Chapter Eight – Redeployment
I got up late and made myself breakfast; seeing the new boxes of Cocoa Puffs and Apple Jacks in the cupboard made me smile. B. J. was more than just company for me; he was that rare commodity: a responsible roommate. I think he had cleaned the kitchen while I was gone, too. There was a note on the kitchen table that was puzzling. Just two words. It asked the question, “Troukhatchevsky's motive?”
If B. J. was sending me a message, I didn't get it. I texted him, taking care to spell it right. 'Troukhatchevsky?' Midway through my bowl of granola the answer came back, 'numb nuts the violinist'. That made me smile. I don't know any violinists, let alone one named Numb Nuts. Tolstoy-related, I guessed.
Unemployment is awesome. Nothing to do. Maybe not so awesome. What to do? When in doubt wash the truck, I decided. It was one of those late fall days that are suddenly close to summertime warm. Perfect for truck washing. I got my stuff and went out into the mostly-deserted parking lot, just a beat up, old step van with out-of-state plates, Mrs. Luckett's Toyota, and my truck. I went to work. The paint was starting to show those little etches you get from wiping dirt around. I'd need some filler wax by spring if it was really going to shine.
“Hi, I'm Paul Shuler, staying with Vince.” The accent was a give away, of course, and a Virginian would have said hey, not hi. Paul was not a local boy.
“Racer Tyree. I'd shake, but ...” I held out my soapy, dirty hands.
“Vince is fuckin' me, in case you hadn't figured that out.”
“Uh … I hadn't actually.”
“You know he's gay, right? So it's kinda natural that I'd be ...” He hesitated and then said, “I'm a New York Jew. We like to get all our cards on the table. It eliminates a lot of misunderstandings.”
“Ok, I'm a Virginia Protestant. Nobody's fuckin' me and I live over there. My roommate is B. J. Carteret, who's the same, I think.” I pointed to my end-unit apartment.
“A truck this nice would just get trashed in Brooklyn. Parking lot dings, fender benders, the touch-method of backing up, any car in New York more than a month looks like junk.”
“I got it used. The last owner took good care of it.”
“Are you gay?” Paul asked me straight out.
“The short answer is no,” I told him.
“The short answer?”
“It's complicated.”
“I KNOW!” he wailed. “SO complicated! I was totally straight until about three weeks ago. At least I think I was. Actually I was kind of a eunuch. Like I didn't get much sex at all. Girls don't find me very … you know … or maybe you don't know … you're good looking.”
“Thank you.” I bent across the hood to get some water drops.
“And POLITE! I hardly ever used the words thank you until I came here. WHOA! You're not wearing underwear!”
“Dirty work,” I explained. “The less I wear the less I have to wash.”
“You're not wearing much … If I did that people would laugh. I'm real pale and hairy.” He pulled up his shirt, showing me a very hairy and white stomach. The hair grew in a pattern; either that or he combed it, and I didn't think he combed it. I could see why girls might be a little put off.
“What happened three weeks ago that changed you?”
“I met Vince. You know … I really think it's his blond hair. From the back he could be anything you want. I don't want to say a girl … cause he isn't a sissy or anything. But looking at him from the back, he could be anything you want to imagine. And that was what I saw when … after work we stopped for a couple beers and the next thing I know we're out behind the bar and he's suckin' my cock and I'm looking down and all I see is that blond hair. And it was ok; but then he expected me to do the same and I don't DO that kind a stuff, right? But he's persuasive, and a little awesome, and a little intimidating, right? And he DID suck me off first, so ...”
“Sometimes stuff just happens, gets out of control … I get it,” I told him. That was almost like my experience with the guy who sold me the truck, except for the blond hair part.
“I KNOW! So, ok, you can laugh off a blow job. But I went home with him and we did it again. And then we did it in the morning. And then driving a load of furniture to New York … the van leaks a little … it rained and we stopped under a bridge and took it to the next level. Vince first, of course … he's very polite, like you … And then it kept raining on and off and we stopped again in Jersey, near Philly, and he fucked me for the first time. Not a great experience, taking it up the old pooper, right?”
“I wouldn't know about that part.”
“But a couple days later, he did it again … and it wasn't so bad. And then driving back here we stopped in Delaware in a park… and he just blew me to bits, by whgich I mean he fucked me not blew me … and changed my entire world view.”
“You like it?” I asked, thinking back to the time I almost let the guy who sold me the truck do it.
“Am I his sex slave, you mean? Yeah, pretty much. Vince is awesome. Or his blond hair is. Or the sex is … I'm not sure which is which.”
“Wow!” I wasn't sure what else to say. Nobody ever poured out a story like that to me before. No prelims, just: Hi! I'm Paul and here's the story of my life including a bunch of sexual details.
“So, I'm sorry you're not gay. I was hoping I might find somebody … who … you know … could give me a basis for comparison.”
“Paul, I'm not your man, but thank you for considering me.”
“So fuckin' polite! In New York you'd probably hit me.”
“Some people in these parts would, too. I'm not one of them.”
