Quicksilver

These dorks did not scare me. I! Am! The! Gatekeeper! Never forget that! These shits will not.

I led Nate back to my car and drove off. In the rearview mirror, I saw the first man scribbling in his notepad. Probably copying my licence plate number. I feared we would not escape publicity.

Nate still shivered; so, over his objections, I drove to Coast Hospital and forced him inside. I gave fake first names but no surnames. I demanded they check his vitals. His body temperature was a bit low but not dangerously so. His wet undies likely kept him cool. Everything else checked okay.

We left as soon as possible. I stopped at an off-the-highway cafe and filled Nate with hot mocha. Color returned to his face. He smiled weakly.

"Too much excitement, hey m'lady? What's that ancient Chinese curse? 'May you live in interesting times.' Maybe it's time to go home."

"Sure thing," I agreed, "with a lunch stop in Boonville. That's on the fast route back. Hot Ruebens, garden salads, and Boontling Black ale should tide us over."

I drove to the B&B, dressed Nate in dry clothes, and packed for us. Pat the owner gladly lent me a soft, warm blanket; she knew I would be back. I wrapped Nate to keep his core temperature up, and we were off.

=====

The river-hugging two-lane highway threaded redwood forests, vineyards, and fruit orchards. Lunch in Boonville was as good as usual; I had eaten there before. Nate drank most of the pitcher of ale. He slept the rest of the way to The City.

Just so you know, 'The City' is what we San Franciscans call our town, as if no other significant cities exist. We may be right about that. But I digress.

Nate woke a few miles before the Golden Gate Bridge loomed over us. He mumbled, "Just take me home—"

I interrupted. "You are going to MY home, to recover with ME. This is non-negotiable, mister. Señor Figueroa and I will care for you for the near future. If you are fit, I'll drive you to and from your job tomorrow. If you're not fit, I'll call Quicksilver for you to take time off. You will NOT sicken and die on me. I. Will. Not. Allow. That. Do not argue. Submit, guy!" Yes, I was worried.

I paid at the toll plaza and drove across the Presidio and over to my apartment. I idled near my outer door to unload our scant luggage, and parked across the street. I figured reporters would find my address from state car licence records so I did not try for concealment. I unwrapped the blanket from Nate and led him inside, then toted-in the blanket and bags.

Figgy was very glad to see us. He rubbed Nate's ankles more than mine. I undressed Nate and snugged him into bed with plenty of warm covers. Figgy lay on Nate's chest. Lucky cat!

I called Nate's house phone. Someone answered; I asked for Suzie.

"What's up, Lydia? Is Nate coming back tonight or will you keep him tied up and stashed away?" She almost cackled.

"I'm keeping him but there's a situation," I said. "He's a hero. He dove into the cold ocean to rescue a Hollywood starlet who was caught by high surf." Suzie gasped.

"Don't worry," I told her, "he'll be all right. Reporters with her tried to question and photograph us; we got away but they surely have my car's licence number and can track me from that. So the 'vermin of the press' will likely be at my door tomorrow at the earliest. I'll keep Nate hidden inside here so they can't track him to your place right away.

"But before they get here to hound-dog me, I should come to your place and gather enough of Nate's clothes to see him through the week, or however long his moment of infamy lasts. We won't have to face newsies at my door when we go to and from work; my backyard fence's gate opens to another yard so we can walk through the block and up the next street to the bus stop. But I shouldn't delay this."

"That's a good plan," Suzie said. "I know what he usually wears. I'll have that and his shaving kit bagged and ready for you. I'll get his guitar and music notes, too, waiting at the top of our stairs. When you get here, ring the bell, and Mikey will bring it all to your car. Sound do-able?"

"Sounds perfect," I said. "I'll be there as fast as Sunday afternoon traffic lets me. Oh yeah, you absolutely cannot talk about this to anyone. Any gossip can bring the press to your door. You do NOT want that. Bye."

I looked in on Nate; he snored softly. Figgy stared at me, then closed his eyes. I was in my car a minute later and in Noe Valley with minimal delays. I rang. The door buzzed open. A wiry guy with bushy black hair and beard, who must have been Mikey, lugged a big duffel bag and Nate's guitar case downstairs. I held my door open for him to load the stuff in, and thanked him profusely.

"No problem," he said. "We're housemates, almost family. He's done more for me."

I hugged him and said, "I should go before I'm seen here. But one thing. Can you tell me if that Anthea girl he works with ever stays here?" I still felt a little jealous, or nervous, or disposable.

