dontravis.com blog post #650
This
is my first post after switching from a weekly post to posts on the second and
fourth Thursday of each month. Hope you forgive me for weakening after something
over twelve years.
For
such an auspicious undertaking, I’m doing a two-part story about an unsettled
young man bearing the nickname of Bobolink. I hope you get involved in his
story.
NEVEREND
I stared at the gray concrete
wall and recalled a scene from my childhood. My twelfth year, probably, since
we were still on the farm, likely early summer. I’d been rocking in Granddad’s
chair on the front porch after chores were done but before being called for
supper. Evening was coming on fast with the sun putting on a dazzling show to
the west, featuring reds and yellows and a touch of violet. Old Sol knew how to
make an exit. Didn’t do bad at entrances either.
“What’cha thinking, Bobolink?”
I had shifted my gaze from the
sun’s display and glanced at my little sister. “Just wishin’ this would never end.”
She clutched her Raggedy Ann
doll to her chest and spoke with ten-year-old wisdom. “According to Ma, Neverend
isn’t real. Something’s always changing.”
My sigh likely signaled
acceptance of that fact, as well as my regret. “Yeah, but don’t you sometimes
wish you could stop everything and get off right here? Like that sunset?”
She shook her head so hard her
blonde curls scrubbed her shoulders. “Don’t be silly. The crops wouldn’t grow. And
you couldn’t go down to the swimming hole. Don’t you want to get out of school
and grow up and have girlfriends and get married.”
“Sometimes. But sometimes not.”
“I do. I can hardly wait. I
want a handsome boyfriend and an even handsomer husband someday. It’ll be
heaven.”
“Are Mom and Dad in heaven?” I
asked, thinking of how hard they worked and how tired the seemed at night.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I said.
As usual, Cheryl Ann Link, did
just that… paid no mind. Cherry—that’s what the family called her, she was
Cheryl Ann to the rest of the world—lived in children’s books she got from the
town library. They always seemed to point to the future. Me, I didn’t see
anything wrong with going fishing with Dad or squirrel hunting with my brother
or arrowhead hunting with my buds now. Pretty uncomplicated. Not like making a
living or raising kids. Don’t get me wrong. Living on a farm meant plenty of
work—hard work. But you could see the results growing right before your eyes.
If Cheryl Ann was Cherry, I
was Bobolink. Easy enough to figure. My name was Robert so Bob Link became
Bobolink. Trouble was, it wasn’t just a cutesy name restricted to the family
but shared by the whole world. If somebody yelled Bob, I probably wouldn’t even
react.
I don’t know why that memory
popped into my head at the moment, but it was a pretty good jumping off place
for the way life rolled out in front of me over the next few years. Neverend,
of course, never appeared. One day succeeded another and this week became last
week, and the months and years passed as they were intended. Cherry graduated
from high school then college, became a civil engineer, and married that
handsome husband she’d always dreamed of.
Me? Well, I held onto Neverend
until I couldn’t any longer. My college career was a bit more tortured than
Cherry’s. I kept making inappropriate friends who led me into situations that
always seemed to involve trouble. Is that a cop-out? Probably. A guy goes into
situations with his eyes wide open, doesn’t he? Might get fooled once or twice,
but half a dozen times? That means he contributea to his own problems, doesn’t
it? Definitely.
So we’ve arrived at what I
tried not to say. I’m either a rebel by nature or else a willing patsy. As sad
as it sounds, I hope it’s the latter.
Neverend seemed as if it might
have returned to my life when I started bumming around with Marco Roselli my
senior year in college… where I was an art student, by the way. Possibly not
the best way to make a living, but after years of changing majors, it was
something I became passionate about.
That and Marco Roselli.
It didn’t start out that way. In
fact, it wouldn’t have gone that way if Marco hadn’t been Marco. I met him at a
Frat party where, as a transfer to State, he was joining our chapter of the
Greek organization. I’d never seen anyone like him. Never been interested in
anyone like him, in fact. I’d had girlfriends in high school. I’ll swear I
never had a gay thought in my head until I laid eyes on him.
I’d never seen a beautiful man
before. Handsome, yeah. Buff, sure. Even sexy, I suppose, but Marco’s curly
black hair, large brown eyes, tapered torso… oh, I could go on forever
describing this modern Adonis, but you get the idea. I was smitten. Smacked
hard in the back of the head.
And miracle of miracles, he
seemed to like me. Found time to disengage from admirers at the party that
night to cross the room to speak to me at the table holding the doctored punch
I’ll never forget his first words to me.
“Hi, I’m Marco Roselli. Been
watching you.”
I managed to get out some
words that made sense. “You have? Why?”
His grin almost robbed my
knees of strength to hold me aloft. “You’re not like these other guys. You
know, Hail fellow, well met. You ration your friendship. Give it to those who
deserve it, not dole it out to everyone.”
That was a new take for me,
but I went along with it. “Not exactly the way to create a network for success.”
It’s noisy in here. Let’s go
out on the patio, okay?”
“Sure.”
I watched him as he led me
through the French doors into the cool night. There were others on the big,
covered patio, but at least you didn’t have to shout to be heard. He leaned a
trim hip against a post and set his drink on the banister.
“I’m taking a guess here, but
you don’t come from money. You worked to save for school and earned a
scholarship—academic, not athletic. Right so far?”
I nodded, preferring to look
rather than speak. I’ve seen beautiful girls that were pleasant to look at, but
after a while, their perfection became boring. Marco’s features were irregular,
but put together in a totally fascinating way. I could have gazed at him for
days without getting tired of it. The abrupt, athletic way he moved, his
throaty voice touched me deep down inside.
“So you’re not a business
major,” he continued. “Something ethereal. Creative. A painter.” He reached out
and squeezed my bicep. “No, a sculptor. You don’t get a build like that from
lifting paint brushes.”
I laughed, pleased and
flattered he was spending his time talking about me. “No, but you do if you go
to the gym after lifting those heavy brushes laden with globs of weighty oils.”
“Aha, an artist. Well, I was
close. It was that hunky body that deceived me.”
“Never been called hunky
before.”
“Oh, yes. You have. Not to
your face, perhaps, but men and women both have remarked on your form. You’re
quite handsome, you know.”
I felt my face glow, relieving
the darkness at this end of the porch.
“I’ve embarrassed you. Sorry,
wasn’t my intention.”
I managed a shrug. “It’s okay.
I’m not used to being the center of attention.”
“You should be. Do you play
tennis?”
I nodded. “My one sport. Do
okay. No great, but I make a competition out of it.”
“Great. You have Saturday
classes?”
I shook my head.
“Neither do I. Meet you at
nine on the courts.”
“Sure. Like to.”
Bobolink! We’ve
all known people like him. Self-contained, introverted, awkward at making new
acquaintances, and often stumbling over their efforts… and ending up making
trouble. You might even be one of those people, as well. If you are one or know
one, stick with me for the second half of this story.
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it!
Don't forget to remind your friends of my BJ Vinson murder mystery series. And if you haven't read all seven books, get your rear in gear. The first is The Zozobra Incident.
My personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
X: 2dontravis3
See you next time.
Don
New posts on the second and fourth Thursday of each month at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.
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