Andy's Big Idea

By Josh Thomas

If you were as rich as Bill Gates and you started a Gay and Lesbian university, what would you teach? Business? Sure. Computers, electronic engineering? Absolutely. A core liberal arts curriculum? You'd have to, or all your graduates would be nerds. Theater? Puh-lease. Law and political science might help the cause of Gay rights. Medicine, pharmacy, biochemistry and nursing could train soldiers in the war against AIDS.

But Andy Coulter's more ambitious than that. He wants to teach physical education, all four years. He wants his own Kinsey Institute, to study human sexuality rigorously, comprehensively, and fearlessly. Most of all, he wants to find out how to prevent internalized homophobia and teach 18-year-olds to live life fully.

He's even got one little plan so sinister, so culturally terrifying, it's top secret. He calls it Project W.

You may not agree with his methods, but then, you're not Commando Colt, and he is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 16, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469756523

Josh Thomas

Josh Thomas is a graduate of Oklahoma State University and works with his father and brother as a financial advisor with an international brokerage firm. He and his wife, Christi, live on a small ranch in western Oklahoma. They have three daughters.

Book preview

ANDY’S BIG IDEA

Josh Thomas

Writers Club Press

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Andy’s Big Idea

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Josh Thomas

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse

For information address:

iUniverse

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-26253-8

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5652-3 (ebk)

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Chapter 1 Connection

Chapter 2 Tyler

Chapter 3 Drive-By

Chapter 4 Wings

Chapter 5 Fork

Chapter 6 Free Poems

Chapter 7 Impediment

Chapter 8 Ketchup

Chapter 9 Rejection

Chapter 10 Lip

Chapter 11 Action Plan

Chapter 12 Amenities

Chapter 13 Bell

Chapter 14 Sears Tower

Chapter 15 Howie

Chapter 16 Calling Card

Chapter 17 Investor #4

Chapter 18 Yow

Chapter 19 MartinaRena

Chapter 20 Whoopie

Chapter 21 Salesmen

Chapter 22 No Small Plans

Chapter 23 Windsor

Chapter 24 Poem

Chapter 25 Folly

Chapter 26 Hospitality

Chapter 27 Lesson #1

Chapter 28 Tennis

Chapter 29 Cairo

Chapter 30 Buzz

Chapter 31 Wall

Chapter 32 Z

Chapter 33 Petey

Chapter 34 Operator

Chapter 35 Learning in Love

To my late Brother,

Steven James Moore,

a gifted and principled business manager,

a man of big ideas and warm heart, even though he went to The Wrong School. Go Boilers!

The novel University, of which this is Book One,

is dedicated to

Martha Chisman Weyand,

Cincinnati’s P-FLAG Mom and Condom Queen,

who gave the city’s Gay and Lesbian community

unconditional love during our darkest hours of danger, illness and bereavement. We needed a mother,

and she was there when others weren’t.

Acknowledgments

To make a book, a writer sits down with paper and pencil, typewriter or keyboard, then he talks. He reads voluminously. He asks questions. He rewrites, based on what he hears. He has arguments, saying why he’s right and everyone else is stupidly wrong; unless they’re right, in which case he steals everything they said.

These people influenced the book I’ve made. Charles Hamilton, the longest-serving librarian in the history of the University of California, Berkeley, kindly served as First Reader. He’s not responsible for a word I wrote, but his intelligent, meticulous, compassionate devotion made me think more clearly, and his friendship across miles and generations gave me strength.

Educator Bruce Tone of Bloomington, Indiana listened to every incarnation of this book, every worry, every stuck-time, every hope. Betty Rees Moore, my late mother, financed this enterprise and gave me a lifetime love for her university. Peter Schroder of Amsterdam not only designed the cover and created the series logo for University, he sent me tulips and support all the way from Holland.

When I write, it’s just me, fingers and keyboard; or maybe that’s just fiction.

Author’s Note

Between the time I started this book and its publication, Purdue University changed its president, who reversed its policy concerning sexual orientation. Until 2001, Purdue, Indiana’s great land-grant university, was the only member of the Big Ten Conference to permit sexual orientation discrimination against students, faculty and staff. In researching this book, I found bias at Purdue spotty but widespread, even dangerous, just as it was when I was a student there years ago. I used to be half-afraid to walk across campus, lest I run into fraternity boys trying to prove their manhood by beating up Gay guys.

