Blurred Lines

By Dale Thele

Shane Davison pens a fictional short story for a college writing class assignment that goes haywire as boundaries between fiction and reality become obscured. The warning signs are there, but go unheeded, as the work-in-progress is "just a class assignment." Or is it becoming more than just fantasy, seeming so real-to-life in fact that people’s lives could be at risk?

Book #2 of the Shane Davison Chronicles series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Thele
• Release date: Feb 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798985755718

Dale Thele

Dale Thele is a bestselling American author whose life has been a lengthy series of compulsions strung together by atrocious acts of stupidity due to boredom. After raising heck in a sleepy oil town in north-central Oklahoma for 18 years, he then ventured to Oklahoma City University on a quest for higher education. He quickly learned “higher” education meant to “elevate” one's mind with the aid of either a reefer or a bong, and ample amounts of alcohol. Destiny dragged Dale to Austin, Texas, where he lives vicariously through the fictional characters he congers up, and the far-fetched adventures he writes.Dale began writing in 2008, influenced by authors like Timothy James Beck, Mark Kendrick, Michael Thomas Ford, and Bryan Healey. Dale pens works of fiction which often includes an LGBT character or two.

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Book TWO of the Shane Davison Chronicles

A N O V E L

by

Dale Thele

Smashwords Edition

Published by

Fountain Literary Press at Smashwords

BLURRED LINES

Copyright © 2022 by Dale Thele

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

ISBN 979-8-9857557-1-8

Smashwords Edition

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Although inspired by actual events, the reader should not assume any portion of this manuscript is factual. In addition, this manuscript is a period piece taking place from Friday, August 16, 1974, to Thursday, November 6, 1975. There are numerous references to earlier dates going back to 1972. Being that this is a period piece, some terms and phrases may be considered outdated, or inappropriate for the present day. Use of terms and words are intended to give a sense of authenticity and should not be deemed racial, or intended to be hateful, or belittling by today’s social standards. Be aware of the use of profanity, drug and alcohol use, smoking, homosexuality, homophobia, and violence; you the reader are hereby forewarned.

Characters in this manuscript, although they may have similarities to persons living or dead, are purely accidental. The principal location where this story takes place is real, however some location references may be creations of the author.

All scenes, dialog, characters, and story settings are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as factual. Other than stated, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, businesses, and locales are altogether coincidental.

"Reality is not easy,

but all this make-believe doesn’t make it easier."

Ayaan Hirsi Ali

Thursday, November 6, 1975

Five rows of seats in front, an overly enthusiastic flight attendant babbles on and on ’bout the emergency exits and the proper use of the oxygen masks if there should be a catastrophic in-air emergency. What an assurin’ way to start a commer-cial passenger plane flight. Her lengthy explanation doesn’t make me feel any more chill ’bout flyin’. Besides, I’ve got other matters on my mind, more important things—like the lace up army boots pinchin’ my toes and the stiff fatigues—scratchin’ against my body. I’m missin’ my comfy clothes and my broken-in Adidas track shoes. Not that I’m into runnin’ track, it’s just that they’re the popular style of shoe everyone’s wearin’. That’s just the beginnin’ of the stuff rattlin’ ’round in my head. There’s all these thoughts and voices that never seem to wanna shut the fuck up. Does everybody have a head full of voices constantly chatterin’ at ’em—or is it just me? With all that’s goin’ on inside my head, I can’t concentrate on what the stewardess is sayin’. I guess what’s really got me wired is tryin’ to wrap my head ’round what got me on this plane in the first place. Just outta nowhere, the world I knew suddenly exploded into bat shit craziness. Not only that, but it hap-pened so fast I haven’t had the time to process any of it yet.

Outside the window, I see the humongous wing of the airplane and below, porters load luggage and shit in the cargo hold. I’m a little nervous ’bout flyin’. What if I have a panic attack? What if I get sick and puke? What if the plane crashes? What am I gonna do when I land? And my stomach’s not feelin’ so hot, either. All these thoughts are makin’ me a nervous wreck. And to think—the plane hasn’t even lifted off yet.

Sudden-like every thought and voice in my head stops when a warm and kind hand squeezes

mine. I know it’s meant to comfort me, and it does—sorta. It’s kinda nice not havin’ all that noise carryin’ on inside my head, even if it’s just for a few moments.

