Raul and Me (Part 2 of 3 parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #538

 Image courtesy of bobbiebach.com

 

Best friends are reunited after several years. Will their renewed friendship blossom or wither under the pressure of careers, marriages, and fatherhood? Let’s see, shall we?

 

****

RAUL AND ME

 

I didn’t know it at the time, but that reunion in my office six months back saved my marriage. That takes some explaining, because I’m not sure I understand the situation, myself. I got the first clue a month after he moved his family to Albuquerque. Karen eyed me over breakfast one morning.

“What?” I asked, instantly on the defensive. That seemed to be the way it was with us lately, one the aggressor and the other the defender… and the roles switched frequently. Frankly, it had been that way for at least a year. Last summer, things got so tense, she made a prolonged visit to her folks in Missouri. That separation brought both of us to our senses. I missed Karen and Susan terribly in those two weeks, becoming such a bear at the office, that my secretary threatened to quit.

When my two girls returned, things got better for a time. But the problem—whatever it was—had begun to creep back into the relationship. It wasn’t sexual. Karen and I were both good in bed. Our daughter? Well, Susan was the glue that kept our family a family. She was perky, daring, demanding, and a pain at times, but on the other hand, she was a five-year-old bundle of pure love.

In answer to my rather surly question, Karen put down her coffee cup and leveled a gaze at me. “What’s got into you lately. You seem much more relaxed. You’re about halfway pleasant to be around.”

Taken aback, I blinked. “I’m just me.”

“More like the me I remember meeting in college.”

I started to give a flip answer, but paused to consider. “I dunno,” I finally admitted. “I just feel… looser. More relaxed.”

Karen’s no dummy. She leveled a gaze. “It all started when Raul and Liz came to town.”

Denial died. I nodded. “Guess it did, didn’t it?” I smiled. “Good having my buddy back again. We grew up together, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I can see why you like him. He’s a great guy. And I just love Liz and the boys.”

A warm feeling swept me. “Yeah, it’s good having him back. Even better that the families get along. I think Susan about halfway thinks Dirk and Rico are her brothers.”

Karen reached out and grasped my hand. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”

It shook me that it was a serious question. I placed my other hand over hers. “Absolutely. We’re going to be fine.”

And things were for a time. Then I found myself wrestling with a vague unease, a tenseness, a dissatisfaction I neither understood nor could explain. I was restless. Something gnawed at my vitals, something I could give neither name nor form. The only time I could find relief was when Raul and I had a beer at the bar after work on occasion, or when one family visited the other for a dinner or a game of doubles tennis.

I finally began to come to grips with the problem one evening when Raul and I were sitting at a table in the Sportsman, a neighborhood bar we’d adopted as our own. After a draw on his draft, he leveled his gaze at me.

“Man, you don’t know how much I look forward to our bar nights.”

I think my eyebrows disappeared into my hairline. “You do? Man, these are lifesavers for me.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“You’re my pressure valve, Raul. Always have been. Don’t you remember back in school how you could calm me down when nobody else could?”

He smiled. “That was mutual. You’ve saved me from my Latin temperament more times than I can count.”

“We were a good team, weren’t we?”

He reached over and clasped my arm on the table for a moment. “The best. We complement one another better’n most buds, you know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We do. Always have. Didn’t think I was gonna survive when your folks moved away.”

“Me, neither. I almost went off the rail. Got in with some bad dudes. Know how my mom brought me back to reality? She always said, what would Rick think of your new friends.”

“And that was enough?”

He nodded. “That was enough.”

A little silence grew as he drew patterns with his fingertips on the table and I studied my best friend.

“Ra,” I said, reverting to my childhood pet name for him. “Time to level. Are you happy? Marriage solid?”

He was quiet as a slow smile built on his handsome lips. “Yeah. I am happy, especially since we came back to Albuquerque. Before that, things weren’t good between Liz and me. I love her, man, but I wasn’t handling things well.”

“Did you stray?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Almost a couple of times, but I kept it in my pants. Just ended up flirting. You?”

“Naw. Never even thought about cheating. But my marriage had started to have problems. That seven-year itch thing, I guess. Like you say, I love my wife, but sometimes—”

“Sometimes you want something else.”

His words hit me where it counted. “Yeah, that’s it. Something else. Something different.”

He studied the tabletop for a long second. “Rick, do you ever think about what we did when we were in the tenth grade?”

I swallowed hard. “All the time.”

 

****

It looks as if those suppressed feelings are roaring back, threatening to swamp Rick and Raul. How will this rediscovery affect their lives, their families, their very beings? Next time, we’ll have answers to everything.

 

Until next week.

 

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 

My personal links:

 

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 

See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Raul and Me (Part 1 of 3 parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #537

 Image courtesy of bobbiebach.com

 

I got everything straightened up after last week’s near disaster, thanks to my good friend Larry. Google decided it wanted to change things all around, so I lost all of my links. For a brief time, I couldn’t even retrieve my blog. But all’s well now… until the next time it’s not.

