dontravis.com
blog post #379
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| Albuquerque Police Substation at UNM Courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org |
I
wrote the following short story back in the days when the language was daring. Today, not so much so. In fact, it’s probably
tame. It’s a little long for a post but too short of a two-parter, so stick with me
to the end, okay?
*****
MY
PERSONAL HERO
Whenever talk turns to superheroes, my
mind never goes to the comic book characters Superman or Batman or Captain
Marvel. I automatically think of Wesley DeVille. You see, he’s my own personal
hero. He’s also a super guy, so that qualifies him as a super-guy-hero. He doesn’t
fly or catch bullets in his teeth. He doesn’t have a fancy appellation like
Captain This or Super That. He’s just plain old Wes.
I met him five years ago when I was a twenty-year-old,
cocky University of New Mexico undergraduate having a beer in the Ram and Boar,
one of Albuquerque’s gay bars. I remember that day clearly. I was sitting at a
corner table with a couple of friends when he filled the doorway for a moment
before moving into the bistro. My eyes, and just about everyone else’s followed
him as he worked the room like a politician.
“Now that’s something to see!” Dave
observed in a worshipful tone. Dave was probably my closest friend at the
University of New Mexico.
“If you like brick shit houses,” I came
back, a little surprised by my caustic tone.
Gracie, the Hispanic transgender sitting
with us, simpered. “Give me a shit house like that anytime, anywhere!”
“Do you really think he’s sexy?”
“Alan, sweetie! That man’s a walking,
talking sex drive.”
“You ever been with him?” Dave asked.
A heavy, dramatic sigh. ‘I wish! But I can
dream, can’t I?”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Name’s Wes DeVille. He works
construction. He’s an engineer or a foreman or something like that.”
“Engineer?” Dave shook his head. “Hell, he
can’t be any older than we are.”
“Twenty-two,” Gracie said. “Six-five, fifty-four-inch
chest, thirty-two at the waist, and thirty-five at those dreamy hips. Two-twenty-five
pounds of pure man.”
Dave and I spoke in unison. “How do you
know that?”
“We had our own Mr. Gay contest in here a
couple of months back. I got to see all that glorious flesh covered only by a
skimpy scrap of cloth. He won—hands down.”
“So what did he win?” I asked.
“A crisp, new hundred-dollar bill. He spent
the whole thing buying everyone drinks. Oh, my,” Gracie panted, putting a hand
to her bosom. “Here he comes. If he speaks to me, I’ll just die.”
But she didn’t. She merely blushed when he
called her by name and grasped her dainty hand.
The guy was exceptional. He looked as good
up close as he did from across the room, and the profile was as arresting as
the frontal view. After fumbling around a bit, Gracie remembered to introduce
us.
“This is Dave Deaver. He’s a transfer from
New Mexico State this semester.”
“Hi, Dave. Wes DeVille.”
Gracie indicated me. “And this is Alan Shalk.”
“Uncertain servant,” Wes responded.
“Huh?” I said.
“Sorry. I’m into names. Origins, meanings,
things like that. Alan’s Celtic for uncertain, and Shalk is German for a man
who works for another—a servant. That doesn’t describe you to me.”
“What should my name be?”
“Maybe Jonathan for God-given and
Saroyan.”
“Which is?” I prompted.
“Armenian for mountain prince.”
My cheeks burned as I blurted the first
thing I thought of. “I’m pre-law.”
“Good for you. The brotherhood needs good
lawyers.”
“Uh, I guess so.” Being a gay rights lawyer
was a new concept for me. I was more attuned to piling up loads of filthy lucre
and establishing a power base for something or the other—I hadn’t decided what
as yet.
The next thing I became aware of was my
hand lost in his. I’m damned near six feet and pumped reasonably well, but all
I could think of was that the guy’s mitt would completely engulf my best erection.
And with that thought I began to get one. I glanced up into those blue, guileless
eyes and was lost: taken, enamored, enslaved… a new experience for me. To date,
I’d been more or less buttoned down. I hadn’t even been to a gay bar before
Dave talked me into coming with him tonight.
The god-like creature pulled up a chair
next to mine, and the magnetism of his presence drew others to our table. Wes
held court for the next hour, buying a round of drinks, talking with everyone,
giving equal time to each, and discussing whatever subject that arose on equal
footing with his conversation mate. There was nothing condescending about this
guy.
Deep into that enchanted evening, a sudden
commotion at the door drew our attention. A young man reeled into the room and
collapsed in the vestibule. Curses of shock and anger and anguish filled the
big room as several moved to help the injured man.