Lookin’ over at the passenger sittin’ beside me, I’m met with a heartwarmin’ smile. I squeeze back, tryin’ to return the smile, but it’s hard as hell to do so when I’m literally runnin’ for my life.

I look inside myself and wonder, Why does this fucked up shit keep happenin’ to me? Ya know? I didn’t ask for any of it. All I want is to have a normal life—a life without all this damn drama. I just wanna be like everybody else. Jeez, I’d settle for borin’ as hell life at this point. I’m so frickin’ tired of gettin’ fucked in ways that don’t end in an orgasm. At twenty years of age, one would think I’d have my life path all figured out. Other people my age do. Instead, I’m runnin’ from a life I knew. Runnin’ to where? I don’t know. I’m right back to where I was two years ago—startin’ my life all over again. When somethin’ like this happened before, I promised myself I’d never screw things up again. Boy howdy, did I ever fuck things up. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think what happened this time was all my fault. Or maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. It don’t matter now, what’s done is done.

Still, it makes me wonder if it was my fault that I messed up for a second time. Like I said, I’m not sure what all went down—ya know?

Lookin’ back, it seems everything turned topsy-turvy—like a pineapple upside down cake—sometime durin’ my second year at college. It wasn’t somethin’ I planned, it just sorta happened all on its own. The best word to describe it was—crazy—everything just spiraled outta control and went insane as shit. I can’t explain it. All’s I know for certain is it hap-pened. And everything in my life unraveled like a pulled stray yarn thread of a knitted sweater.

But, before I tell ya ’bout when everything went to shit, I gotta let ya in on a little backstory so ya can grasp the whole pic-ture. Keep in mind some of what I’m ’bout to tell ya can’t be explained rationally, but it happened. Sometimes I wonder if—at the time—I’d had but one oar in the water. If ya know what I mean? Wacky as it all might seem—even I can’t make heads nor tails outta what happened—but it went down exactly as I’m ’bout to tell ya.

C H A P T E R 1

Friday, August 16, 1974

The year was 1974. The country was wrapped up in the ongoin’ Watergate scandal in Washington, D.C. Steel roller coaster Space Mountain opened at Walt Disney World in Florida. The Vietnam war had ended—finally. Volkswagen introduced the Volkswagen convertible Rabbit. And a lotta other shit happened in the news. But there’s one place where news headlines meant absolutely zilch. That place was Oklahoma City University, located in the heart of the state capital—Oklahoma City. By now, you’re probably hummin’ that damned Rodgers and Hammerstein song in your head. Jeezuz, I wish that musical had never been written—ya know? When people hear the song Oklahoma, one of two thoughts immediately comes to mind—Oklahoma Sooners football (straight breeding football fans) or that damned musical (the gays). How an individual responds to either reveals a whole lot more ’bout ’em, probably more than what they want other people to know, particular-ly if one mentions the musical. Might just as well belt out a Judy Garland song or dance the Can-Can in full drag. That’s ’bout as light in the heels as anyone can get. If you catch my drift. Anyways, now that I mentioned the song, ya probably won’t be able to get the tune outta your head for a couple of hours. Sorry ’bout that.

So, like I was sayin’ before I got sidetracked, you’re probably wonderin’ why I say news headlines means absolutely nada at OCU. Well, it’s a small private university tucked away in a mostly older residential central section of town. Within its clus-ter of snugly placed buildings, it kinda forms a bubble—for lack of a better word—like it exists in a different dimension or universe from its surroundings. News of the outside world—anything beyond its borders—don’t seem to seep into the uni-versity campus or affect the students and faculty. It’s almost as if nothin’ of substance exists beyond its gilded buildings of knowledge. In one sense, that perception of isolation provides a sanctuary for study. On the other hand, it’s like the prover-bial ostrich with its head buried in the sand, never seein’ what the outside world is truly like. One day, those students are gonna graduate and enter into the real world. They’re not gonna be prepared for the reality awaitin’ them beyond the im-maculately manicured lawn of the Oklahoma City University campus grounds.