Mikey eyed me. "If she did, I wouldn't tell you, or anyone. But she never has that I know of, and probably never will. She's tight with one of our underground cartoonist pals. But that's all I've got to say. Now scoot."

I hugged him again before he could escape. He turned back to face me.

"Seriously, don't probe Nate too hard. How he lives is his own thing. Unless you plan to marry him; his first didn't go well but I can't talk about that. Just let him say what he wants. Don't try to force words or anything from him. It won't work. Bye now."

He went up the steps and inside. I drove off, and wondered. Did I want too much from Nate? Like commitment? I did not know if Nate would last any longer than my earlier friends. What could I expect?

=====

I crept into my home with the duffel bag and guitar case without encountering reporters outside. Yet. I checked my bedroom. Nate looked asleep. Figgy yawned at me.

I thought a moment and then quietly called Suzie again and arranged to fetch Nate's camping gear. He might want that if he stayed with me long enough. I drove back over. Mikey brought a loaded Army-surplus duffel bag to my car. His expression kept me quiet.

I unloaded at my place a few minutes later and decided that enough was enough. I changed into thin sweatpants and a rose tee, plopped on my sofa, and mentally replayed the day.

I tried to not disturb the somnolent guys when I boiled water for bouillon but Figgy strolled into the kitchen and had apparently shaken Nate awake. Wearing only black briefs and socks, and some of Figgy's shed fur, the young man soon followed the old cat. The larger sat in a kitchen chair; the smaller occupied his lap.

"Looks like you shook off the chill. Want some strong bouillon or something heartier? I can whip up a chicken, rice, and veggie combo pretty quick. There's Almaden Chablis left for lubrication."

"That sounds good. Reminds me of a West African song's chorus." His baritone voice flowed.

  ♫   Chicken is nice   ♫   Chicken is nice   ♫   Chicken is nice with palm butter and rice   ♫

"The rest of the song details all the wives the Liberian man doesn't want, and why, so I'll skip that. But yes, that meal will be great. Y'know, you don't need to work too hard for me."

"I'll work on you, I mean for you, exactly as hard as I want, Mister Nathaniel Houston Kramer. You were a hero today. The bad part is, you'll have a hard time dodging reporters. Suzie raided your closet so you can lay low here as long as needed." I related all I'd told his landlady.

"Oh crap. What have they dug up so far? Hold off on dinner for a bit; let's see how bad this is."

Figgy demanded that Nate carry him to the sofa. I switched on the TV and cuddled close.

"Good evening! Welcome back to KCUF-13 News at Six. Dirk Merkin here. Our lead story is still the Pope's submergence. We'll have updates in just a few minutes. But now, with the latest on our entertainment news flash, here's our never-resting staff Hollywoodologist, Ivana Bigvun. So Ivana, what more do we know of the mysterious, dramatic rescue of glamor queen Wilona Smithers?"

"Not much, Dirk," the fluffy reporter said breathlessly. "To recap what I told you at the top of the hour, Hollywood beauty Wilona 'Legs' Smithers has been shooting a new Allen Woods romantic comedy in exotic Mendocino."

Typical footage of the quaint town flashed on the screen.

"This morning Wilona was swept into the seething Pacific Ocean by an unexpected treacherous wave, almost tsunami-like. Before any in her entourage could react, a mysterious, muscular, star-quality man stripped nearly naked and dove into the raging surf with seeming disregard for his own life and safety, and bravely rescued Wilona from certain death. He administered CPR until an ambulance arrived. She was rushed to a nearby hospital where she is expected to make a full and complete recovery."

The screen showed a wanly-smiling Wilona in a medical bed surrounded by flowers. She waved weakly at the camera. Ivana re-appeared and continued gushing.

"Reporters on the scene tried to interview and photograph him but his beautiful, protective female companion disrupted them after drying and dressing him, and she quickly whisked him away in a blue Volkswagen Beetle before Winona's entourage could give chase."

What? Sure, Nate was star-quality, and I was protective, but she called me beautiful! What? I refocused on the TV.

"We know they went to the same hospital while Wilona was in the emergency room. The heroic, anonymous rescuer was examined and released. The couple called themselves Clark and Lois but did not give any last names. Nobody the reporters talked to would admit knowing anything about them. A fast-thinking reporter DID record the car's licence plate. We may know who they are when we check motor vehicle records after state offices open in the morning,"

Yes, they will come searching for us tomorrow. We — that means *I* — will be ready for them. I can probably interest Mr Salman in litigation if our privacy is violated.