 Today, we’ll start a three-part story that might resonate with some of you. Without further ado, let’s look at Part 1.

 

****

RAUL AND ME

From my seat on a hard stone bench, I watched Raul Eparta enter the park and took stock of him as he approached in a long, macho stride. Despite the name, he didn’t look particularly ethnic. Too much of his Anglo mother in him for that. Oh, his curly hair was black as the dark side of the moon, and the big, soulful eyes were like muddy coffee, but it ended there. He had his mother’s pert nose and lush lips. And all those features knit well together, making him the most handsome man I’d ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.

Back in the day, we’d been neighbors on Colorado Street NE, gone to grade and high school together, been BFFs before there were BFFs. Buddies, we called it. Pals. Brothers. Think Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patrocus. For years, when you saw Raul Eparta, you also saw Rick Shambless. Cocoa and Cream, one would-be wit labeled us.

Fair enough. I was a golden blond at the time, although my hair has darkened over the years to what some would call dirty-blond. My green eyes contrasted nicely with Raul’s brown. My nose had more of a roman curve, but of course, none of that was important. What counted was that we were inseparable. If someone knew Raul’s opinion on a topic, he also knew Rick’s.

When we were sixteen, we experimented. Nothing more than jerking off with one another, but when girls showed up on our radar—his before mine—that came to a halt. I remember that at the time, I grew insanely jealous of his first girlfriend and was unable to understand why he gave her so much of what had once been my time. Then I passed through the phase and became bewitched with my own female relationships. Now, I remember the transition between exclusive buddies to good friends more fondly. In a sense, our friendship was strengthened. Double dating or talking about dates brought their own sense of sexuality. A more socially acceptable one.

His folks moving north during our senior year was a personal disaster for me, an ordeal that took a great deal of effort to overcome… for both of us. While it’s only sixty miles from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, it’s a big sixty miles. We managed to see one another a few times and renew a flagging relationship. In fact, those few hours snatched whenever we could manage were even sweeter, our banter more fulfilling. I got a kick out of learning about new girlfriends, as did he. But, of course, when we went back to our respective homes, the wrench went deeper than I ever imagined. We were close, man… close.

During our college years, the friendship almost died. I stayed home and went to UNM, but he chose the University of Colorado. Phone calls gave way to emails and text messages to mere intermittent contact. As I got serious about a young brunette named Karen, who became my bride in my final year at the U, contact with Raul virtually died. I did get one text message saying he’d gotten married and taken a job at an architectural firm in Denver. I later followed it with a message I’d started my own bookkeeping business and become the father of a golden-haired daughter. He trumped me with a message of two children, both boys.

About a year ago, my secretary surprised me by telling me there was a man named Raul Eparta in the waiting room asking for me. My heart took a leap, and I practically ran over her getting to the door. And sure enough, there stood my childhood buddy grinning at me, delight and affection written plainly on those handsome features. And I do mean handsome. He’d matured into a man of indescribable physical beauty. And while I worked hard at tennis and a daily workout routine, I wondered how he saw me.

“Hey, bro,” he said, brushing my hand away and sweeping me into a man-hug.

“My God,” I whispered in his ear, “it’s good to see you. What are you doing here?”

He held me at arm’s length, those dark eyes sweeping me and registering approval. “Took a position with Arnold Architect, downtown. I’m back in Albuquerque, guy.”

 

****

Best friends reunited. Can you imagine the feelings… the emotions… running through Raul and Rick at that moment? Of course, you can. We’ve all lost and then found buddies before. I know that I can feel their reunion intensely. Hopefully so can you.

 How does it go from here? Will they be able to recapture childhood feelings, or will time and maturity and marriages and fatherhood have changed things so this pleasure is merely momentary? We’ll learn a few of the answers net Thursday.

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Sterling Silver Scissors, A Guest Post

dontravis.com blog post #536

Image courtesy of dreamstime.com

Guys, I’m in the middle of a technical crisis. Google’s gone haywire on me, and I had a hell of a time finding access to my blog. Found it by accident, so was able to post for this week. Still going to take a lot of time to recreate some paths from here to there, so cross your fingers for next week.

 In the meantime, I lost so much time working on the problem I was relieved when my pal Mark Wildyr discovered our mutual friend Donald T. Morgan was a short story writer. Donald agreed to save my bacon by guest posting this week. His story follows:

 ****

STERLING SILVER SCISSORS

By Donald Travis Morgan

The sterling silver scissors reflected ambient light as they lay beside the inert body. The six-inch tangs had penetrated Oliver Swinson’s torso between the fourth and fifth ribs. Swinson, himself, lay sprawled across the Persian carpet in his opulent study. He’d been attractive and kept himself fit. Given the diamond ring on his right hand and his surroundings, he’d died a wealthy man.

A teak cabinet in the far corner caught my eye, and I walked over to examine the numerous pieces of very good origami it contained. You can never tell about these things, but the corpse didn’t look to be a man given to fashioning pieces of paper into art. Perhaps the scissors put the lie to that supposition.

