A High Country Tale Ch. 01

A High Country Tale

Columbine and Bells

Ma'am, if looks could lick, I'd be an ice cream cone...could you please stop the video?" Jeremy did not like to be streamed live without his consent. It happened more than he or I wished for, what with the current state of technology. My man was verifiably photogenic. And nothing if not outspoken.

We were cooling down at the water fountain by Barton Springs after our morning run and the woman had caught sight of us from somewhere. The dogs lapped greedily from the water bowls at our feet, humid weather taking its toll on the two rescues we lived with. Our running attire consisted of running shorts, sweat socks and Asics in this weather. Jeremy's resultant exposure highlighted the superb anatomy he honed.

Sweating profusely, our shorts must be just about soaked to see-through. Apparently deciding that we desired social media exposure, the lady brazenly approached us, android raised and rolling.

Not. Neither desired, nor happening.

The ill-mannered woman didn't seem to hear, or chose to ignore the polite request. Likewise, the second request. So, JFK's plan B went into action.

"Luke, got your phone?" he palmed his hand my direction. Understanding his intent, without comment I retrieved my iphone from the plastic baggie in my sweat sock, handing it over.

Jeremy raised the device, centered his face in selfie mode, set the video function to record and approached her. Phone in one hand, other hand lewdly cupping his prodigious package.

Head-on, he closed the gap between them, beginning his practiced response to such intrusions, "This be Brother J-Man, coming from Zilker Park in Austin. My man and I are finishing our morning workout here, folks, and are experiencing an uninvited and unacceptable encroachment by an elderly shemale—at least it appears to be-- in search of cheap-ass thrills."

The pear-shaped woman didn't lower her phone, continuing her recording of the minimally-clothed black stud before her. How Ugly-American is this woman, I thought? Go, J-Boy.

Jeremy continued his play-by-play, now flipping from selfie to projection of the video streamer herself, "May I introduce...Cruella De'Ville...recording us without our consent, from a public space here in the heart of Austin, Texas. Capitol city of the state where the Texas Recording Statute 16.02 of the Texas Penal Code --- a law prohibiting single consent recording --- is the law. Please say hello, Ms. Elderella, and could you tell everyone here on YouTube what your real name is so we may make proper attribution? Of course, we can just enter this video into the FBI data bank for auto-match, if you prefer."

The middle age woman finally registered the scenario unfolding, wisely choosing to cease her rudeness. But, only under this flip back duress. She lowered her device, glowered toward the handsome man daring to stream right back at her streaming video, turned on her heel in retreat mode and vacated our vicinity. Epithets leaked loudly from her mouth in diarrheic nastiness, sealing her rep.

Awkwardly tripping over a brick in the paved walkway, she nearly capsized into the adjacent flower bed. "Stand up, Pearl, that is definitely NOT your best angle," Jeremy snickered at the double-wide moonshot, "and if I find my sweaty butt on display by your recording upload, know that not just your extra-wide is gonna be next to it...your subpoena will be posted, too. Have a nice day, sweetie."

I was stifling my own reaction to this hilarity. Both Jeremy and I were well aware that no such law existed in this casino-capitalistic realm. Austin existed as supremely weird, progressive and populated by the most professional populace in the big state. It was, nevertheless, under the quaintly regressive control of red-state ignorance, politically. No-holds-barred laissez faire conservatism, as oxy-moronic as that sounded, thrived here in the home of the Lone Star. Just like in Old West times, 'Anything Goes" remained the state motto. As long as it pushed the far right agenda.

We routinely viewed Wyatt Earp and Dale Evans strutting the streets and by-ways of our city, leg irons strapped proudly on. Much to our chagrin. Dame Ann Richards must be turning over in her grave and Barbara Jordan's sainted ghost was channeling Casper in blanched embarrassment, too, at the backasswardness holding sway here... disapproval duly noted..

Though not too common in an area full of self-absorbed college kids, there remained a small portion of the citizenry bent on vicarious involvement in others' doings. The vaunted Ugly American Syndrome. Did we really wonder why the rest of the world viewed us the way they did? The myopic perception held by the Ms. De'Ville types lent itself to the firm belief that Texas was truly 'God's Country'... They really should travel more.

