Shooting Matt Ch. 08

***

I've always prided myself on my ability to sleep, no matter the level of stress in my life. I've lain down and gone to sleep after discovering my wife has drained the savings account, stolen the car and disappeared again. I've come home after visiting her in the ER, on her way to a 72-hour involuntary hold for detox, and gone right to sleep.

I'm wide awake when I hear the bedroom door open.

The old mattress shifts and rolls. A warm hand rests atop the crest of my hip.

When I do wake, the world outside the window is dark but there is a soft glow in the room. I roll over. Matt is lying on his side, head propped on one hand. The bedside lamp is on but he's angled the lampshade so that most of the light is reflected toward the half bath. He's reading.

"Sorry, bro. Did I wake you?" He whispers, looking over his shoulder.

"Uh, no, I just woke up." I try to look over his shoulder to see what time it is before I remember I broke the clock. "Matt, why aren't you asleep?"

"I doze a bit. I'm not that tired."

"Bullshit. I can hear the fatigue in your voice. Put the book down and turn off the light."

He does as I ask. In the sudden dark, I can't tell if he's still on his side or not.

"How do you usually sleep? Back? Side? Stomach?"

"Stomach but bro, seriously - "

"Seriously's ass. Roll onto your stomach then and get comfortable." The bed shifts. I hear the pillow being punched. "Is the pillow okay? Too soft? Hard?"

"Naw, it's fine." I feel and hear, more than I see, him settle into the mattress.

I ball my own pillow up and lie down beside him. I don't touch him.

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes," he sounds irritated.

"Good. Can you feel your feet?"

"Huh? Yeah, why?"

"What do you feel?"

"Nothing. I mean the sheet under them."

"Are they under the covers?"

"No."

"Can you feel the air on them?"

"Yeah, I'm I guess so. Why?"

"Okay, here's the drill bubba. No more questions. Just listen and do as I say. Don't talk."

"Bu - "

I whack him, very softly, on the back of the head. "No more talking."

I wait to make sure he's not going to say anything more before I begin.

"Concentrate on your feet. Feel the air. Feel the sheet. See if you can feel the wrinkles in the sheet." I pause for a time. "Now, concentrate on not feeling any of that. You're feet are drifting off to sleep, not going to sleep, not going numb; they're simply drifting away. Drifting and drifting until you no longer feel them.

"Now feel your lower legs, feel the air, the sheet, feel everything first, then send it all away, every sensation; they're off to join your feet. Can you see your feet? Floating around the room? Your legs? Put them back together. See it in your head."

"Your knees are tough. They're heavy on the bed. But what are feet and legs without knees. Focus on your knees."

His breathing has already slowed. I swear his body lightens as the tension leaves him. The mattress rises, honest to God. I don't need to work my way past his thighs. He's so relaxed that when I suggest he sleep that's exactly what he does.

***

The next time I wake there is sunlight streaming through the window. A pyramid of light, made visible by twinkling dust motes, stretches from the window to the floor beside the bed. The tip of the condom lies within the square of light on the floor. I try to figure out the geometry. A two dimensional piece of glass admits light that forms a three dimensional pyramid, that morphs back into a two dimensional, not square, I was wrong about that, but a parallelogram where it hits the floor.

Very cosmic. So is the emotional aspect of what Matt and I have shared. A torn foil packet and collapsed latex condom strike me as out of place and more than a little sad.

Behind me, Matt sleeps. Good. I get quietly out of bed, stoop and retrieve the condom and it's erstwhile container and head to the bathroom. I ease the door open and close it behind me. I drop the trash into the small ceramic can, and take a wonderfully long piss. I sigh with pleasure and relief, wash my hands and head into the kitchen.

I put on the coffee. As it brews, I look out the small window above the sink. The backyard is small and utterly devoid of charm. The grass is more weed than grass. There's nary a flower nor shrub to be seen. The fence looks bored and sad. The boards are weathered grey except the ones black with rot. Beyond the fence stands a row of trees. The maples, still small, the evergreens taller. They are likely the reason why my neighbors haven't raised a fuss about the sorry state of the fence.

If the fence were fixed. I could get a dog. We always had a dog when I was a kid. Life with Mary Beth was too frenetic to have time for a pet. Liam has never had a pet. That realization deepens the melancholy that descended over me as I gazed at the discarded condom, lit by the sun.

