million
little ones.  At the end of Montgomery, the street
culminated, with a few others, in a wide, lushly planted
traffic circle that overlooked the park, and from the circle
only one industrial-looking four lane road continued along
the waterfront through the scores of later mid-40's and 50's
ranch and cape cod tract houses that eventually blended into
the denser environment that was Cape City.
     Capetown, specifically Montgomery Avenue, now that
Justin looked at it through his sunglasses, was actually
kind of a tourist trap - anyone that came to Cape City
looking for local places to eat and a nice park to see the
lake from would invariably wind up at Capetown, mingling
with all the confirmed residents that also enjoyed the
thriving village.  Granted, property values dropped once you
got a few blocks away from the main drag, and Jason knew
that if his house was worth what it would be if it was in
any way overlooking the lake, his relatively hand-to-mouth
family wouldn't be living there.  A sham, he thought, but
what a sham.  At least when this sham is said and done, we
get something good at a price we can afford.  He laughed to
himself as he reached the end of Montgomery Ave and eased
into the traffic circle, and then eased out of it again and
was off like a shot down the 40 mile-an-hour roadway to
school.
     Jason Colby was an easygoing guy.  The things that had
bothered him that morning were resolutely pushed to the back
of his mind, and he knew that he had a day of school to look
forward to.  With the sun shining and the remaining snow
melting off the ground, Jason knew that soon soccer season
would begin outside and replace the void that had been left
after hockey season ended the month before.  More
immediately, he had to worry about his Spanish, English,
Social Studies, and Government classes, then Lunch, Music
and Gym on every other day, Math, and a free period that he
usually spent either in the gym working out with his
teammates or behind the gym making out with Meghan.
      He smiled to himself as he eased his car into the
crowded parking lot and tried to find a parking spot,
because he was thinking about what a great day it was going
to be.  Not that he particularly enjoyed any class that
didn't allow him to be physical, but he was doing alright in
most of them, had most of his homework, and just plain liked
days when he didn't have to worry about that kind of crap.
The only thing that might possibly ruin it all was Music the
dreaded class where he had no friends and was often lost.
As a child, Jason had learned the guitar from his father,
and had clung to that through the years, although he'd never
really played too well.  Because of that, he was
entirely gung-ho about signing up for music lessons to
really develop his guitar playing when he was offered the
chance the year before.  However, what was ambiguously
labeled as `Music' on the schedule turned out to be `Music
Theory' once he began going at the start of his senior year.
Jason had grown to hate the flighty, annoyingly easygoing
male music teacher who more than once had made him
uncomfortable with his flouncy ways, and Jason felt sure
that some of the guys in that class were of the same bunch
that did the faggy musicals, and probably hung around with
assholes like Fredo and Fredo's little gang of homos and . .
.  Jason stopped stressing himself out about his music
class.  If Mr. Braun was queer, then Mr. Braun can go fuck
himself.  For the second time, Jason thought whatever to
himself, and then, having parked, locked his father's car
and jogged up to the school's side door.
     "Hey - Jase!"  Voices immediately greeted Jason once he
entered the school.  His two best friends, Sean and Trevor,
immediately came over and the three got into a conversation
about soccer positions and who was going out for what, and
it successfully kept Jason's mind off of Mr. Braun, and his
mother for the remainder of the morning.  He and Sean had
the first two classes together, and he and Trevor had
another together before lunch.  Lunch found Jason sitting
amongst Mike Richiazzi, Dave Pellegrino, Jay Billings, Greg
Bellgraph, and a whole gaggle of other names that were
famous around Cape City High for their sporting prowess.
Jason high-fived them all and, saying he'd see them over the
weekend at a party at Greg's house, packed up his books for
Music Theory and slowly but resolutely walked up the two
flights of stairs to the second floor crescent-shaped music
room.
     The music room was really just two class rooms that had
been joined together by taking out the common wall, and then
a crappy plywood curved wall had been erected so that risers
could be installed in a half-moon shape, radiating from
around the Baldwin baby grand piano that chubby Mr. Braun
always draped himself on as he conducted his choir and
taught his theory class.  Today, Jason looked, as he always
did, at the floor as he entered, at the steps as he climbed
the risers, and at his knees as he seated himself on the
uppermost riser on the end, so that worst case scenario
would still only mean one asshole sitting next to him.  He
allowed his gaze to look slightly up at the class entering,
but it was always the same old jerks.  They knew about
music, he didn't.  They made jokes that referenced something
from theater or plays or some shit like that, and he would
smile, because Jason liked to smile, but basically, feel
removed and isolated.  He resignedly began drawing a crude
map of a soccer field and absent-mindedly worked out a
defense strategy for a seven-man team as the rest of the
class filed in.