I’d showed up on the OCU campus on Friday, August 16, 1974, to be exact. I’d taken an MK&O bus from my hometown on account my daddy kicked me outta the house for bein’ gay. It wasn’t like he caught me doin’ it with another guy—it was more my own stupidity. I kinda let it slip I was gay when he was chewin’ me out for doin’ somethin’ I didn’t do. Parents. Right? They think they know everything, but the sad truth is, they don’t know shit. And, on top of that, they won’t listen to our side of the story. There’s always three sides to every story—my side, their side, and the truth. But do parents even let us tell our side? No way in hell. God forbid their narrow-minded opinions and assumptions might be wrong, exposin’ ’em for the frauds they really are. In their eyes, us teenagers are always wrong—no matter what. So, just how in the hell are we sup-posed to defend ourselves? Guess ’cause we’re minors we don’t got any rights—ya know? Makes ya wonder what makes adults forget all ’bout their own teen years. Anyways, on that shitty afternoon—an afternoon to top off all future fucked up afternoons, things between my daddy and me sorta got outta hand while he was all up in my shit. For some reason—oh yeah, I guess I’d best confess—that was the day when the cops came to the house lookin’ for me and they took me away while Daddy and my stepmom were havin’ breakfast. Okay, so that didn’t sound all that good for me, but by afternoon, things got straightened out with the pigs. In the end, everything turned out in my favor. Let me assure you, all of that’s a story for another time. Anyways, when I got home that afternoon, my daddy didn’t know why the heck the cops had come for me and he jumped to some silly conclusion that I was sellin’ drugs. Where the hell he pulled that out of is beyond me. If ya ask me, he pulled it right outta his goddamned ass. Anyways, earlier while I was downtown dealin’ with the cops, Daddy had a good part of a day to get a bur up his saddle. He started in on me the moment I walked inside the house. He accused me of all kinds of shit—shit I wasn’t doin’. Because he didn’t give me the chance to defend myself, I got hot under the col-lar. I admit, I gotta temper too—I got it from my daddy. As the situation was buildin’ between my daddy and me, he was pissin’ me off to no end. Finally, I popped my cork. Like a shootin’ plug from a champagne bottle—I just blurted out, I’m gay. One of these days, I’m gonna learn to think before shootin’ off my mouth. There’s a logical reason God put a distance between our brains and our mouths—it’s so we’ll think before we speak. I’m kinda hot-headed and sometimes unfiltered shit spews from my mouth, bypassin’ my brain entirely. I sometimes forget ’bout those few inches between the brain and my mouth. Thinkin’ back, I now see it probably wasn’t the best way to have come out to my daddy, but what can I do now? What’s done is done. Like they say, hindsight is 20/20. Ya know?

Anyways, Daddy was fumin’ mad, and he immediately kicked me to the curb. Boy-howdy was he ever pissed. I packed up my shit as fast as I could and got my ass outta that house. With no place to go, I purchased a one-way bus ticket to OKC. I’d already planned to leave for OCU on Sunday, so I just pushed my plans ahead by a few days.

I’d left a lotta shit back in my hometown when I climbed on that MKO bus. It had only been a two-hour ride, but that was apparently enough miles to put some distance between me and the butt-load of bad memories I wanted to get away from. Like when Principal Gardner outed me in the school paper after I performed in the Sophomore Assembly. The three years he rode my ass for no real reason, except I guess he didn’t like that I was gay. It wasn’t like I woke up one mornin’ and decided I was a flamin’ homo. Well, maybe it sorta happened like that. But it wasn’t exactly a decision I made by choice. One par-ticular mornin’, I decided to accept the fact I was gay. It wasn’t like it was somethin’ I hadn’t thought long and hard ’bout. I just came to the conclusion I was tired of fightin’ with myself ’bout who I was and accepted myself for bein’ me. Bein’ gay wasn’t somethin’ I could turn off and on like a light switch. It was just who I was and I couldn’t change it. There were other things I left behind, like Momma and Daddy’s divorce. Momma marryin’ Chester and then him goin’ all wacko and beatin’ the shit outta me. That’s when I moved in with Daddy and his new wife—my new step momma. Then my real momma had me stalked, and that sorta led to the big blow up between Cal and me. Oh, by the way, Cal was my best friend ’til he stabbed me in the back. No, not literally, but figuratively. Cal and me, we had this bigass yellin’ match in the MK&O bus terminal parkin’ lot. That’s when I lost my best friend, just before I climbed aboard the bus to OKC.