The coffee maker does its chime, announcing it has once more completed its duty and awaits my further pleasure. That makes it sound like a haughty little fucker, which it is. If you could hear the chime you'd understand.

I pour a mug and look around the kitchen. It's as empty of charm as the backyard. An old oak table, sturdy, looking not so much marred as mature and tested. It's okay. It's more than okay. The table and chair are fine. Okay, they could use a little polish but other than that they're fine. There's nothing on the table, except a salt and pepper shaker and they're the combo pack you get at a convenience store, little cardboard tubes, the salt with a white body and pop-open top, the pepper clad and topped in black.

I remember the heavy brass grinders I grew up with. The metal around the middle, where your hand gripped it, shiny. Above and below that the shine faded into a dark matte. They were unmarked. You had to tip them, look at the grinders on the bottom, to see if they were black with pepper or white with salt. I wonder what happened to them. I must have boxed them up and given them to Goodwill with most of the other stuff.

The matching buffet and dish chest atop it could use a little polishing as well, to say nothing of a dusting. There is, at least, china in the chest but I can't recall the last time it was used. Not since mom died, probably longer. I'm amazed it survived Mary Beth. What's in the buffet? I'm not sure. I know the silver is gone; it disappeared up Mary Beth's arm, or maybe by then between her toes, years ago. There's probably a few old tablecloths, maybe some placemats.

There's nothing on the walls. Not even an out-of-date calendar. There's the nail that the clock, with its plastic face showing the Last Supper, had hung from until it stopped working.

If not for the fact that not everything is covered in dust, that the smell of coffee is in the air, and the dishes in the drainer, one would be hard pressed to prove anyone lives here.

It occurs to me that is in fact true. No one is living here. Liam, had, sort of, but he no longer lives here. I'm here. I've been here, Christ, almost half my life. But do I live here or simply exist here?

I look around the kitchen. I let my mind roam through the house. What is there, other than my son, within this house that marks it as mine? The half-assed office/studio and camera gear? Perhaps. But where are the pictures from that camera? There are pictures, a few, of Liam and a few of me and Liam but those were taken by others. There's not a single picture that I've taken hanging anywhere in the house.

It would appear the only mark I've made on this house is the butt groove in the seat of the recliner.

The coffee is still hot but I drain it in one long gulp. I check the clock, decide it's not too early. I know one thing besides tablecloths in the buffet, a drawer of junk, newspaper clippings - some I no longer know why I cut out of the paper - take out menus and other detritus I felt might be useful at some point. I'm not even sure if what I want will still be there. I've almost decided it's not when I find it, just above the user manual and warranty for a TV I got rid of years ago. It's in my hands. Why not throw it away? Inertia.

I drop the TV user guide back in the drawer, close it and pick up the phone.

***

I don't want to wake Liam or Matt. There are a pair of cut off work pants in the laundry. They've been washed but I can't honestly say they're clean. I slip them one. I go out the side door to the carport and plop my ass on the single concrete stair. I pick up one of my 'yard' shoes and tap it on the side of the step in the hope that doing so will dislodge any spiders hanging out inside it. I slip it on and repeat the process.

It's already warm. It's early enough that's it's quiet, hardly any street noise. Pretty much the only sound comes from the birds. I hear them in the neighbor's trees. I could put up a bird feeder. I'm not into birds particularly but it might make the yard seem less barren. I look around. I'm not sure. Perhaps a lone bird feeder might do nothing more than highlight the barrenness that surrounds it. Running from the back corner of the house is a chain link fence. It's in fair shape. It's rusted here and there but the poles are straight. In the corner is the metal shed that houses the mower, tools and odds and ends. The chain link gate hangs true and, like the doors in my house, is squeak free. Along the back of the yard runs the wooden fence that is the current object of my interest. It extends all along the back, takes a right angle to enclose the side yard, and another right angle to meet the back corner at the other end of the house from where I stand. The only gate is the chain link one that my hand rests on.

The previous owners must have had a dog.

I open the gate and walk to the back fence. Except to mow, I never come back here. I walk along it. Tree roots have pushed some of the board loose. There are a half a dozen rotted. Another dozen need to be re-secured to the rails. The yard is small. There are only two posts between the corner posts along the back. The posts, corner posts included, look and feel sound. The short run across the side yard to the house is in good shape. I wonder why they didn't put a gate in it. A gate, arched trellis, climbing vine, maybe roses. Roses might be nice.