Then came Purdue’s new president, Dr. Martin Jischke, who quickly banned discrimination outright. That took knowledge, leadership, courage and a certain portion of the male anatomy that frat-boys might usefully study.

However, anti-Gay discrimination remains at many other public universities across America, especially in the South and West. This patent injustice undermines the institutions’ mission, discourages scholarship and ruins careers. Forty years ago James Meredith integrated the University of Mississippi, but who will make Ole Miss safe for Gay people?

It’s my hope that the readers of this book will.

So let the record show that Purdue University no longer tolerates discrimination, even though it served as a negative inspiration for this book. You will read here about Morrill University and its hometown of West Seigneur, Indiana, but feel free to substitute your alma mater instead.

My fictional Morrill has only its name in common with the former Morrill College at Michigan State University, but both honor the author of the Land Grant College Act of 1862. The visionary Representative Justin Smith Morrill of Vermont helped educate millions of young Americans; may his name forever be sung at Homecoming. The president who signed the Morrill Act was a Hoosier boy with a defective education, who may also have been Gay; his name was Abraham Lincoln.

CHAPTER 1

Connection

He got through the funeral well enough.

He’d wondered about that. Death never looks the same beforehand as when it arrives.

He hoped she was in heaven. The bishop seemed to think so, but it was unknowable.

The burial was hard, though. There’s nothing more final than putting a box in the ground on a cold, gray January morning.

He felt guilty, and wondered how his daughter was. She couldn’t come, there was no reason to upset her. She’d been home for Christmas, and difficult.

Except there was a reason for her to come today; her mother died. He missed his daughter, should have brought her. They were family.

But he didn’t risk it, and felt guilty again.

His brother didn’t come, the bastard.

The friends were nice, but he wanted to be rid of them.

There were lots of people around. He was alone.

Later, when it was dark, he walked through a door he had not walked through thirty years ago, when he turned drinking age. Fraternity brothers took him instead to a go-go bar in downtown Seigneur, bought him a date with one of the girls.

It was smoky here. He didn’t like that. It was also raucous, which was even worse. He wondered how they could stand to live that way.

They were young, all of them. He was the oldest guy in the place. He thought about turning around, walking out, going home.

But he didn’t want to go home. He missed his wife and loved her, the way she used to be. Before it happened, as they’d known it would. Huntington’s had gotten most of her family, too. He missed her, but he was here now. He stayed.

In the corner, a young blond man was stop-traffic gorgeous. Andrew Coulter stayed, all right.

No one talked to him. It was because he was older, 48. Nobody else in the room was even born the last time he’d been in a Gay bar. The first and last time. He remembered his college roommate.

He remembered the sex they had; how much they’d loved each other.

He remembered how they both got married—talked about it, planned it, knew they would. It was what people did back then. Didn’t they?

He didn’t remember talking about what it would cost.

A month after he graduated from high school a riot took place—some sort of riot, but queer-style, no violence to speak of, like riots can be violent. He was a few miles up Broadway, ogling the Rockettes with his father, and didn’t get the news for twenty years.

Stonewall, they called it; for a non-riot, it meant a lot to people. Somehow it led to everything that happened afterward, a whole if unfinished debate about sexuality all over the globe. Pretty amazing stuff.

But not as amazing as the chest on that muscled little blond. He radiated confidence, intelligence, athleticism—sex appeal. Andy didn’t remember arms, chests or attitudes like that 30 years ago. On Gay guys? Unheard of.

Maybe this generation knows some things after all. He laughed silently.

Should he feel guilty? He didn’t. He’d been a good husband, possibly a great one; his only Gay friend thought so. Andy hoped he’d been a good father, but it was hard to say.

Yes, he’d been a fabulous father, and always would be.

He should have brought his daughter up from the school, though. She had a right to be at her own mother’s funeral, even if she didn’t remember her anymore. Her mother couldn’t visit her the last few years. And with Constance capable at any moment of misplacing her mind, Andy was afraid to bring Trisha to her, afraid of what it would do to all of them.

No, he had done the right thing, even though he missed her terribly. Trisha would have been disoriented, would have wanted her friends; and if she didn’t get her way, she’d start screaming.

Maybe he didn’t bring her because he was afraid she might embarrass him. That was a hard thought; was it true?

Partly; he didn’t want all his friends seeing both of his failures at once.