When I got here to Oklahoma City, I took a taxi from the downtown bus station to the university. I guess it was somewhere ’round ten or so in the evenin’ when I got to campus. First thing I did was to go to my designated dormitory. I didn’t know which room I was assigned to, and I didn’t yet have a key. So, I started searchin’ for someone—anyone who might be able to help me. The campus was quiet and deserted. Ya gotta understand somethin’, I’d not been to the campus before, so I was lost—really lost. There wasn’t anyone ’round. Not surprisin’ since classes weren’t scheduled to start for several days yet. I ended up in my dorm lobby. It was cozy with a 21-inch console color television—I’d never seen such a big TV set before—well, not up close and in person. Well, I’ll be—the picture was so lifelike, it was like I was ridin’ a horse alongside the Marlboro cowboy in the cigarette commercial playin’ big as ya please on that TV. The commercial gave me a hankerin’ for a smoke, ya know? The smoke—well—it was just gonna have to wait, I had other priorities at the moment. Anyways, back to the lobby, it had comfortable lookin’ modern furniture, a pool table, and a foosball table, catty-corner was a dinky kitch-enette. If nothin’ else, I figured I could crash on the lobby divan ’til mornin’. Then I saw a door with a sign readin’: House-mother. I pressed my ear to the closed door to see if I could hear anything on the other side. I made out the muted sounds of what might’ve been a television or radio playin’. So, I knocked on the door—not knowin’ if someone on the other side could help me or not. Just as I’m ’bout to knock once again, the door opened, but only a few inches. Through the partially open door, a curious, bloodshot eyeball stared back at me.

Can I help you? a woman asked. I figured she was the owner of the eyeball I was lookin’ at through the crack of the slightly opened door.

I told her who I was and how come I was knockin’ on her door so late. I was kinda worried I’d woken her. Shoot, I hoped I hadn’t. You know how older people are, they tend to go to bed real early—like before Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show comes on the boob tube? I figured it was probably gettin’ close to the Johnny hour.

It wasn’t long and she warmed to me by introducin’ herself and invited me to come inside. I did just that and sat with her for a spell. She turned out to be cool, that is for an old woman, with gray hair wrapped in big bright pink curlers, wearin’ some long-ass chenille bathrobe and fluffy feathered scoot into type of slippers.

The apartment was a small efficiency, cram packed with lots of ceramic figurines. I guess she liked faeries ’cause all the figurines seemed to resemble faeries. Fragile-like ceramic faerie statues were everywhere there was a bare surface to put one. Some hung from string drapin’ off of shelves, and even from a window curtain rod. The place smelled like old woman. But what else would the place smell like—right? We ended up yackin’ for a while over hot tea and home baked brownies. I got-ta say—she made some mean brownies. I’m not a big fan of brownies, but hers were to die for. Our conversation wasn’t nothin’ too deep, mostly ’bout the weather and shootin’ the shit. After a while, we run outta stuff to talk ’bout. She gave me the key to my dorm room, along with a brown paper sack of extra brownies to take with me. I figured she must’ve thought I was hungry from my bus trip. She got that part right.

I thanked her for the tea and brownies. Scoopin’ up my suitcase, I went in search of my dorm room.

Turned out, my room was on the second floor, not far from the elevator, which was situated in the middle of the buildin’. I kinda wished I’d gotten a room on the top floor of the three-story buildin’. There’s somethin’ creepy ’bout hearin’ someone walkin’ ’round on your ceilin’. My druthers aside ’bout bein’ on the upper floor, the room was okay—I suppose—for a dorm. Since I’d never been inside of a real dormitory before, I had nothin’ to compare it to. I can tell ya this though, it was a helluva lot better than campin’ out on a lousy daybed in the livin’ room, like the first year or so at Daddy and his new wife’s house. There were only two bedrooms in that house, and both were taken, so I was delegated to the livin’ room day-bed. Honestly, just ’bout anythin’ beats that shit.

Anyhoo, my new dorm room had two built-in twin beds next to each other, with a nightstand between ’em, sorta like a mo-tel set up. Two built-in desks and two good sized closets. Shoot—let’s just say there were two of everything except for bathrooms—there was just the one. It was one of those Pullman baths connectin’ to the next-door suitemate’s room.

After the day I’d had, I