My sergeant, a seasoned vet named Monroe, had arrived before I did. Now he cleared his throat. “The vic’s a back-east financier who recently retired out here. Can you believe that? Retired, and he can’t be past forty or forty-five. His nephew, a kid named Binky, found him this morning. The only other people in the house were William Halston, who’s visiting from back east; Mary Blane, the housekeeper; and Joseph Blane, the butler.”

“Okay, let’s go talk to them.”

The four people gathered in the living room had arranged themselves according to social status. Halston, a haughty man in his middle thirties, perched on the divan. The eighteen-year-old nephew slouched in a recliner. A pile of reddish-brown knitting yarn beside him morphed into a shaggy dog when he momentarily lifted his head as I entered. Mary Blane, as broad as she was tall, stood against the back wall. Her husband, a cadaverous shadow, hovered at her elbow

“My name’s Detective Williams. The sergeant has taken your statements, but I have a few questions.” I glanced down at the nephew. “Do you use the study often? Nice origami, by the way. Yours or Mr. Swinson’s?”

The youth showed a little animation before slipping back into nonchalance. “Thanks. Yeah, it’s mine. As to the study, uh-uh. By invitation only. The place was UO’s private reserve.” The kid hovered somewhere between handsome and pretty, but that studied indifference detracted from his image.

“UO?” I asked.

“Uncle Oliver.”

I asked the two servants, Mary and Joseph Blane, to join the Sergeant and me in the dining area and ascertained their movements last night. After they were finished at the house, they visited a married son and spent the evening playing with their grandchildren. Not a perfect alibi covering all the hours in question, but for the life of me I couldn’t see a motive for either of them. Nonetheless, better to reserve judgment until the picture was clearer. I mentally moved them to the “B List” of suspects and permitted them to retreat to the kitchen.

The medical examiner and his people arrived, and I spent a few minutes with them. Far too early for them to give me much definitive information, but they were able to estimate a time of death. Probably somewhere around two in the morning. Hmmm… the Blanes had returned by that time.

The sergeant and I went back to the living room where the houseguest and the nephew had apparently not moved a muscle since we left them.

“Hand me that ash tray on the coffee table, please.”

Managing to look bored, the nephew asked as he passed over the Baccarat crystal. “Why did you want that? Was UO bashed over the head or something?”

“No, but I confess to an interest in excellent crystal pieces. It’s quite good, you know.”

“UO only had the best,” he replied.

“Apparently,” I said as I handed it back to him. “You are his nephew?”

“Yes… sir.” The “sir came out grudgingly.

“And your name?”

“Horton Maysfield, but everybody calls me Binky.”

I resisted the urge to ask the source of the nickname, but that was likely one question that did not need answering. “I understand you found the body.”

“Yeah. He’s usually up before I am, so when I came down, and Mary told me he hadn’t showed up for breakfast, I went back upstairs looking for him.”

“Where is your bedroom?”

“Right next to his. But the walls are pretty thick, and I can’t hear him when he’s in his room.”

“So you went to the study?”

“That’s where he spent most of his time, so yeah, I went to the study. Found him laid out on the floor with those bloody scissors lying beside him.”

“Did you touch them?”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“Did you touch the body?”

Well… year, I shook him, you know to see if he would move. Then I felt to see if I could find a pulse or whatever. But he was a goner.”

“And then…?”

“And then I let out a yell and the Blanes showed up. A minute later, Mr. Halston got here.”

“Who called the police?”

“Mary dialed 911,” Halston said.

I gave my attention to him. He had likely been presentable in his younger years, but he’d allowed himself to run to fat. At least in the belly. Seemed cultured, bright, and civil. “Mr. Halston, what’s the purpose of your visit?” I asked.

“Purely social. Oliver and I go back a long way.”

“How long back?”

“Oh, ten years I met him my senior year at Columbia University when he came on campus looking for recruits for his brokerage. He hired me. Worked together until he retired and moved out here to the west. Then sporadic contact, at best.”

“And what prompted your visit at this time?”

“He surprised me with a phone call and an invitation. As I had some business in Los Angeles, I agreed to stop over on the way back to New York.”

I considered his voice and cadence a moment, after which I questioned the boy in the study while the sergeant took Halston’s statement in the dining area. Separately, they each sketched out the previous evening and night’s activities. Once those statements were taken, we thanked the two of them, and they left for other parts of the house. Halston headed for the stairway. Binky rose and gracefully took his leave, the multi-hued dog plodding along in his wake.

“What do you think?” Munroe asked.

“I know what happened.”

The sergeant’s eyes widened.

“Did you notice the kid handed me this ash tray with his left hand?”

“So?”

“Need to confirm it with the technicians, but I’m betting those scissors that did in the victim are left-handed.”

“They have left-handed scissors?”