“Damn!” Wes swore loudly. “They’re at it
again.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he tore out the door followed by a few
of the bolder patrons.
“Who’s at what?” I asked Gracie, aware of
the look of fear on her face.
“Gay bashers! They’ve been hanging around
the sweet bars and beating up the guys as they come and go.”
“So call the police,” I suggested.
“Where’d you say you were from, honey?”
Gracie asked me in a dead serious tone.
I immediately thought of my own small-town
police force and its reaction to the beating of a “queer” by some regular citizens.
Gracie arched an eyebrow. “They’ll get
involved when he gets to the hospital, anyway. Shameful! Hank was such a pretty
man. And now look. They went and broke his nose.”
As friends helped the unfortunate young
man to a chair, Wes and the three men who had gone with him returned, shaking
their heads. “They bugged out. Bastards!”
It took awhile for the excited buzz to
settle down, and for the patrons of the Ram and Boar to pick up the evening
where they had left off. Eventually, I felt the need to empty my bladder and
announced the fact to the table, hoping Wes would join me and stand at the
urinal next to me while … well, while I made a fool of myself, most likely. But
he didn’t. I almost snickered aloud with the mental image of the entire table
crowding into the men’s room if he had seen fit to join me.
When I returned from the john,
disappointment left me weak-kneed. The giant Adonis was gone, as were most of
those who had crowded around our table. Only Dave and Gracie remained.
“Where’s … uh, everybody?”
“He’s gone,” Gracie said with a touch of
green in her tone.
Dave was more understanding. “Some of the
guys wanted to go back to campus, so he walked them back.”
UNM’s main campus was only a few blocks
down Central Avenue, and many of the guys walked back and forth. Apparently, Wes
had decided to provide protection.
“How long have they been gone?” I asked.
“Just left,” Dave said with a grin. He
read me loud and clear.
“Catch you guys later.” I tossed the words
over my shoulder and bolted before either decided to come along.
The group of three college students with
Wes tagging along a distance behind had reached the end of the block. Perfect.
I could join him and have a moment alone.
Just east of the campus stands a small
police substation made from a converted diner on a little triangle of land. It’s
closed at night, and that’s where the gang of gay haters chose to attack. Four
figures bolted from cars parked on the north side of the station and bore down
on the three college students. Wes, still on the corner east of the others,
apparently was not noticed.
I had opened my mouth to cry a warning
when Wes moved. He took two running steps, three bounding leaps, and landed on
the back of a buzz-cut hood preparing to slam a ball bat against the head of
his victim. Instead, the gangster slid face-down across ten feet of concrete
and banged head-first into the police building. Wes swiped one of the other
attackers off the back of a victim and turned to meet the other two as they
shifted their attention to him.
Something extraordinary was happening. Wes
seemed to grow before my very eyes. He towered above the others, causing them
to falter. A mistake. He plowed into them, sweeping them off the sidewalk and
dumping them into the street. Central Avenue is Albuquerque’s main east-west
drag, and the two had to scramble to get out of the way of onrushing traffic.
Pausing only to grab their two fallen fellows, they limped across the street to
their cars. Wes chose not to pursue, but I saw his quick eyes locking onto the
license plates of the two vehicles that screeched away down Monte Vista.
I stopped running and stood with my mouth
agape. The whole thing had been surrealistic. Not a word was spoken. Like a
reel of a silent film, the whole tableau was soundless except for the scuffling
of feet, grunts of pain, the thud of flesh striking flesh. The traffic on
Central hadn’t even slowed. It was as if nothing extraordinary had taken place
on that cool autumn night. But it had! I witnessed it. Wes DeVille’s strength,
agility, and fearlessness alone made it noteworthy. The senseless malevolence
of toughs bent on physically harming others made it extraordinary. My reaction
to it all—a throbbing arousal—made it monumental.
*****
Alan is obviously smitten. Did the fact
that Wes chose to join Alan’s table at the Ram and Boar mean he’s interested?
Alan seems uncertain and unsure of his true nature; Wes, confident. Can you
imagine what it would be like if they got together? That’s an ending for you to
write.
Until next week.
The following are buy
links for the recently released The Voxlightner Scandal.
Barnes
& Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-voxlightner-scandal-don-travis/1132632844?ean=9781640809260
Universal
Link: https://books2read.com/u/4AxPDo
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!
My
personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting
remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com.
PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
Email:
don.travis@aol.com.
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Buy
links to Abaddon’s Locusts:
See
you next week.
Don