But mostly he just wanted to get the funeral over with. So he was allowed to ache for his daughter and to make right decisions for her; she couldn’t do it herself.

Of all the smiles in the world, though, he wanted hers. He planned a trip to see her, to take her to lunch in the town. She’d like her special lunch. She’d giggle and laugh before she got tired.

Would he ever love anyone as much as he’d tried to love Constance? As much as he would always love Trisha?

As much as he’d loved Edwin? He didn’t think so.

He wasn’t fit to be around people tonight. If someone tried to talk to him, he wouldn’t know what to say.

No one tried; he couldn’t blame them. He was out of place.

No, he was home, even if no one recognized a long-lost son.

To pull himself out of it, he decided to focus on the others; to watch how they moved, how they talked, what they talked about.

With a start, he realized there was a lot of sex in this place. It was all possibility, not consummation, but it was everywhere; wished for or actively sought.

And why not? He was there, too. Not so much for sex as for sex-based connection. For coming out, I’m one too.

They were almost all White. That seemed odd; why should they be so White? Did the bar try to discourage Black customers? Where were Asian boys, and Indians and Hispanics and the whole frigging universe?

The world he remembered wasn’t so White.

Some fellows dressed to fit into society. Some obviously dressed to stand out.

He still couldn’t get over the blond guy’s chest, though, magnificent in a bright red, show-it-all, bicep-baring T-shirt. Andy imagined it ripping open of its own accord, stretched too tight, its threads finally exhausted.

He smiled at himself, an old man fantasizing.

One in front of him was drunk already. He wondered why people get drunk; it’s such a waste, not much fun. He knew; he’d tried it countless times. It wasn’t good for him. It certainly wasn’t good for Constance.

One to his left seemed completely diffident, baffled, afraid, outclassed. But he was here; that was good.

Andy hoped Diffident would catch on someday. He hoped they both would.

People smoked like chimneys, disgusting. There was no excuse anymore for people to smoke.

He wondered what it was like for tobacco executives these days, now that they’d been publicly exposed as liars. They’d paid through the nose, but with their customers’ money. Huge profits, but the product was an addictive killer. They were corporate terror-ists—streetcorner drug thugs in expensive suits. Did they sleep at night? Did they weave such elaborate lies to themselves they just lost the ability to think after awhile? Or were they greed-merchants?

They had to be. He knew a ton of that kind.

Did they tell themselves they were doing it for their families? If so, it wasn’t true. Success is for the one who is successful. Families pay for success. If you don’t constantly rebalance, you lose the only people who matter.

Andy had kept his family, by God, as long as he could; as long as anyone could. He was no match for Huntington’s, though; no match for Down’s syndrome.

It wasn’t just emotion. He was alone.

The blond didn’t smoke, and he drank bottled water. He had a pretty little behind, too. In tight jeans, when Andy thought pants were all baggy these days, crotches down to knees.

Tight jeans showed off the blond’s tiny butt. How could a grown man have a waist that small?

He was talking to a tall, dark-haired young man, powerfully built. They both wore gleaming black boots, as if they’d just stepped out of a Tom of Finland drawing.

The blond was butch, but the tall one was a stud. One dominated verbally, the other physically. The tall one hooked his thumb in his pocket, and that was all it took.

That blond was going to get fucked tonight. He was going to get slammed down and loved.

Andy looked away in chagrin. I wish it was me he was talking to.

Fat chance, you old fag. He smiled; it felt almost good to think that. At least he wasn’t crying in his beer.

He didn’t like the current hair styles, but then, he was an old fogey. He didn’t like tattoos either, and couldn’t care less about his age.

Piercings were popular; everyone had something in his ear but him. Others had rings in nipples, navels, nostrils, and he didn’t want to think about where else. He tried to understand what was sexy or gratifying or stylish—rebellious, even—about having a pin pushed through a body part. It was just Madison Avenue making money.

A terribly skinny boy walked past, shirtless. Andy wanted to tell him to put his shirt back on and go home where he belonged; then he realized he was just feeling parental.

He moved closer to the blond guy, for the purpose of assessing his ear lobes. Or so he told himself; why not?

But a crowd was gathering around the pair. Andy was startled into knowing, the whole room now revolved around that blond. If he stepped left, a guy six feet away got elbowed; if he lowered his voice, forty ears leaned in to hear.