“Sure. Each scissor—and it takes two to make a pair—is asymmetric. That’s because human hands are asymmetric. Left-handed scissors are constructed to accommodate this phenomenon. I’ll wager that pair belongs to Binky. He uses them to prepare paper for his origami art.”

“Just because they’re his doesn’t mean he’s the one who used them to kill his uncle?”

“Binky probably wasn’t Swinson’s nephew. He was his ‘boy.’”

“And he just up and killed his sugar daddy?”

“He did after Uncle Oliver passed him over to Halston last night. Halston was probably one of Swinson’s boys before he got too old.”

“You’ll play hell proving that… unless there are fingerprints on the scissors.”

“Oh, I doubt there will be. That’s why they weren’t still sticking in the man’s chest. Binky had to take them out to wipe his fingerprints off. Then he dropped them beside the body. I doubt it was pre-planned. Probably a moment of rage. My impression is the kid’s too spoiled for his own good… and apparently UO’s too. And he doesn’t strike me as a tower of strength. He’ll break. All we have to do is handle him right.

 ****

Well, there you are. I’m left-handed, so I knew (from bitter experience) there are lefty scissors. Did you? At any rate, I hope you enjoyed Donald’s story. Let me know, so I can pass it on to him.

 Thanks, Donald, for helping me out in a pinch.

Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Baud Youngfellow (Part Three of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #535

 Image courtesy of Joom

 

Tod’s a goner, isn’t he? Head over heels in love with the dreamiest fellow he’s ever laid eyes on. So how’s he going to handle it? Or is it even something he can handle? Read on and find out.

 

****

BAUD YOUNGFELLOW

Baud proved to be such a great guy to work with that I almost regretted having carnal designs on him. Almost. He didn’t put up with slacking or carelessness on the job, but that didn’t matter. I was so anxious to please this guy I earned compliments most of the time. It wasn’t long before he made me feel like a buddy… a special pal.

We didn’t socialize, like run around together, but I got an occasional invitation to stay afterward and sit on the porch with a glass of tea or a soda. I wouldn’t have minded one of the beers he kept in the fridge, but he didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. When he discovered I played chess, our socializing expanded a bit. I went over most Saturday mornings, not to work, but to play chess. Then we started tossing the football around or trying to burn one another’s hands off by hard throwing a baseball. Yeah, I was a special bud. I’d made it to that stage, but hadn’t figured out how to take it to the next.

Then one Saturday morning, he cut our time together short.

“Gonna have to quit early,” he said. “Myra’s coming over to cook me a dinner.”

My heart plunged.

He leaned in and winked at me. “You know how it is, you gotta pay them some attention or the whole neighborhood talks.”

My heart came right back up again, and I beamed. “I know.”

“You have a steady girl?” he asked.

Time to show him I wasn’t a kid. “Naw. Love ’em and leave ’em, that’s me.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said with a grin. “I better head off to the shower now.”

Gee, I needed a shower too. Wonder if he’d let me use his… at the same time he was in it? My britches filled out a little in the front at that thought.

I peddled home assessing the situation. He remembered my name from the first time I’d met him. Who does that? Someone who’s interested in remembering, that’s who.

He came to me to offer a job, I didn’t go to him. And at the same time, he’d called me a man. Great.

As my employer, he paid very well. Maybe a tad too well, like he really wanted me to hang around.

We sought one another’s company after work and on Saturday mornings. He was older’n me, and could have bummed around with somebody his own age, but no—he picked me.

He was not only a great guy, but he was touchy-feely too. He was always laying a hand on my shoulder, and boy, did that feel good. Got so I did the same thing. When I walked over to ask him a question, I’d put my hand on his shoulder. And he didn’t shrug it off.

And after the weather warned a bit, I’d asked him if he minded if I shucked my shirt to work, he’d said that was a good idea and stripped his off, just about causing me to swoon. I really liked putting my hand on his shoulder and touching naked flesh.

Not only that, but when he’d been explaining something to me about the job—we were working in the dining room now—he’d laid his arm across my shoulders. My knees sagged a little at his touch, but I recovered. Of course, he removed it after a minute, but it was long enough to make my britches bloom. And I’m pretty sure he saw my condition before I turned away.

Damnation! Why did I turn away? That had been my opportunity, and I’d blown it. The word “blown” just about caused me to pedal off into a ditch, but I recovered at the last minute. I made it home without disaster striking, and hopped into the shower. The mental image of Baude in his shower, soaping up and enjoying the feel of water sluicing off his naked flesh put me back in a condition. One I took care of with those delicious mind pictures playing before my eyes. I groaned so loud at the end I was afraid Mom heard me from the kitchen. As I was gasping and recovering from my efforts, I resolved to bring things to a head the next time I saw Baud. Crap, that wouldn’t be until Monday. Wonder if he’d mind if I came over Sunday afternoon.

Naw. We were buds. He wouldn’t mind that. That’s what I’d do after church… and ruin all the preacher’s good works of the morning. I snickered at the thought.