     "Mornin'" Jason looked up to see whose voice it was,
and almost dropped his pen.  Fredo was leaning over the
railing of the risers, grinning idiotically, and, Jason
noticed, wearing a very non-characteristic dress shirt and
neck tie.
     "What the fuck?"  Jason knew immediately after he said
it that the normal things he'd say around Sean or Trevor
wouldn't fly with the musical crowd - they all gave him a
dirty look for his relatively loud expletive.  Still, he
went on, "what the fuck are you doing here?"
     "I'm TA-ing the class.  I've got study hall this period
and Braun wanted me to help out, because I get this shit and
a lot of kids don't."  Fredo paused to give Jason a chance
to speak.  After a silence, Fredo went on, "Look, I don't
know why you hate me, but I don't still like the shit we
used to pull.  I mean, sure we had fun, but we were little
assholes, and I grew up.  I mean, you can hang out with me
now, again; I'm not gonna smoke up or set fire to Cremshaw's
mailbox again or anything.  Jeez, at least stop pulling this
shit in class, Jase."  Jason's jaw tightened.  So much for
being relaxed.
     "That's not why we stopped hanging out."  Jason's voice
was low but strong, and every word was punctuated with tones
so sharp they could have been cut from a block of malice
with a razor-edged knife.  "I don't want to talk to you.  I
don't like you."
     "You liked me fine three years ago."
     "Shut up."
     "Jase, c'mon man, you know we used to hang out so much.
I miss that.  I miss our friendship.  I miss . . . you, Jase
-"
     "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
     It wasn't the words that startled Fredo, or indeed, the
rest of the class, but rather the venom with which they were
spoken.  Jason, had he realized, had that same combination
of confusion and hurt on his face, except this time it was
half-buried under anger and embarrassment, although more
people noticed the precariously positioned fist that Jason
held in the air.  His developed bicep stood out in clear
relief from his arm, and it was perfectly clear that his
punch could land on any part of Fredo's body with swift
precision.
    "All right, all right.  I just wanted -", Fredo began
again, and watched the fist elevate six or eight inches in
the air.  He swallowed.  "Fine, have it your way.  By the
way, you look like fucking hell."  Fredo jumped backwards
off the riser and exited the door.  Jason watched him, and
then swallowed and found that his hand was balled into a
fist, and ridiculously high in the air.  He suddenly
realized that he was sweaty and anxious, and if his face
looked as flushed as it felt, then he probably did look like
hell.  He probably looked like a nervous wreck that was on
the verge of beating someone over . . . words?  Jason
ashamedly went back to his drawing, although his heart
wasn't in it.  He pushed it around some, his eyes pointed
towards it but unfocused on it, as he replayed the exact
words that Fredo had used, and the ridiculously
condescending words that he had heard from other people
around him once his fist had gone up.  He took a deep
breath, and when Fredo came back into the room, Jason tried
to make eye contact.  He didn't know what to say, but he
knew that not continuing to look down was the first step in
rectifying the problem that he apparently had with this guy.
What Jason wasn't expecting was that Fredo ignored him
completely.
     After another eternity of pushing around his defense
plan and peripherally watching Fredo silently go over the
lesson plan at the teacher's desk, Mr. Braun finally came in
and began the class.  Jason thankfully got lost in the note
taking, and was pleased to find that Fredo wasn't very much
involved with the class at all, beyond helping to distribute
handouts.