The lawn is hopeless. If I really want to get the backyard in shape I'll need to basically start over. Kill the weeds. Till. Wait until next spring, till and re-sod or re-seed. A lot of work. Do I care enough to make the effort worthwhile? Good question.

I measure the boards, jot the numbers on a piece of paper and head inside. I can't go to Lowe's without a shirt. Grime-stained cut off pants with frayed legs? Not a problem. Laceless tennis shoes, toes poked out and grass-stained. Not a problem. But you have to have some sort of shirt. And I want to brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like coffee and sleep. Yuck.

I hold off on teeth and shirt, hoping to let the guys sleep. Turkey is my go-to lunch meat. Raisin Bran is my go-to breakfast. I polish off a large bowl and most of the remaining milk.

"Any coffee left?"

I look up from the Sunday comics. Matt is making his way, bleary eyed, from the half bath.

"Plenty, help yourself." I refuse to let myself get distracted by the beauty of his naked body. For the first time, ever, in my life I read 'Prince Valiant'.

It's not so much that 'Prince Valiant' doesn't interest me that is my undoing. No, my undoing is Matt stopping on his way to the coffee maker to bend over for a kiss. His dick is in its usual half-erect state. I realize I didn't hear him in the bathroom.

He fills a cup and walks past me into the half bath. What follows is the sound of his firehose pissing and a long sigh. When he walks back into the kitchen, he's drinking from the cup. The fingers of his left hand squeeze the head of his dick. He lowers the coffee, raises the fingers and licks them. He pulls out one of the chairs, sits down, puts his coffee cup down, folds his arms atop the table and lays his head down.

"Do you always do that?" I ask. His head is facing me but his eyes are closed.

"Do what?"

"Wipe the piss off your cock and lick your fingers," I explain.

"No matter how much you shake and dance the last drop goes down your pants," he intones. "I hate that. I don't usually bother with underwear and if I do, it's boxers. I hate feeling a drop of pee go down my leg."

"But licking your fingers? Why not a piece of toilet paper?"

"There ain't no toilet paper at a urinal, bitch."

He has a point.

He raises his head and opens one eye enough to locate his cup. He lifts it and takes a drink. The cup hovers below his lip, waiting. He takes a longer drink. There's another long sigh and he leans back in his chair. The eyes stay closed.

"You're obviously still beat. Go back to bed."

He shakes his head. "Naw, even that Jedi shit you used last night won't work this morning."

"It's not a Jedi trick," I answer as my eyes drink him in. "A psychologist, years ago, taught me how to, basically, hypnotize myself. It's not hard, especially if you're tired. You can do it to yourself next time. I always thought it sounded kind of like a Zen thing - to stop thinking by thinking hard about not thinking. It works though."

"It's Sunday, right?"

"Yup, it's Sunday, correct."

"What's the plan?"

I'm not entirely sure I know what plan he's referring to. I'm comforted by the fact that I doubt he knows the answer to that either. From the hallway, I hear footsteps, then the sound of a young man pissing. It makes me feel old.

"Lowe's. I need a few replacement boards for the fence. I've neglected it for too long." My inner voice, or maybe It's my mom's, adds - 'like forever'.

"When we going?"

Before I can respond to the "we" in his question, Liam speaks from the hallway.

"Where are we going?" I'm not sure but I think he emphasized the 'we'.

"I'm going to Lowe's to get some boards to fix the fence," I reply.

"Bro, I'm coming too. I love Lowe's," Matt insists.

"No thanks," Liam says around a yawn, making a beeline for the coffee. "You two will probably start modeling tool belts are something and I'll yak all over the floor."

"Uncool, brah. Harsh," Matt says shaking his head but smiling.

Liam's lips twitch in a smile. So do mine, but inside, beneath the stony hardness of my ribs, my heart isn't smiling.

Liam shuffles over to the table, coffee sloshes onto his hand. He sits the cup down and sticks his hand in his mouth, muffling curses. He takes the hand out of his mouth.

"All the boards or just the rotten ones?" Liam asks.

"Just the bad ones. I counted six but I'll get a dozen to be safe."

"Right on," my son offers. "While you guys get the lumber I'll take off the old boards." He yawns. "What about the tree roots? Want me to tell the Harris's we're suing them for fucking up our fence?"