We forgot the gauche event quickly and brushed off the people rooting Jeremy's actions. He and I ran one of our daily loops this way every few days, enjoying the verdant lushness of the area. Many amply-endowed bodies exercised here and attention to individuals approached mundanity at this point.

Jeremy and my jungle fever union had been a presence for years now, and we enjoyed relative anonymity, most times. Episodes such as this were less and less common in the 21^st century, in contrast to our early days in the 1990's. The novelty had worn off for the most part.

Discussing the upcoming trip as we headed back toward our home overlooking the old rock bedded, spring-fed public swimming hole, the two of us bantered easily about our hidden eyrie in the highlands.

While we loved the student-frequented park just south of Town Lake in downtown Austin and attended many of the great music offerings commonly hosted just out our front door, loyalties had markedly split upon discovery of Telluride, Colorado, several years before.

Property investment had overtaken us, far up the mountain, in a secluded glen. The rustic log home residing there captured us at first sight. Upon viewing the for-lease sign lying on the floor inside while window-peeking, we had gone all-in by our efforts to secure title to the place.

Months after that we had traveled there, papers in hand, reveling in the knowledge that we were proud owners of high country real estate. Having remodeled and updated the solid log edifice to our standards and style, we took off for it every chance we got. At some point, we would base ourselves there for good.

For the present, we furthered our careers here in the city, Dr. Jeremy Kell, Doctor of Philosophy, University of Texas flagship campus. Myself, Dr. Luke Cevennes, of UMC-Brackenridge Hospital ER. Colloquially known as Brack. We both seamed into our respective professions with satisfaction. The niches were comfortably fitted to our personalities and our college-town lives were exactly what we desired.

Until exposure to Telluride, that is.

"Honey, have you noticed the revving up of the religious right over the past two weeks?" I sat in our breakfast nook window alcove, cradling my coffee cup as I gathered knees to chest. A cool shower following the 10K fartlek just finished had rejuvenated the two of us, wiping away the effects of the stifling June hot spell currently holding the city in thrall. We now basked in the luxury of three days to ourselves after the spring semester culmination. "They are verging on apoplexy by the Faux-News pundits pontificating the End times, you know."

Jeremy lazed on the granite countertop, bare back propped against the wall, with the newspaper and his own coffee mug. He was nude, per usual, and in position to visually purview the park out the picture window beyond my seat. From this vantage, he could keep an eye on the distant goings-on below us.

Our home balanced on a rock cliff, fifty feet above the meadow below, the grassy stretch itself ending in a rock declivity which overlooked the crystal-clear springs. We enjoyed the three-dimensionality. With the regular gatherings for music and sports events, our seats were first rate.

The Nubian prince lounging across from me liked the coolness of the stone against his cute butt and rangy legs. I wasn't arguing. My view either way was great. Panorama or soft porn...nice choices. "Well, Lukester," he replied, "we're only a few weeks out from a SCOTUS ruling and the bigots are quaking in their sack cloth and thorns. Y'know they're worried they could lose superiority over us dregs of society." He continued perusal of the sports section, soaking up the latest UT baseball stats.

We had worn out the subject over the previous year, playing old King Nebuchadnezzar's role with his 'writing-on-the-wall' storyline as one after another lower court ruling had upheld SSM right-to-misery, just like straight world couples... at least such was the description of nuptial nirvana as boasted by thumpers. How odd.

Religious fundamentalists were still intent on reserving that right to themselves, convinced of the decline and fall of the empire should sexual perversion become codified constitutionally.

The conundrums of the contrasting factors were flagrant in our eyes. We hoped for a resounding decision in order to remove the inevitable asterisk the right would no doubt insist upon assigning to anything short of a Dred Scott-esque decision.

The bottom line, we felt, lay in the dichotomy of Christianity's tenet of an all-knowing, all-loving God-figure who so lovingly insisted on a death sentence by stoning or cliff-throwing should His omniscient omnipotence be questioned. What cockamamie bullshit.

Like the institution had remained immutably transfixed through history, anyway. From chattel-status of women and their 'issue' (children), to political marriages, to economic-based marriages, to love-based man-on-woman arrangements, yup, hard to imagine allowing any changes to such an unchanging tradition...