Andy joined the little crowd, and soon felt some guy brush against his thigh. Andy didn’t look, but a minute later someone behind him touched his hip. He’d heard of backroom action, but here it was taking place right up front.

He felt scared; he knew he should leave.

But he didn’t want to. And he couldn’t.

He focused all his mind on the little blond, who tuned out everyone else but his friend.

The spell was finally broken by a jealous, screaming queen, and the effect was like a sudden car wreck; everyone recoiled. The blond looked around, realized what was happening and got ready to leave. Andy retreated to his old spot.

He set his beer bottle down, pretending he’d never been part of a group grope.

But he wished the blond could know what he’d just given him; not sex, but a dose of humanity.

The young man was unpierced, sincere, articulate, even innocent. He’d talked about some kind of volunteer work; an AIDS hospice, it sounded like. He told his lover that he was tired and felt like crying, but he was pleased and proud, honored, humbled. A dying friend had asked for him to come, and so he had, for two and a half days, until the fellow died.

Andy felt the gift as if it had been Constance the blond held hands with.

The tall one helped his buddy into a fancy leather jacket, then slipped on his own. But before they moved away, the brunet grasped his lover’s jaw, leaned down and kissed him, hard; his buddy stood up on tiptoes and shut his eyes, as his lover held him tight, and squeezed that butt.

It was the most beautiful, most passionate kiss Andy’d ever seen; yet shocking too. He’d never seen Gay guys kiss in public with such open intimacy.

He was flooded with envy.

He stood there admiring them; the little blond who spoke, the tall one who listened to his lover’s every word; and the one who called and gave, received and died.

With that, Andy left, nothing more to be gained.

He drove the speed limit back home, connected with life somehow, with beauty and decency; connected with the Gay community a little, on the very night he most needed to be.

Maybe even connected with Edwin, which was kind of a laugh. He wondered where Edwin might be; whether he stood at some Gay bar, older than everyone else, alone in the dark and musing, as his wife slept.

Andy didn’t masturbate that night, though he knew it would have been all right with the blond; encouraged even, a kind of honor.

Don’t mess with perfection. Let it be what it was. He felt good, in ways a younger, blonder, finer man would never know.

CHAPTER 2

Tyler

He returned to work the following Monday. Everyone called him Andrew and asked how he was, but he couldn’t tell that the work had missed him at all.

He managed by walking around. When he’d walked everywhere, talked to every department, he had the distinct impression he hadn’t learned a thing.

So he called a meeting and didn’t let his managers sit down; they stood in the bullpen and talked. It turned out they were in mourning for him—for Constance too, but for him.

He loved them back a little, and business picked up.

He spent his evenings at dinner, or reading, or pedaling his stationary bike. He scanned newspapers for things to do; exhibits, concerts, outdoor activities. Several things sounded good, but he didn’t do a one of them.

He spent his alone time avoiding decisions about his wife’s belongings. When he woke up in his chair he tried to watch the news, but by the time the weather came on, he was ready for bed. So he slept well, got up the next day and did it again. It was reasonably pleasant, though not the same as being alive.

One day turned out differently. He dressed for the office, briefcase in hand; the sun slowly lightened the earth. He backed his car out of the garage, then noticed a plastic bag of advertising hung on his front door. He didn’t know how long it might have been there; with sickness in the house, no one ever used that door. His neighbors didn’t have bags, and he didn’t want burglars debating over his house. He stopped, got out and started up the little walk to the porch. Before he got there he smelled something; a hint of spring.

He stepped into his yard to look; crocus had popped. He stared disbelieving at white and yellow petals, perfect and perennial and new. Daffodils would be next, in a few weeks.

Sold. He took an Andy Day.

He made a list of yardwork to do; it was too early to start, but the listmaking was fun.

He made his own sandwich for lunch. He found cottage cheese and cut up a banana in it. Ate out of the carton, realized he could.

That afternoon he telephoned a charity and arranged for them to come and pick up Constance’s clothes. We have a truck in your neighborhood. Can I send them right over?

They came. Mountains of Constance’s clothes marched out. He stared at some of the things—coats, dresses he remembered her in, where she wore them, what they did—and couldn’t believe she was gone.

He was a Gay guy and he missed his wife terribly.