****

Sticking to my determination, I grabbed the bike and pedaled over to Baud’s, rehearsing how I was going to approach things.

Hey man, you’re sexy as hell, and I get a hard-on every time I see you. I’m tired of jerking off in the shower. How about we get it on.

Naw. Too crude. Needed to be suave… you know, like a man.

Hey, guy, you get my pheromones in an uproar. Let’s go upstairs to the bedroom.

Well, the “pheromone” part was sophisticated enough, but it still wasn’t right.

And so it went until I arrived at his house, still without the right approach. Have to play it by ear. Maybe he’d give me an opening… or proposition me!

He took a long time answering the door, and when he did, he about bowled me over. All he had on were his trousers. His hair, tousled, bare chested, barefooted. The sexiest I’d ever seen him. Even the bare feet.

He ran a hand through his hair. Wow! Talk about manly. “Hi, Tod, what’s up.”

I played it cool. “Wasn’t doing anything, so thought I’d come over to play a game of chess… or something.” I kinda bore down on the “… or something.” Would that be enough?

He kinda glanced behind him for a second. “Sorry, guy. I’m otherwise occupied.”

“Oh.”

Then I heard the last thing I wanted to hear. A voice calling from upstairs. A female voice. Pretty sure it was Elena Garcia’s voice. “Who is it, Baud?”

He turned and yelled. “Friend of mine. I’ll be up in a minute.” He faced me again and smiled. “Sorry about that. Maybe we can get in a game after we finish work tomorrow.”

I don’t know what my expression was at the moment, but I’d probably let my feelings show. At the very least, I blushed. “Sure. Shoulda called first. Sorry.”

That bicycle ride back to the house was the longest ride I’d ever made. For some reason, my legs were so exhausted I had trouble pedaling.

****

I seriously considered not going to work the next morning. Don’t know if I was more disappointed or more embarrassed. But there was plenty of both, I can tell you. In the end, I rode over, and the ride was sure shorter than the one home yesterday. I got there before I wanted.

Baud walked out of the house as I came up the steps and tossed me a Coke. “Let’s talk.” He planted his fascinating butt on the top step. I flopped beside him. He took a drink of his own soda—he preferred Dr. Pepper—and set the bottle on the steps between his legs. He acted uncertain for a minute. Was he going to fire me? Tell me to buzz off?

“Tod with one d,” he started in a halfway joking way. “I think I misled you.” He faced me and speared me with those tiger’s eyes. “Do you know why I hired you?”

I swallowed hard. “Uh-uh.”

“To explain, I have to tell you a story. I grew up in a house with my mother and father and my brother. My younger brother. His name was Steven. I was five years old when he was born, and I resented the hell out of him. It was a drag having him around. As a baby, when he cried, he got all the attention. When he was up and walking, he followed me everywhere. Pissed me to no end. “

Baud stretched his legs and let them dangle down the steps. “But you know what? When I was thirteen, I came down with the measles. A bad case of them. My mom told him to stay away from me or else he’d catch them too. But every night, he’d sneak into my room and crawl up in bed with me. When Mom or Dad caught him, they’d scold him. You know what he said?”

I shook my head.

“I’d rather have the measles than stay away from Baudy. That was his name for me. Can you imagine that? Well, he got them all right, in spades. After that, he had a brother, not a brat who always tried to shoo him off. We got close. Real close. Like brothers oughta be.”

“What happened?” I asked.

He looked at me with a strange look in his eyes. “He died when I was eighteen. Went on a hike with some friends. They were climbing a bluff when part of it gave away. He didn’t fall all that far, but he hit a rock at the base of the cliff… and died.”

“Geez, I’m sorry, Baud.”

“I decided to stay in La Rosa the moment I saw you standing at the side of the Bentley the day I first arrived. I saw Stevie. Or someone who resembled him enough to let me pretend it was him.”

I swallowed hard, gulped aloud, probably.

“And when we started working together, the bond became stronger. You’re a good guy, Tod, just like he was. You’re pleasant and likeable and handsome.  Just like Stevie. So I took a great deal of pleasure in your company and started treating you like I treated my brother. And… and….” He fell silent and studied the half-empty coke bottle between his legs. “And I misled you. Made you think my interest was something else.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.” I screwed up the courage to ask, “How…how’d you know.”

“Man, it was written all over your face when Elena called out. Not your fault. Mine. I saw it happening but didn’t know how to stop it without just cutting you loose, and I didn’t wanta do that.” He shrugged before taking a slug of his drink. “I shoulda just had this talk with you so you’d understand. Sorry.”

“Me too.”

He slapped a leg and looked at me. “So are we all right now?”

“Yeah, all right,” I lied.

Well, maybe I hadn’t actually lied. I’d always wanted an older brother.

 ****

C’est la vie! Or as they say around here, ¡Por así es la vida! How about it? Can Tod with one d accept Baud as a brother rather than a lover? My personal opinion is that his shower is going to continue to get some action until he finds someone of his own.