Ivana breathlessly rolled on. "Our only new information is first, the rescuer told a paramedic that he had been a lifeguard; and then, an offer from filmmaker Allen Woods to cast the hunky rescuer in an upcoming adventure comedy. If any of our viewers know this hero, or if he is watching, please contact Mr Woods. Hollywood is calling! That's all for now, Dirk."

"Thanks for your report, Ivana. Next, we'll hear from our sports correspondent, Terry Hurd, right after these messages..."

=====

I escaped from the sofa and turned the TV sound down all the way. A cat food commercial silently played on the screen. Happy cats pranced improbably. Figgy was not interested.

I resumed cuddling. "Going to Hollywood, Nate? Want to be a star?"

"Fuck no. I've seen what media stardom, or even survival, demands. My goal is still electronic engineering. Maybe I can be a star by designing a pocket computer. But I'd rather not be a public figure. Too dirty."

"Too bad. I can just about guarantee that bloodhounds will be on our trail. Woods and Wilona are too newsworthy for us to escape attention. I expect we, or at least you, will have pictures on the covers of grocery-checkout tabloids by next week. We've got to plan for that. And you'll have to tell your boss, like I will mine. Paparazzi chasing you around as you drive the company pickup? That would be a nightmare. They'll track you even if you change how you look."

"Oh crap," Nate said. "Well, I have an option in the back of my head but I can't tell you about it now. Let's see how the near future plays out. I guess you'll be stuck with me for a while."

I carefully placed Figgy on the floor and set myself in his place on Nate's lap. Nate's lap, covered only by his black briefs. Nate's lap, with his cock stiffening under me.

I kissed his mouth, his chin, his neck, each nipple, and his mouth again. His cock poked harder. I locked my eyes to his.

"Yes, I'm stuck with you. What dire punishment! We'll wear disguises to go to the gym. I'll make you eat healthy, except for necessary wine and hashish. I make good hash brownies." I kissed him again. Our tongues tangled. I backed off. "I also make good dinners. I'll do that now."

Figgy ate kibbles. We humans had sauteéd veggies, spiced chicken, and braised rice, with cool white Almaden Chablis. Figgy went out for his backyard routine. Would sneaky reporters trespass in the yard? We might need some security. But how? What more could we face?

I put Stokowski's 'Fantasia' soundtrack album on the turntable. We smoked two bowls of hash while music surrounded us, one bowl per side of the record. A dramatic end of a dramatic day.

Nate got his strength back and felt almost normal. We sucked, fucked, and slept well.

===== Monday, week 4 =====

I dressed in my Business Bitch skirt suit with scant makeup. Nate wore khaki trousers and his Quicksilver tee under that plaid flannel shirt. Not much in the way of disguises.

We took the sneaky back way to the bus stop and rode to our jobs. Calling first would have been futile; the offices would be empty this early. Nate hugged me at his transfer point. We could ride together more if buses did not have to follow downtown's one-way streets.

I reached the office door just as Mr Salman did.

"Working early again?" he asked as he unlocked the door.

"We have a situation," I said. "I'll tell you inside."

I sat across from his desk and told him what I knew, expected, and feared. He almost smiled.

"So you must hide your heroic friend, Miss Barnes? He doesn't want to go to Hollywood? Privacy is almost impossible these days. Let me consider some possibilities. Good morning."

I recognized my dismissal and hurried to the front desk. Business must continue. I! Am! The! Gatekeeper! Secretaries and paralegals arrived on time. Order! We must maintain order!

Anthea arrived for an early packet pick-up and a tall paper cup of sugared coffee.

"Something's up with Nate; right, ma'am? And you're in it? Jenkins is all stressed over what Nate told him. Something about staying incognito. Nate hates baseball caps but he'll have to wear one when he drives now. Like that will disguise him. Hah! Yeah, he's still got to drive but Jenkins is putting him on runs away from downtown. It'll be tricky. Can you tell me anything?" She was halfway through her coffee.

I shook my head NO. "All I can say is that Nate was a hero and there may be a legal case. Nate can't talk about it either. It'll likely go public in a few days but my lips are sealed for now."

Anthea finished her coffee. "Okay, I'll try to be patient. Thanks, ma'am."

I lunched alone on a diner's good salad. I watched the door for reporters. None yet.