Clothes he recognized he wanted to hang onto; how could he throw them out? He wanted to tell the men, She wore that on our first cruise. This was her favorite coat. The satin was for dancing; she loved to dance. Nevertheless, the charity men carted them off, not saying a word about how nice they were.

They were expensive clothes and she had very good taste; he wanted the charity men to acknowledge that. But they didn’t.

He felt like Trisha, disoriented. He cried for the first time, and sat 45 minutes with a cup of lukewarm tea. Finally he ordered a new lawn mower, a forlorn try at snapping out of it.

That night he made his third trip to the bars; there were a dozen in town, he found out. He tried the twink bar again, but it wasn’t right; there were no muscleboys this time, and it was impossible to converse there with the music.

His goal was conversing. The drag bar depressed him, the stripper bar embarrassed him, the drinking bar was for drunks; his goal was to converse. He headed for a tavern on the edge of the Lockerbie district, a bit ashamed of barhopping, but his goal was to converse.

He’d made a checklist that afternoon of his pros and cons—what he had to offer someone. Bodywise, he was 6’1", 185, in good shape, but not pinup material. He hadn’t changed horribly much since high school, when he was a fair-to-middlin’ wide receiver in football, though his passion was basketball; he loved to shoot. At his best he scored 17 points off the bench in a playoff semifinal, a clutch player, aggressive and deadly. That was when he learned he could be the star of the game.

It was a silly thought from a long time ago; it only happened once. Then again, it had never stopped happening since then. Sports taught him to compete, be part of a team, and to dedicate himself to exercise for the rest of his life. This body was what he had to show for learning his lesson.

Hell, he looked great. Still, Gay guys worship young dick, and while his ran smoothly, it did have 48,000 miles on it.

He thought his face looked young, but maybe it depended on the light. It wasn’t a bad face; a bit bland, all-American businessman, short mousy hair with a sprinkle of gray in it. Should he sneak off to Chicago and ask a hairdresser to give him some color? He didn’t really approve of that sort of thing, but he’d do whatever it took to compete. He had plenty of hair, at least; thinner than it used to be, but enough to work with.

He decided he’d never apologize for his age. He was glad for everything he’d learned in 48 years, and age is just a number anyway.

He had a good job; he had way too much money, which was a little scary for a newly-freed Gay man on the prowl. He was reasonably intelligent; other than that, what did he have? Not much.

A sudden knot in the pit of his stomach told him he’d frittered away his youth. That marriage that seemed so prudent cost him his sex life. That was the cost he and Edwin never talked about, and only now did he realize it was too high a price to pay.

The blondboy from the bar sure wasn’t paying it. Andy envied him again, utterly amazed at that freedom, that fuckable ass, and that kiss.

Andy was a conformist; that little blond was a rebel. And the clock never does run backwards, no matter how much money you’ve got.

He didn’t completely regret getting married and having a child; that way of life had its own rewards, fatherhood and honoring his own father, until the last few years.

But choosing marriage was one path of many, and for him, for his innermost feelings, it was a mistake, one he’d pay for the rest of his life. It seemed easier, so he’d tried to be what he wasn’t. And he found, like everyone else who tries it, that it just doesn’t work.

He could have been fucking that blondboy all along. Why didn’t he? Is there a word more superlative than mistake? Disaster, maybe?

Waiting that extra year with Zoomtec had been a mere mistake. He wanted to cash out, but he took the security instead. He made a mint, but it cost him a year of freedom. He could have been starting his new company instead—Colt Systems, where Andy Coulter learned how to do it right, based on every mistake he’d ever made with Zoomtec.

He would never again choose money over a year of freedom. If there was ever a lie, it was that slogan about He who has the most toys wins. Once he got a lot of toys, they bored him. He didn’t have time to play with them anyway.

He wasn’t going to wait a year to get his courage up in the Gay community, either. He headed for the Six of One Tavern, ready to converse.

He learned it from Constance, he owed it to himself: Live Now. He had waited years to be free, and now he was.

Maybe it wasn’t ethical, waiting on his wife to die so he could come out; it was what he had done. Anyone who didn’t like it could take their own turn at Huntington’s disease, caring for a loved one with a slow, debilitating, mind-stealing, craziness-inducing killer.

How Constance had snarled at him that time she couldn’t figure out how to pry the backing off a self-stick postage stamp. Except for the pathos of it, the red flag that she was losing muscular control, suffering personality changes, it was hilarious: Peel Here. Then there was the doughnut episode—beating him awake with her fists at 4 a.m. one Sunday, demanding doughnuts like he was a moron for not having bought her fried lard already.