And the straight world had done such a bang-up job with its stewardship over long-lasting, stolidly trust-laden, God-condoned unions. Who the Hell were we low-life faggots (because they said we were) to dream of living in the security of lifelong, loving relationships without discriminatory statutes to keep us in our sorry-ass place?

Most amazing was the gathering steam of the evangelists' twisted logic that the challenge to their marriage monopoly inferred victimization of the downtrodden, woebegone Christian community. Had not this fallback strategy been the same one employed since Saint Peter had requested upside-down crucifixion? He just couldn't stomach being tortured in the same manner as his Savior had been. That would have constituted blasphemy.

That saintly bequest to humanity had set in motion allegorical proof of victimhood for two thousand years. Even though the literalist faction denied allegorical interpretation of their Good Book in dripping ironic contrast. After all, God had written every single word Himself and translations through the River of Time had had no effect on the original intent. The Word bespoke exactly what was written by Him... except when it didn't.

They knew all this, of course, because of their holy conduit to Him by ersatz communication: aka prayer. Which no one but they were privy to. And if we didn't believe it, just ask them... oh, and the deal came with a lifetime 'get-out-of-jail-free' card as a hedge. Quite convenient.

"JK, you could be called a whole lot of things, but a dreg is not one of them, my man," I replied, "especially lookin' like all o' that." He lifted one sinewy leg up and outward, allowing his junk to flop downward in response, giving me a better view of the little man. Confident in the effect such moves had on me, he employed similar tactics regularly. The paper never wavered from before his face but I could feel the grin from behind the newsprint.

After a few more minutes of communal reading, he concluded his thought on the subject, "I guess we'll hear something in the next couple weeks, at least if the media has it right. Did I tell you that I heard back from San Miguel County last week? They are re-configuring the online forms in case of a favorable ruling and we should be able to download the new gender-neutral license apps the day after, if it happens." Satisfaction suffused his voice.

"Oh, then I'd better get back ahold of Jake and Cal to confirm the dates, honey," I knew this would make our planned ceremony more a probability than the possibility heretofore hoped. Indeed, our closest friends would be likewise solidifying plans for their own consummation and the thought warmed me.

An ER colleague, Jake Marshall was half of the partners-in-crime duo we had come to count on over the years as we traversed interracial existence along with them. Jake's partner, Cal Broadhearst, was a UT alum, and twelve years out now. His entrepreneurial acumen had propelled him into the world of software stardom, now overseeing a network of five offices from his headquarters in the Frost Tower.

The couple had imprinted on our lives since Jake and my meeting on the red-eye shift together in his residency. We had been surprised to discover the similarity in our situations when we met up at a local eatery for an introductory dinner back then.

Choosing to meet at Truluck's Seafood Grill, Jake and I arrived together and sat nursing glasses of wine in awaiting our guys. Both of them had shown up simultaneously and we watched them enter together, startling the clientele by their twin-like images. Cal, or Calumet, was six-foot-six, leanly athletic, ebony-complexioned, shaved head and ripped in his conditioning. By comparison, my Jeremy measured in at only six-foot-three, alike in the ripped physique, swarthy skin and shaved pate departments. We had all four bonded immediately.

Amazed that both of us had spent years in Austin without meeting up before, the fact of their residence being located far in the Northwest quadrant of the city, out on Lake Travis, might have accounted for that. Jeremy and I preferred urban life; our friends were rurally set.

Making up for lost time, we two duos had intermingled easily and now were ready to take the matrimonial plunge in corresponding fashion. The game-changing high court case could allow for fruition. On the other hand, rationalization had led the four of us to the decision of out-sourced formalities what with the current ascendance of home state social and political animus.

Cal and Jake kept a suite at the Hotel Jerome in Aspen, Colorado, as opposed to our hideaway in up-mountain Telluride, to the southwest. Frequent hookups between the venues allowed for camaraderie and commonality of purpose. Mutual intent was bent on witnessing for each other when and if the big day arrived. Carly Simon must have written her catsup ad song for us as our anticipation for legitimacy grew. Evangelism be damned...

***

Three days of solitude and togetherness mixed with a cookout at the Marshall-Broadhearst place overlooking the lake left us rested. We were ready for a home-stretch ten day run as our workloads diminished and plans for retreat to the mountains loomed.