    Mr. Braun was a small man in his early 40's, who had,
at one time, been extremely handsome.  But over the years
his looks had faded minimally, just like his few gray hairs,
which had been met with an overabundance of exuberant
exercises in revitalization that had left Mr. Braun looking
over-coiffed and over-glammed rather than dapper and
youthful.  His gray temples were patchily died a beautiful
light brown, although the rest of his hair that hadn't yet
turned was almost black.  His handlebar mustache was trimmed
so perfectly it could have been done with a slide-rule,
although the laugh lines it was grown to conceal were
steadily growing every year.  His polished white caps
clashed terribly with his ochre originals, and his sparkling
eyes were accented by eyebrows that were beautifully shaped
and obviously waxed at the ends, although they connected in
a monster-like way over the bridge of his nose.  Combined
with his affinity for respectable shirts worn open, most
disrespectfully, to his mid-chest, and extremely tight
pants, he portrayed more of a caricature of a bad 70's
lounge lizard than he did an actual human being.  Normally
Jason laughed loudly inside his head at this hideous man,
but today he just ached for the class to be over.
     Braun was going on about the romantic movement in
music, and the different ways in which music was passion,
and passion was music, and all that shit.  Then Braun went
off on a tangent and Jason almost entirely zoned out until
Braun sat down and punctuated his point with the opening
bars of a peculiarly metered waltz.  Jason's eyes snapped
open, and he knew he'd heard that before.  The kids sitting
next to him were startled when he, for the first time all
year, sat up in on the riser and paid full attention.
     Braun, oblivious to the difference, was still going on
about the way that music awakes the soul, and a few other
ambiguous artsy comments that Jason committed to memory and
then immediately forgot, and then Braun played the piece
again, and Jason reeled.  It was so familiar!  It was so
ridiculously familiar, and Jason had no idea where it could
have come from, although it was stirring something within
him.  Something . . . beautiful . . . and rare.  This time
Braun kept playing into the next movement of the piece, and
Jason simply closed his eyes.  Jason was not, and had never
been into classical, or even non-rock music.  But this was
amazing - it was speaking to him, directly, and he felt as
though the sliding descants were in some way akin to the
peaks of pleasure that he felt sometimes with Meghan, or
like the rumbling bass was clamoring through his irrelevant
body to the core of his very soul and jarring it awake with
its song of rough, natural, and untamed influence.  Jason
reeled again, and suddenly felt something move within him.
It started, like an air bubble under his skin, at his
throat, and he could feel it moving slowly down his chest.
As the song increased, the feeling, the ball of raw,
untamed, wild, ritualistic, energy started slipping across
his broad chest, and Jason felt it move to the left of his
body.  For a moment his mind screamed heart attack!, but
every other part of him was buried in the swirling
contrasting melodies of the roughly elegant waltz.  The
tight little ball of tension finally settled in the middle
of his chest, and then throbbed for a second.  Not long, but
for a second, and then he felt it sink into his chest,
deeper and deeper, going through his bones, through his
lungs, so far into his body he felt like it would burst out
his back when suddenly he felt the need to scream as the
concentration of feeling burst, in a single, elegant sweep,
into his heart, and he felt his own organs start to shiver
with the elevated actions of a super-functional system.
Jason began to shudder violently, and instinctually put his
head down, where his mouth opened in a low hum and his eyes
rolled loosely in his head.  He heard vaguely the music end
and someone say his name, and felt vaguely the risers flex
under him as someone climbed up them to get to him.  They
flexed too violently, in fact, and he, in his comatose
state, slid forward and tumbled, head over heels, into the
risers.  His heavy body broke one of the levels, and he
heard someone screaming into a phone for an
ambulance.  He knew, somehow, as he closed his
eyes, that he'd be fine.
     In another part of the state, in another
     kind of
setting, for the first time in a hundred years,
a pair of yellowed eyes opened, and looked
around the shoddy remains of a room that had
literally spent a century rotting away. The
eyes, unused to air, watered immediately, and
shut
again.  But they would reopen . . . they would
reopen for a long time to come.
     Meanwhile, Jason was fine.  He was lying,
comfortably, on a stretcher in the school
nurse's office, after having apparently made a
full recovery from his . . . episode.  The Nurse
repeatedly took his temperature and asked him if
he was dizzy, but Jason was fine.  He sat there,
perfectly aware, and perfectly happy, and
perfectly normal again.  The music was gone, the
feeling was gone, his innards felt fine, and he
wanted to know why he was in the nurse's office
for falling asleep in class, falling forwards in
his sleep and bumping his head.  However, when
young Jason Colby told the nurse this, all she
did was shake her head and ask him if he
remembered anything else.  To her immense
chagrin, and eventually his, he honestly told
her no.  Eventually, she believed him.