She never in her life ate doughnuts; but he bought them, all right. He felt like shoving them up her ass.

But he did not. It was Huntington’s, that was all; neither her fault nor his. He couldn’t hate her for it, and neither could he love her through it; she wasn’t herself. All he could do was what he had done, to stay with her in constancy and bury her in peace. And now that he had, he was ready to live. More than ready.

He threw open the tavern door and strode inside. If they billed him for hinges, he’d dump a truckload on the stoop, let them take their pick.

He spread his arms wide, leaned his head back on his shoulders and drank in the darkness of a roomful of men.

It would have been nice if someone had noticed his entrance, but the idiots didn’t. He laughed and ordered a beer.

Older guys were more numerous, he didn’t feel out of place. Out of place, hell, he was ready to rock.

The strategy he’d written was simple; keep moving, start conversations, find something to compliment him on. Not even movie stars get enough compliments, so mere mortals should be pushovers.

The keep moving made him smile. He’d been accosted—hell, felt up—a month ago on his second trip to the dance bar, told to meet in a minute in the bathroom. There he’d been shoved into a stall and given a talking-to by an astonishing 25-year-old, a three-minute lecture on Cruising 101.

If you stand, they walk around you. To cruise, you move; you snooze, you lose. So walk, circle, keep moving, double back, figure 8’s, look them in the eye, feel them up if they look good—then scram, watch them follow you. I’ve got five guys waiting on me right now.

He was so handsome Andy believed him. Not only that, when he twitched Andy’s crotch, Andy sure followed, right with the program. Okay, thank you. Why me?

You’re hot. You want it. Go get it. Keep moving. Do it right! He punched Andy’s chest, then he squeezed Andy’s fly—and out the door, amazing.

Andy’d tried it that night, played a little game: two points if they talk to you, five if they touch, ten if they touch there, a hundred for bingo.

Had a 27 point night.

He got his beer and looked around; there were maybe three dozen guys, most huddled with one other, whether he was the one they wanted to talk to or not. There were a few singles; one guy standing alone looked interesting, the others didn’t particularly.

The loner stood at the bar, keeping his own company, 5’10", 175 pounds, nicely built. He had black curly hair on a well-shaped head, which seemed the oddest thought; and a pretty behind. Andy moved on, to think and watch.

He picked an acclimating spot in a room with pool tables; he wasn’t there for sex, but conversation. Which might lead to sex and much more someday. He wanted the more. Conversation was how he would get it.

He watched two young ones play pool badly, and realized he was watching nothing as if it were something. He headed back to the first room. The guy had moved, gone to the bathroom or left.

There being no other convenient spot, Andy stood in the guy’s old place; he hadn’t left behind belongings to mark it. Andy turned to face the other customers instead of presenting his back as Shapely had. He leaned on an elbow, just watching how the guys interacted.

Someone next to him spoke. They kept up a chat for two minutes, until someone else came up and engaged the other man, who turned away without an excuse me. Andy resumed his observation post.

Some men seemed to want to connect, yet did not; why? The entire place had a terminal case of shyness.

The first guy came out of the bathroom. Their eyes met; the guy came toward him. Goodlooking. Dark skin, smooth as silk, Mediterranean? Too young. Still, a friend? Nice shirt, Andy said, making room. The guy laughed, flashed a pretty smile, bright eyes, even in dim bar light. What’s funny?

The guy glanced away, then back at him. I was going to say, ‘Nice jacket,’ but you beat me to it. And a smile again.

Am I that transparent? Andy liked being see-through.

Not at all. It is a nice jacket, unusual leatherwork. One sees a lot of black leather around, but not that much brown. Andy chose leather deliberately, not knowing he’d made a color faux pas. And I’ve always liked this shirt. Thank you.

My name’s Andrew. He stuck his hand out while mentally kicking himself, Be friendly, not distant. In a place like this, be Andy.

Tyler.

Nice name. Then Andy grimaced in mock embarrassment.

You take the lead, the young man smiled. Andrew means manly. The name fits you.

The kid was much quicker than Andy was ready for, but somehow he kept his head. You tied the score.

I wouldn’t even have played if you hadn’t spoken first. What do you do?