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Baud Youngfellow (Part Two of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #534

 Image courtesy of Joom

 

Last week we met Tod and Baud. And there seemed to be electricity in the air, at least from Tod. Let’s get right to it and see what develops, shall we?

 

****

BAUD YOUNGFELLOW

I didn’t see Baud Youngfellow again for a few days, but his big Bentley was often parked at the boardinghouse as I passed on the way to school, so he was still in town. Then my heart sank when it wasn’t there one morning. He’d left. My Oklahoma Adonis was gone. Nothing but a minor blip on my personal radar.

Except he wasn’t. That same morning I overheard some girls talking in the hallway, causing my spirits to perk up.

“Have you heard?” one of them asked, giving her brown curls a flip. “That dreamboat with the big car rented a house.”

“So he’s staying?” another asked.

“I hope so,” the third girl said. “Can you imagine what it would be like to get with him? His name shouldn’t be Baud… it ought to be Bawdy.”

Titters from them, a flash of jealousy from me. I mentally beat my head against the lockers. What did you expect? If he sent your pheromones scrambling, what did you think it would do to the fairer sex? I stopped looking for competitors among my own gender and expanded it to the whole of womanhood.

That very weekend, I ran into Baud as he came out of the hardware store. My knees went weak when he addressed me by name.

“Hi, Tod. It is Tod, isn’t it?” My head bobbed independent of my will. “I thought so. Is that with one d or two?”

“One.” Nobody’d ever asked me that in my whole life.

“Okay, Tod with one d, how’d you like a job? Part time till school’s out. Then we’ll consider making it full time.”

Flustered, and frankly addle-pated at the moment, I responded in the worst way possible. “I usually work at the Town Market summers.”

“Oh. Okay, maybe you can recommend—”

“Uh, what kind of job is it?”

“I’m doing some renovations on the Hawkins place. I’ve rented it with an option.”

“Option?”

“To buy it.”

Wow! That sounded permanent. “Well, I did some carpentry work for my uncle when he built a couple of sheds.”

“So you know which end of a hammer to bang with,” he said with a grin. “That’s good, but this is a little more delicate. Delicate, meaning scroll work, which is pretty touchy. I’m wainscotting the den, which will be my office, with some pretty expensive wood after I fashion it the way I want.”

“Fashion?”

“It’s fancy scrollwork. Artwork, actually. I’m a wood carver.”

My mouth got away with me again. “Woodcarving supports a Bentley automobile?”

He grinned, and as usual, my knees acted up. “It’s a Flying Spur, not the most expensive model. But seriously, my art isn’t what bought the Bentley. You know I come from Tulsa, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, back in the day, my family was in oil. That was when oil was big. So you see, I’m a trust fund baby. And I didn’t buy the Bentley. I ran around in a Volkswagen until my grandmother got fed up with that image and gave me my dead grandfather’s car.”

“Oh.”

“So what about it? Are you interested?”

My head answered for me again, nodding enthusiastically. “You bet. I used to do some wood carving, but that was back when I was a kid.” I think I blushed. He probably still considered me a kid.

“Atta boy. It’s proper that the first man I met in La Rosa is the guy who hooks up with me.”

Knees again. And my stomach joined them. Man, he’d called me a man for the second time. And hooked up? I’d hook up with this guy any way he wanted. My smile about ripped my lips apart. At the very least, my cheeks hurt.

We made arrangements for me to report after school on Monday for a couple of hours’ work. Only two more weeks remained before the term ended, and I looked forward to that. I’d work so hard he’d be sure to make it a permanent thing for the summer. After that, I floated home.

****

It didn’t occur to me until I was pedaling up to his driveway that a bicycle would instantly paint me with the “kid” label, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. My dad let me use the family car occasionally, but not every day. Most of the guys rode bikes to get around. La Rosa was that kind of town. Not big. And not affluent enough for everyone to afford a car. Maybe the cowboy hat I’d dug out of the back of my closet would be enough to change my image.

Baud stepped outside and watched me lean my bike against the garage wall. My shame evaporated with his first words.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about using a bike to get around town. Costs a fortune to simply fire up the Bentley.” He patted his flat belly. “Besides pedaling helps keep the weight off.”

Man o’ man! Working around this guy was gonna be something else. Any time he touched any part of himself, I wanted to go touch it too.

“Come on, let me show you what I’m up to.”

Gee, if he were only up to the same thing I was. Actually, I was impressed. The wainscotting he’d already installed was a rich walnut with fancy work along the top and the bottom of rectangle of wood… a panel he called it. Every second panel had sort of a gargoyle-head right in the middle. A relief panel, he explained.

I would have said this was professionally done until I spotted the partially completed panel at the worktable he’d set up right in the middle of the room. Come to think of it, it was professional quality. This guy was good. How in the hell was I going to help him?