Jeremy would be tying knots in loose-ends on campus while I was preparing the way for an extended leave-of-absence from Brack. Closing down the Zilker Park house was not a challenge as we had arranged for a trusted teacher's assistant of JK's to house-sit while we were away.

The grad-student was a bit of a loner, basking in quietude with books and the cyber-world more than living the fast lane, so we were content in the sanctity of the premises. The likelihood of keg parties and pole-dancing were next to nil, we knew, and his penchant for the occasional joint sat fine with us, as we partook some of the evil weed, as well.

While never dull during duty hours at Brack, the onset of summer and the desertion of campus by the huge student body as was happening now played out in relative calm. Jake and I sat in the physicians' break room under less stress from pressing caseloads than normal. Lopping items from our to-do lists in planning for the trek north was proving gratifying,

"So, you really think Cal is gonna do it?" I thought the idea of a hot air balloon setting for their ceremony was romantic, if a bit crowded, considering the four of us and a pilot would be on board. But, cool, no less.

"He has mentioned ballooning three times in the past week, Luke, and you know how that man is. His sense of adventure way outstrips my introverted ass, boi," his reasoning was sound. I had seen some wild-ass occurrences in my years associating with Cal B. Not much would surprise me. Jeremy laughed that we would be forced up Kilimanjaro at some point. And he was OK with it, he had assured me, as long as he had a hand in picking the accompanying escort team...translation: hung studs with minimal wardrobes. The picture seemed fine by me...

"Have you guys thought anymore about the place on Ajax, Jake?" I was curious about the couple's interest over the stand-alone home in Aspen. Their suite in The Jerome was superb, boasting two bedrooms and a master suite, fireplaces in every room and even a library/study. The upkeep was taken care of by the hotel, chef and butler included. The fact that they could rent out the place under a trusted management firm when the two were not in residence had them sitting pretty. It paid for itself.

Their balcony looking out on Aspen town and the mountain was spacious and well-equipped, too. We had shared time with them there on multiple occasions. So they had it good, but I had noticed Jake's wistful look over dinner the past week as he contemplated the possibility of taking over the all-glass chalet high up the mountain.

Built by Leon Uris, the late author, the place had kept his secret sancha housed in style for the long-term back in the 1970's and '80's. Almost the entire time he was married to his third wife, Jill. Conchita had been bosom buddies with Louise Lasser of 'Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman' fame, and Claudine Longet, Andy Williams ex-wife and Olympic Skier Spider Sabich's lover. The idea of living in the architectural glass marvel amidst the spirits of such vixens had him near drooling-state, I could tell.

"Could you just imagine, living in the place where so much history played out, Luke?" He posed the question as he mentally signed on the dotted line. "Claudine hid there after she shot Spider, and Andy Williams had to come get her to help give herself up. That is just too cool for school," he gushed.

"Well, you know how much Jeremy and I love our place way up higher than everyone—it is a neat feeling. And Cal could exist nude all winter in a proverbial glass house if you do it." I egged him on, only half teasing. Jeremy and Cal loved clothlessness equally, and Jake delighted in the exultation of our men in that state as much as I did. Seeing that much gorgeous silky skin in such anatomically proportional relief was something we would never take for granted.

"Don't forget, Uris reputedly wrote his epic, 'Trinity', up there, too, Jake. Jeremy found that in Uris's diary at Ransom House when he was researching the man. He dedicated the book to Jill but never did come clean about it all, the hypocrite. Why don't people just get over the monogamy hang-ups they have and get along? Everyone would be better off, you know," I opined.

Jake got it, and we snickered at the stupidity of such thought processes. Too many people thought a hard dick equaled love, and that depending on who the hard-on was pointed at determined fidelity...how off base was that? Hormonal impulses simply and plainly did not equate well to matters of the heart. He and I were living proof of the concept by the solidity of our relationships. Even if we were just anecdotal. By our calculation, America had a huge inferiority complex judging by the divorce rate.

Just as we were about to close the deal on the Ajax Mountain property and solve other pressing social problems, a sharp crack of thunder jarred our chat. Flickering of the lights ensued and finally, loss of power. Being in an internal room in Brack's medical complex, the darkness proved pervasive. Our penlights streaked the dark room as we awaited the auxiliary power sources to kick in.