Horizons (5 page)

The phone rang, snapping him out of his melancholia, the business of patching up broken bodies grounding him again. He spoke into the receiver, telling whoever was on the other line that he’d be there in five minutes.

T
RAFFIC
was snarled at Telegraph and Ashby. I waited for the gridlock to break up, the sounds of Linkin Park coming through the speakers, telling me that in the end, nothing really matters. Ironic words after the trauma of the past few hours. My conversation with Jody kept replaying in my head. Even though I’d defended my dad, I knew that his refusal to put me on drugs was a mistake. The wounds from my brothers’ jeers and taunts were still fresh in my brain. The sense of failure whenever I was unable to do my schoolwork always outweighed any sense of accomplishment on the football field. I envied people who could read a book without nodding off. I wanted to be the person teachers called on, knowing they’d get the right answer. Instead, I’d always sit at the back of the class and pray they wouldn’t notice me.

My frustrations drove me to act out at an early age. I was well known for my short fuse and accompanying fits of anger. My brothers would call me Clark the Spark, always waiting to see what I’d destroy during a temper tantrum. The doctors had advised my parents to sign me up for some physical activity to give me the release I needed. The end result was football, a sport I seemed to be well suited for. The double-edged sword was that my father balked at giving me the medication I needed because of my prowess on the football field.

The only time I felt good about myself was when I was in uniform. It was also when my brothers started to give me some modicum of respect and lighten up on the insults. They knew I had more talent in my little finger than all four of them rolled together, so they watched in silent disbelief as I decimated my opponents on the field.

I had found my calling in a big way. Everyone’s opinion of me shifted, and I was no longer called the family dummy. I still had problems with attention, even on the football field, but in that environment, it was something I could control. So long as I knew exactly where I needed to be at a given time, I could complete the task.

Off the field, I continued to flounder. My brain just didn’t work the way it should. I would forget things half the time, unable to get from point A to point B without getting lost somewhere along the way. I had a hell of a time finishing anything, such as laundry. My clothes were always appearing a day or two later, after someone found them abandoned in the dryer. Going to the store without a list was a big deal. Remembering where I put the list was a fucking joke. I’d always start out doing one thing and then get distracted by a tangent along the way.

School was a primary and perpetual source of tension. In high school, the teachers watched out for me, thanks to the badgering of the football coaches. I became one of the “special” kids who were babied along. A lot of teachers turned a blind eye to my shortcomings for the sake of the team. This was an all too common occurrence; I would come to find out. I wasn’t the only one who had issues with learning and attention, but the old
misery loves company attitude
failed to make me feel any better.

I
SPENT
the next day in a state of high anticipation, regularly checking and rechecking my answering machine to make sure Jody hadn’t called to say he’d changed his mind. My backpack was loaded with books and note pads to make sure I had everything I needed for our session tonight. Finally, when I could do no more, I left the apartment and went running again. I needed to stay focused and so far this was the only method that seemed to work.

After running, I came home to shower and change. My answering machine was blinking, and I hit play with a sense of dread, fearing the worst. Instead of Jody it was my mother, which was a huge relief. I hit redial, and she was on the phone after a few rings.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, baby. Where were you?”

“Out running.”

“Can you come home this weekend?”

“Why?”

“It’s Robby’s birthday.” My oldest brother was about to turn thirty. He was also married and soon to become a father.

“I’ll drive up on Saturday.”

“Why not Friday night?”

“Things to do, Mom.”

“What things?”

“Uhh, is this the FBI?”

“Sorry, sweetie.”

“It’s okay.”

I hung up, wrapped my cast in plastic, and showered in preparation for my meeting with Jody. I still couldn’t believe he was willing to do this for me. After the way I acted that night at the restaurant, I was surprised he even consented to see me that day in the ER. I wondered if he was used to the insults and rejection because he was gay. I stopped myself as soon as those thoughts entered my head. I was doing it again, making assumptions about something I knew nothing about.

As a prison guard, my father was quite familiar with gay sex. He’d come home from work, ranting about everything that went on with the inmates, calling them freaks of nature. The little I knew about gay men was what I’d picked up from his tirades. The worst part about listening to him was the knowledge that I had an unhealthy interest in other men that I’d been smothering on a daily basis for a long time.

I was perfect on the outside. Shit, I’d been told how good-looking I was since I was four years old, but none of the words meant anything, because I knew I was flawed. I just had to make sure no one figured it out.

“C
LARK
!”
Jody said, shaking my arm to get my attention. We’d only been reading for ten minutes, and I was already zoning out.

“What?”

“Pay attention,” he said with infinite patience.

“You’re going to get sick of saying that.”

“Come on,” Jody cajoled, grabbing a piece of white paper and drawing some stick figures and circles on it. We were reading James Hilton’s
Lost Horizon
; an easy book, Jody had remarked when I handed it to him. If it was so simple, then how come none of it made sense when I was reading it? He drew a plane and some mountains, almost treating me like a five-year-old.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“What?”

“Drawing pictures. I feel like I’m in kindergarten.”

“You’re paying attention, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why I’m drawing pictures,” Jody said. “Some people are more visual than others. They need to see, rather than just hear. You’re obviously one of those.”

“Is that why I get football and all the plays? ’Cause they draw everything up in diagrams?”

“Probably. I’m sure that couldn’t hurt. Plus, you love the sport.”

“I guess. Okay, so go on and explain this.”