“We're leaving with another load of furniture in the morning. I think I'll be back in a week. See you then.” He walked back to Vince's place.
Paul had made the truck washing time pass quickly. It was odd. There was nothing threatening about him. I didn't mind him telling me all that stuff. If Slick had said “You're not wearing underwear,” I'd have … I got goosebumps, the bad kind, thinking about Slick saying something like that to me. I hated it when he'd take note of my body. I got cleaned up and drove to Old Dominion Speedway, see if I still knew anybody there and maybe see if there was any work for me. Before I left I thought about Paul's comment about being polite. It inspired me to call Vicki and be polite some more.
“Hey, Vicki. I thought I'd call and say how nice it was seeing you the other night. I really enjoyed your company.” Which I guess was like telling her I really enjoyed fucking her, but those weren't the words used and she was polite in return. I was glad I called her. Like Momma always said, it would have been rude not to.
At the speedway, my good mood got let down a little. I still knew some guys, but nobody was looking for help. Winter is not a time with a lot of demand for spare hands, unless I wanted to be a janitor. It might come to that, I told my old boss. It turned out he knew Chess, so I updated him on how Slick's operation was going.
“Slick give you any problems?” he asked me, using that tone that implied bad things.
“No, sir. There was another boy who sometimes did chores for Slick.” He got my meaning perfectly.
I walked around saying hey to folks, telling them I was looking for work. Everybody was friendly but had nothing in the way of work to offer until springtime when the track would reopen. Ok, the trip wasn't a complete waste of time; there were some genuine promises of work in spring, but that was three or four months away. I had saved up some of my pay, but winter was definitely looking lean unless I got something. I was heading for my truck when my old boss called out to me.
“Talking to you reminded me I owed Chess a call, if not a few dollars. So I called. He couldn't say enough good things about you, Racer.”
We talked and finally, after a lot of reminiscences about Chess, he told me about a place called White Post Restorations, a place that restores classic cars. Now Virginia is full of tiny towns and I thought I had heard of them all, at least the ones in my part of the state; but White Post was a new one, and it was only about twenty-five miles away from Warrenton.
I called and the owner invited me over the next day. He wanted me to see the place. I told him I didn't need see anything, I was ready to work. He was friendly, but didn't commit. Well, at least I had something to do tomorrow.
So, as the sun was going down, I sat telling B. J. about all this. With a hoodie on, the vodka tonic tasted great even as the evening temperature dropped.
“I don't care if it's a summer drink,” B. J. said. “I like it year round. I just use less tonic in the winter.”
I told him about my call to Vicki. “So she asked if we wanted to go to her house the Saturday after Thanksgiving. They are having a Christmas tree party.”
“You want to?”
I smiled in answer. “Sure. The invite was just that. No promise of anything. But who knows? You wanna go?”
“Yes, I want to!” B. J. was excited. “Really? Both of us?”
“That's what she said. I told her I'd ask you. Maybe you can call her back with a yes for both of us.”
He was on his phone in a flash. While he was talking, Vince came out of his apartment and walked toward our porch. He called my name and I went down to the parking lot to talk to him.
Vince introduced himself and I said I remembered the name from high school. He got right to the point. “Paul said he talked to you today.” I smiled and said yes. Vince smiled back and said, “He gets right to the point doesn't he.” I laughed and said yes again.
At that point B. J. joined us. “I'm B. J. Carteret,” he said in a gruff voice.
“Vince Martin,” Vince answered. “Anyway, we're gonna be gone for a few days, maybe a week. Just wanted to let you know. If you see anything odd, maybe let Mrs. Luckett know about it? She can call me.”
Back on the porch I thought about telling B. J. about my conversation with Paul. B. J. started talking first. “Why's he talking to you?”
“Just being neighborly. There's only six apartments here. Everybody says hey.”
“I guess. But you know what he is. I don't like seeing him taking an interest in you.” B. J.'s tone was totally serious.
“Beej, I can take care of myself. Besides, maybe you're the one he's interested in.”
At first B. J. looked pissed, but slowly broke into a grin. “I don't think so. I don't appeal to that kind of person.”
“That dude he's driving with – Paul – they're boyfriends. He's not interested in either one of us.” I told him some of Paul's conversation, leaving out the part about Paul looking for somebody he could compare with Vince.
“No shit? They did it right under an overpass?” B. J.'s tone had changed to one of admiration. And then he thought about it. “I still don't like them messing with you. I just don't like it, Racer,” he repeated.
“Just talkin'; not messin',” I told him again. He didn't look convinced. "Take it easy, Beckley."
"You're the only one I'd let call me that and I'm not sure I like you doing it." He thought about it and grinned. "Isn't it a sucky name? You want another drink?" He ran his hand through my hair on his way to the kitchen.
I'm liking B.J. as well. I think it's cute the way he treats Racer. So many little hints but still the gentleman. Certainly not like Paul. I'm wondering what new adventure Racer will have possibly working restoring classic autos.
Most things in my stories are there for a reason.