Manufacturing. How about you?

I teach school.

That’s fantastic. Andy looked away. I’m glad for what you do. I owe my whole life to teachers.

We all owe our lives to teachers, Tyler corrected. He ordered vodka and seven in a tall glass, and turned back to Andy. But that was an even nicer thing to say.

Where and what do you teach? Andy kept the eye contact light.

Middle school English. In Whitson. It was a rich suburb on the far north side.

Great. Whitson’s one of the best school systems in the state. They can have any teacher they want, and they chose you.

Thank you, we’re very proud of our system. The district’s grown so. They keep adding teachers and a spot opened up. So that’s where I am.

A spot opened up and you got it. They wanted you. Where did you go to school?

Morrill.

It was the big land-grant university in West Seigneur, an engineering school, Mother of Astronauts. Andy’d gone there too. Really? I never think of Morrill for teaching.

You’re wrong, it’s a good education school. My degree’s in English literature, but I took enough education classes to qualify.

Andy watched two guys bump into each other, then move hastily apart. But they were attracted to each other. Why didn’t they connect?

He determined to connect, then had no idea how.

English literature. Do you write?

Tyler snorted, I write. But no one reads it. I’m not published yet.

Keep at it. Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Tyler exhaled, They’re grinding. I try not to go down.

What do you write?

What do you care? Tyler glared, a flash of anger.

Andy blinked back, How can I support you if you won’t let me?

Tyler broke the look, glanced at an attractive young brunet. Andy looked away too. Too young. Intense, though. A younger friend?

Tyler didn’t leave. His drink came. He tossed aside the straw, sipped and stayed. Andy didn’t leave either.

He was glad Tyler didn’t drink through the straw. Andy was a bigot about that; he considered it faggoty. A man doesn’t drink liquor through a straw. It’s not a straw anyway, it’s a stirrer. Then he smiled at himself for caring about straws.

The next move, though, if there’d be one, was the kid’s. He was still there.

Andy looked at the guy’s shoulder, wanted to touch it; didn’t. So he made the next move. What’s inside your shirt’s nice too. Do you work out? It sounded commonplace the minute it left his mouth.

Tyler jacked his jaw up slightly, acknowledging. Poetry, he said, staring at gin bottles. Andy nodded to show he heard. A cliché, huh? Gay guy writes poetry no one publishes, meanwhile keeps his day job.

Andy thought of Trisha and Special Olympics. When they’re having fun, the retarded only scream in delight, one of the best sounds in the world. Trisha loved Special Olympics, where the whole point was support; kids trying so hard, whatever their abilities. And teach-ers—the word stuck with him—coaches and parents giving their all back, in love and support.

Rejection is hard, at 26 or 48.

How long had it been since Trisha participated in Special Olympics? Had she stopped? Why? Was anything wrong with her health, her behavior, the school? Maybe she needed a change. Maybe she’d been at Zoomtec too long.

He said, Van Gogh never sold a painting. Neither did Seurat. If you don’t believe in your art, no one else will.

You don’t stop, do you?

No, I didn’t know you were hurting. If you’d told me, I’d have commiserated instead.

Taking all kinds of chances. Andy liked this guy.

Tyler sighed. I’m sorry. I got a rejection slip again today—my 49th. I thought I was prepared, but I’m not handling it very well. I thought for sure this one would sell. He looked at Andy. Thank you for everything you’ve said.

It will sell, then. Not to these people, they’re stupid or preoccupied, but it will sell to someone else. I have a rule about rejections: I only get rejected if I don’t try. Tyler stared. And stop counting your no’s. Stop giving the bastards the power to grind. Andy rubbed Tyler’s shoulder. It was muscular to his touch. He removed his hand shortly, and his hand complained.

Shit.

It’s all right, son. You’re in a tough business that makes you fail so it can watch you handle rejection. If you slink away they’ll never have to bother with you again, but if you keep fighting they’ll start to pay attention. So get up off the mat and start punching back. One good uppercut and you’ll knock ‘em dead.

Andy looked away, and kept looking away, when it wasn’t what he wanted, it was only what a first meeting required. He added, I hope I don’t talk sports too much. I know some guys don’t like that.

Tyler touched him back, two seconds on his forearm. It’s okay; I work out, it’s the only way I know to deal with frustration.

Andy faced him squarely. Would you tell me about your writing strengths? Then