“Okay, here’s the plane and the four passengers. Henry Conway, the British consul, Charles Mallinson, his vice-consul, Henry Barnard, whose real name is Chalmers Bryant. He’s an American finance guy that just embezzled one hundred million dollars and is on the run. And lastly,” Jody said, putting his finishing touch to the drawing, “this woman is named Roberta Brinklow. She’s a missionary. They’re about to leave Afghanistan for parts unknown. People are being evacuated, and these four are thrown together on the little plane.”

“Then what?” I asked, licking my lips and staring at Jody’s mouth. He had perfect white teeth and a pouty lower lip I wanted to nibble and suck. I was so caught up in the fantasy I’d completely forgotten what he just said.

“Clark.”

“Huh?”

“What are you thinking?”

Oh man, you don’t want to know
. “Nothing.”

“Can you get your head back in the story?”

“I’ll try.”

“Okay… focus now. The plane takes off, and no one seems to know where they’re going. It’s almost like they’ve been hijacked.”

“Were they?”

“No one knows for sure. The other passengers are hoping Conway knows, since he’s in charge, but he has no idea where they’re headed, and to make matters worse, they develop some kind of engine trouble, and the plane crashes high up in the mountains. The pilot is injured and just before he dies, he tells Conway about a lamasery called Shangri-La.”

“What’s a lamasery?”

“It’s a monastery where holy men reside.”

“Why the fuck don’t they call it that?”

“Because it’s the correct word,” Jody said, smiling at me, showing off his teeth and that dimple that made me crazy.

“Go on,” I said, forcing myself to look at the paper and not Jody.

“Just after the pilot dies, they notice a group of people appearing on the horizon, coming toward them carrying an old man on a chair.”

“What do you mean on a chair?”

Jody drew two lines on the paper and put a chair on top of the lines with another stick figure on it. “Like this.”

“Oh.”

“The passengers are confronted with strangers who look Chinese, so Conway concludes that they are definitely somewhere in or around Tibet. The guy on the chair tells them his name is Chang, and he’s going to take them to Shangri-La.”

“To that place, the lama, whatever.”

“The lamasery.”

“’Kay.”

“So the small group begins the trip to Shangri-La. Most of them go along willingly, but Mallinson is unhappy about everything that’s occurred so far and doesn’t want to go.”

“What’s he all pissed off about?”

“He’s negative and stuck in his ways… can’t deal with change.”

“But he goes anyway.”

“No choice. They would have left him there.”

“And when they got there, what happened?”

“They see a beautiful ancient stone building on top of a mountain, shrouded in mist, and Conway is taken by his surroundings.”

“And the others?”

“You are going to have to find that out for yourself. We are done for tonight. It’s late, and I have to be up at five in the morning.”

“It’s only ten!”

“Time for bed.”

“Okay,” I said, giving in. “Thanks for doing this. You have no idea how relieved I am.”

“I can guess,” Jody replied seriously. “It’s not right; what they did to you.”

“Hey,” I said, stretching out my hand and placing it on top of his. “It’s all good.”

Jody searched my face, waiting. When nothing was forthcoming, he said, “Is it?”

“It is,” I said quietly.

“All right.” He stood abruptly and walked over to the other side of the kitchen and pulled open the door. “I’ll see you again on Monday. Have a nice weekend.”

I picked up my book bag and threw all my stuff into it. When I got ready to walk out the door, Jody stopped me by putting his hand on my arm. We stared into each other’s eyes for the longest time as the sexual tension curled around us like cigar smoke. Finally, Jody broke eye contact. “You’d better get going,” he said, turning his back and walking over to the kitchen sink. Good thing, because my body was reacting to his touch and I’d hate for him to notice. I made my way out the door and slammed it shut behind me.

When I got to the car, I sat there for a minute trying to get my emotions in check. I started the engine and drove down the hill, passing the Claremont Hotel to my right and heading out to Telegraph Avenue. I was too wound up to go to bed, so I decided to head out to Folsom. At this time of the night, the traffic would be nonexistent, and I’d probably be there by midnight. Who cares if I hadn’t packed a bag? The need to get out of town and away from Jody was paramount.

J
ODY
grabbed a beer out of the fridge, adjusting himself as his erection pressed tightly against his pants. This seemed to be a common occurrence whenever Clark was in his thoughts or close at hand. He’d almost done something stupid tonight. The need to kiss him clawed at his gut, but common sense prevailed, averting what would have probably been a major disaster. He was pretty sure that Clark would push him away or, more likely, punch him in the face. He didn’t expect him to walk out of the closet gracefully.

Jody pushed the sliding door open and stepped out on the deck. It was warm, surprisingly humid for the bay area, the thick air enveloping him like a shroud. He threw himself on one of the Adirondack chairs and leaned his head back against the dark-green wood, giving in to his thoughts.

God, he was beautiful! Clark was a perfect physical specimen, made even more appealing by the fact that he was unaware of his effect on people. Jody couldn’t see the ego anywhere. In fact, he was the opposite; humble and even pathetically grateful for the attention that
Jody was paying him. Clark seemed almost childlike in his
countenance, despite the fact that he was a rising star in his world.

Jody hadn’t felt this kind of attraction in ages. The last time he’d lusted over a man like this was early in his college career, the year he’d met Rick. That attraction was almost as powerful as this, only it had not ended the way he hoped.

Thoughts of Clark did things to his body that he’d buried along with his lover four years ago. The elevated blood pressure and racing heart reminded him that he was alive and part of the world again. He was waking up from a long nightmare, thanks to the football player, whose mere presence stimulated a need to touch and feel once more. Jody had been convinced he’d never fall for another guy, but his body was telling him a different story. Imagining Clark writhing under his touch gave him an instant boner.