He showed me. Before long, I was plying a special carving tool, a gouge, I think he called it, to some inexpensive throw-away wood to learn its application. He kept me at that for the entire three hours I worked. He stayed at my side in the beginning, but after I got the general hang of the thing, he went about his business, checking on me occasionally to correct something or show me some mistake I’d made. It wasn’t that hard to learn, once I got over being in a hurry. My biggest problem was keeping my eyes on the work instead of watching his trim butt or the muscles play in his back or roll in his arms. Did he work without a shirt in the summer, or did he stick with the thin T-shirt he wore now? Oh, wow. This was going to be exquisite torture.

 ****

So our local high schooler is in love. What about the worldly Oklahoman who set him afire? So far, no clues… except that Tod thought Baud’s gaze lingered overly long below the belt the first time they met. Oh, yes. And Baud sought him out to hire him for a part-time job. Wonder what happens next. By the way, how do you like the picture of Tod in his tan hat?

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Baud Youngfellow (Part One of Three Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #533                                                          

 Image courtesy of Joom

 

Thanks for indulging me while I wallowed in nostalgia last week. This week, I’ll get on with regular business. Hope you enjoy.

 

 

****

BAUD YOUNGFELLOW

 

Baud Youngfellow hit our little New Mexico town like an Oklahoma tornado. I said Oklahoma because word got around that’s where he came from. And I said tornado because that’s the effect he had on me. He simply drove in one day in the fanciest car anyone had ever seen. A big affair with a stately grille, a rich maroon color—that wasn’t quite like any other maroon I’d ever seen—with the word “Bentley” stamped on it.

When he got out of the driver’s seat, he took off what must have been the biggest hat in the state—and certainly in La Rosa—and ran a hand through a shock of thick, blond hair with dark highlights and a bit of a curl. Boots that were snakeskin or lizard skin or something. A diamond ring on his left hand flashed in the sun about blinding me. And when he smiled at all the gawkers—including me—his teeth were so white they about finished the job.

But what got to me was how handsome he was. Not picture handsome—you know like those photos of movie stars you know they photoshopped—but interesting handsome. Well, sexy handsome, I guess. Guess, hell, I know. Just tall enough, a little over average height. Carrying just the right amount of weight—around one-seventy, I’d guess. And broad, broad shoulders that narrowed down to a small waist, and hips that flared just a little.

The wide stance he adopted as he scanned the area let you know that here stood a man. When he spoke—to me yet—his deep baritone just shy of a bass, confirmed that impression.

“Wonder if you can direct me to a good place to stay for the night?”

I went weak in the knees as his green eyes scanned me. The whole me. They seemed to linger just a tad below my belt, but that might have been my imagination… or my hope. When I say green eyes, I mean green. Green like tiger’s eye marbles with a pupil in the center of each.

I gulped and told him the boardinghouse on Broad Street was his best bet.

“Thanks, young fella,” he said. Young fella? He couldn’t be more’n four or five years older than my eighteen. “Can I ask the name of the first man I’ve met in La Rosa?”

I gulped again and tried to speak through a dry throat. “Tod. Tod Halton.”

He held out a broad, strong-looking hand. “Baud Youngfellow. Glad to make your acquaintance, Tod.”

I mumbled something—hopefully appropriate—as I imagined that warm hand grasping something else. That’s when I realized it was love at first sight. At least on my part.

When he released my hand, I tucked it in my left armpit to try to hold onto the warmth of his touch. Realizing he was about to move on, I grasped for something to keep him here.

“Bob?” I asked. “Did you say your name was Bob?” Stupid, I know, but I was pretty stupid at that moment.

“No, it’s Baud. B-A-U-D. That was my grandfather’s name on my mother’s side. William Baud. Unusual, but it serves the purpose,” he said with a laugh.

“You just passing through?”

“Well, not sure about that. Looking for a place to land, and La Rosa seems promising. I’m sick of cities. Lived in Tulsa all my life and ready for a change.”

My hopes rose. “This is a nice town. You’ll like it.”

“How big is it?” he asked.

“About five thousand,” I said. In my temporary role of town promoter, I babbled on. “Bout a third Hispanic, fifty percent Anglo, the rest made up of Indians and a few blacks, and some Vietnamese who came after that war.”

Those fascinating eyes roved me again. “And which are you?”

I probably blushed. “My grandma used to say I’d make a good flag. Some brown, some white, and a dash of red.”

His eyes examined my face. “Makes an interesting mix. You’re a good-looking fella.”

“T-thanks. You are too.” I know I blushed then, no doubt about it. “Except you’re really… uh, handsome.” I’d almost said sexy.

He winked. “Helps with the ladies, doesn’t it?” He clamped his hat on his head, touched the brim in a sort of salute, and walked into the drug store.

I almost followed him inside, instead, I floated all the way home. Must have been floating because I couldn’t feel my feet hit the ground. I made it home in my non-alcoholic drunken state all right, said hello to mom and went straight to my room, tossing my books on my desk before flopping on the bed where images of the dreamboat I’d met floated endlessly before my eyes. My skin puckered when I belatedly realized he’d said I was the first man he’d spoken to in La Rosa. Imagine that, a man.