After lunch, I was sorting through faxes when Jeremy, a paralegal, came to my desk.

"Mr Salman assigned me to monitor TV newscasts to listen for mention of your name," he said. "Well, they found you, and they know where you live, but not where you work. And they have your driver's licence photo which is pretty cruddy. That's what he wanted me to tell you. This is all about that Mendocino thing, right? And the hero is Nate, the delivery boy. Wow! But he also told me not to mention any of this to anyone for now."

"Thanks, I think," I told him. "But the dam will burst soon. Nate and I will hide out as much as we can but there's really no escape. Just stay cool now, Jeremy."

Nate called an hour before closing time. "Good afternoon, Salman and Johannes LLC, how may I help you?"

"Hello, Miz Barnes. I'm at a payphone by the Cow Palace. I sure need the gym today but we can't be seen together since your photo is on TV so we'll have to take different busses. I'll go first and you should work late so no snoop will see me follow you in. Does that sound right?"

"Yes," I said cautiously, "that would be prudent. I'll see you there, Mr Kramer."

=====

Romero greeted me at the front counter.

"You're famous, kid. Or infamous. Can you even risk being seen here?"

"This will explode in a few days but I think I'm safe here for now. But can you do me a couple favors, Romy?" He nodded YES. "Please don't let any strangers in while Nate or I are here. And if we aren't here and strangers ask about us, please call me at the office or at home; you have my numbers. This should all blow over soon. Ten minutes of fame. Damn!"

"I'll do all that. But you and I know that publicity will bring more clients in here, more folks wanting to join just to see the hero.. Moths to a flame, that sort of shit. Julia and I have to stay in business. This'll get weird. But we'll protect you. Stay safe, kid."

Nate was sweating in his Speedos on the treadmill when I peeked into the exercise room. I changed into my leotard and worked weights. We crunched across the room from each other. This "can't be seen together" rule would only be for a few days but it was tedious already.

He hit the pool first. I saw him swimming fast laps, followed by swarthy Umberto. My sort-of friends Mitzi, Leila, Shahira, and naturally tan Mariah swam slower laps. They managed to avoid collisions. I dove in — not as clean as Nate but I did my best — and swam fast laps, faster than Unberto even, almost up with Nate for a few long seconds. I can dash but I have my limits. Still, not too bad for an old broad, sure!

Swum-out for the moment, all of us in the pool leaned against the short end's rim, stretched our arms, lightly paddled our feet, and chatted. Directed chats, not random. Starting with questions. Starting with Shahira.

"I saw your name and a terrible official photo of you on TV, Lydia. They said you were around Mendocino and a guy who'd told medics he had been a lifeguard went and heroically rescued this movie bimbo. Nate, you're with Lydia, and you told us you were a lifeguard back when. Is that YOU they want for Hollywood? What's the story?"

Nate looked at me. I sighed. "We can't really say anything. My lawyer boss thinks he may have a case when everything goes public in a few days. Till then, watch out for strangers, and for anyone asking questions about us. If they mention my name, just say, 'Lydia who?' and turn away. It'll be a whirlwind but it should pass pretty soon."

Umberto said, "Y'know Nate, if this Wilona Smithers babe and her director and agent think they'll get notice by chasing you and using you, you've HAD it. Might as well leave the country. I work in marketing and I know how it goes. Show-biz hounds can be relentless. It's all about money. You'll boost their profits."

"I'm thinking of an out," Nate said, "but I can't tell anyone yet. Give me some time. I think I'm strong enough to face a shitshow."

"I've got some advice," Unberto said, "and I bet it's what Lydia's lawyer boss would say. Like in cowboy movies, 'head-em off at the pass'. Find a sympathetic TV news weasel — I can suggest a couple — and give an exclusive interview. Maybe both of you, or Nate alone might be enough. Say what you did, and why, and that you were trained, so it's just routine. Don't give out details you're uncomfortable with, nothing sensitive, but don't be surprised if they already know a lot about you."

"This is just so crazy,"Nate said. "I pulled a few famous idiots out of the water in San Diego but there was no media firestorm, no chasing me afterward. I guess their agents or whatever weren't anxious to publicize their clumsiness. I guess southern versus northern California are big pond and little pond while I'm the same fish in each. All a matter of scale. I look like a bigger target here.

"And thanks, Umberto, but I'm on fairly good terms with Sly Steinmetz at KCUF. I've delivered straight to his office and shared idle rumors with him."