That brought me around to another subject. Or, at least, forced me to face the present one. Who was I? What was I? Eighteen years old, a senior in high school, and I still didn’t know. I wasn’t sissy-acting. Played sports and all that, but I seemed to hang onto my childhood buddies tighter than they did me. They all had steady girlfriends—even if they changed them up a lot—while I just dated now and then. Chances were that given the option of a date with a pretty girl or a clandestine beer with a buddy, I’d opt for the brew.

My carnal experience was limited with either gender. I’d gone all the way with a girl before her family moved out of town. Twice, and I liked it. But I couldn’t ever, ever forget jerking off with my best friend Josh. Half a dozen times before he started going steady with his girlfriend. When I was honest with myself, I got steamed up more with remembering my time with Josh than with Wren.

But I had never reacted to anyone like I had to Baud… funny first name or not. I decided at that moment, I had to figure a way to get with Baud Youngfellow. And by get with, I meant “Get With.”

I bounced off the bed and rooted around in my closet until I found what I was looking for. It was a little battered and tan rather than white… but it was a hat. And it looked good on me, even if my hair and eyes were brown instead of blond and green.

 

****

So our narrator is smitten to the point he’s dug out a cowboy hat just like—well, almost like—his newly found idol’s. Wonder what happens next.

 

Until next week.

 

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 

My personal links:

 

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 

See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

It’s That Time of Year Again – My Blue Period

dontravis.com blog post #532                                                          

Once again, I ask your indulgence while I spend some time and effort at personal healing. Yes, it’s my blue period again, but as you’ll see below, there’s more to it this year. I’ve kept it shot so as not to intrude upon your time too much. Thanks.

The first photo is of my wife, Betty, taken years ago. Although it doesn't look like it in the picture, she had coppery red hair at the time.

This one is of my older son, Clai. Like his father, you need to look closely to determine his hair color. 

The unusual spelling of his Christian name, Clai, is derived from his mother's maiden name: Claiborne.

 I haven’t heard from anyone speculating on Widget Jackson’s story. Would like to have your take on it.                                                     

****

DARKLING CLOUDS, RESTLESS SHADOWS

Those who have read my blog for any length of time know I take time out once a year to do some personal remembrances and grieving. I once called February through April my “blue period.” Alas, now it stretches for nearly half a year. Let me explain.

My wife Betty died at Kindred Hospital in Albuquerque, New Mexico on February 12, 2009 of respiratory failure, renal failure, and sepsis.

I met my future wife when the US Army transferred the 47th Infantry Regiment of the 9^th Division from Ulm, West Germany (as it was designated at the time) to Fort Carson, Colorado. Four of us enlisted men bummed around together and had a marvelous time in Germany. I was the Second Battalion clerk, Carl was Headquarters Company Clerk, and I don’t recall the MOS of Ernie and Kurtz.

Once we landed in Colorado Springs, we discovered Carl had a sister in Denver with another single woman as a roommate. Lo and behold, there were two single women living right across the hall in the same apartment house. Long story short… Carl, Ernie, and I ended up marrying one of the gals, and Kurtz got away. I married Carl’s sister.

After leaving the army, I found employment in Denver. Our first child Clai was born there. Eventually, I was transferred to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I fell in love with the place immediately, but Betty, a natural redhead, had allergies… one of which was to dust. It took awhile for her. Our second child Grant was born here.

So why did I call February to April my blue quarter? Betty was born March 13, Died in February, and our wedding anniversary was April 8… all dates that called her to mind.

When did my Blue Quarter become a half-year ordeal? My older son, Clai, died in St. Michael’s Hospital in Texarkana, Texas of sepsis on January 22, 2021; his birthday is May 14. Ergo, my sensitive dates now stretch over 5 of the 12 months of the year.

Clai was a sickly child, as well as a prickly child. He grew out of the sickly stage for a while and turned into a very good auto mechanic. He was bright but not always practical. He suffered from what he called ADD (which I called Multiple Personality Disorder) and did not make friends easily since you had to figure out who he was at any given time. Clai was more of a loner than his old man. Clai never married. He became further disabled because of a severe back problem and moved to Texarkana to be near my mother—his grandmother –whom he loved dearly. When she died, he remained in Texarkana. An alcoholic, he received his 23-year sobriety pin before developing a series of worsening ailments, including heart trouble. A failing heart was the reason behind the sepia that eventually took him.

I miss them both.

 PS: My younger son suffered a heart attack last November. Fortunately, he was in the waiting room at Presbyterian Hospital with his wife when it struck, so the wheeled him into emergency where he received an angioplasty and a stint. A little rocky there at first, but he seems to be recovering.

****

Thanks again for putting up with this for another year. Otherwise, I survived the holiday season and the end of last year in reasonable shape. Hope the same is true for all of you.

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

                                                                                                                                 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.