Harris's. That's the name. I've not been able to call the backyard neighbors name to mind.

"Naw. I like the trees. Those boards look okay to me, just pushed out by the roots. I was planning to take them off, trim the bottoms and re-attach them."

"Cool," Liam says, picking up his cup, eyeing it with suspicion lest it attack him once more. "You have screws? Still have the circular saw?"

"I'll grab screws at Lowe's. I have the saw but I should check the blade, see if it needs a new one."

Liam nods. "You planning to paint or stain?"

"Yeah, have to, if we're adding new boards."

"Well, 'have to' is overstating it a bit but I agree. What color?"

"Grey. I'll need to power wash the fence first. All I'm shooting for today is replacing the boards," I explain.

"I'll get the rotten boards off and the ones that need to be trimmed. If the saw blade is usable I'll start trimming them. That should move things along."

"Sweet. Who wants an omelet?" Matt adds.

***

Matt is full of surprises. His omelets are perfect, even given the lack of anything other than cheese and onions to use for filling. I check the circular saw. Other than a thick layer of dust it's perfectly serviceable.

Matt appears in the carport as I'm walking back from the shed with the saw. I set it beside the step for Liam. I go back to the shed and carry two sawhorses to the back of the house.

"Need a hand?" Matt asks.

"No. All set. You sure you want to come?"

"Bro, I told you. I fucking love Lowe's."

It's a short drive. The door squeals. I tell myself to remember to buy a can of WD-40. I tell myself to put out of my mind the thought that keeps bulling its way up into my consciousness, like a shark fin from my id.

Since I'm getting lumber, I grab one of the flat dollies. It offers no camouflage or cover for me to give into to that persistent, nagging urge that keeps popping into my head. In my mind I see the scene from Jaws, when the barrels pop back to the surface. It fits with the image of my subconscious as a shark, so at that works at least.

My cock is getting hard. I didn't add underwear to my ensemble, just a tee shirt. The more I feel it pressing against my ragged shorts the harder I get.

"Fuck, bro. You freeballin'?"

I nod, nervous that he's speaking too loud.

Matt fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his phone as we turn down the hardware aisle. It's not crowded but we're not alone.

"Just keep walking, bro, like you're doing," Matt whispers.

He's holding his phone, looking at the screen. I don't look but I know he's taking a video of my hardon pressing against my shorts. Knowing this, makes my cock even harder.

"Fucking hot, Randy. Jesus," Matt mutters beside me.

I turn sideways, truly needing to look at the screws but know my boner tent is now in profile.

"Turn toward me a little. Show me your dick. No one can see."

I turn my hips, reaching for a box of screws with my right hand. My left tugs a the leg of my shorts. I feel my cock spring free. I resist the urge to jerk the leg of my shorts back down. Way more of my cock than the head is showing. My whole dick has escaped and pushed the leg of my shorts up. When I'm sure he's gotten a good shot I pull the leg of my shorts down. The screws in my hand are the ones I need. I put them on the floor of the dolly. A lady passes us, staring at the seemingly endless rows of screws and bolts and fasteners. If she's seen anything her face doesn't show it.

"Bro, look how hard you got me," Matt whispers after she passes.

His shorts bulge. His shorts are gym shorts. Mine are old cut off work pants. Mine, more or less, hold my cock in check. His do not. His dick is sticking out almost as far as if he were naked. I'm shocked at the sight, deeply unnerved by the thought of getting busted, and at the same time totally turned on. If not for the security cameras I know exist in this building, I might drop to my knees and suck his dick right now.

"Video me, brah," he whispers and hands me the phone. He takes the dolly, with the small, and ridiculous looking, box of wood screws the only thing on it, and sets off down the aisle. I keep up with him, trying to capture ever sway of his cock beneath the gym shorts. We pass the shower surround aisle. It's not as busy. He ducks down it. He stops in front of one of the displays. He glances over his shoulder as I step beside him. He reaches up as if trying to read the tag that hangs there. His other hand tugs the top of his shorts down.

His dick looks magnificent. He's hard as cold rolled steel and young enough that his cock, despite its size, points nearly straight up. He strokes it a few times. My mouth is dry. I'm staring intently at the screen. Matt is pretending to look at the tag.

"Can I help you fellas - oh, ah -"

I jump and nearly drop the phone. Matt jerks his shorts up but manages not to jump. I hurriedly shove the phone in my pocket.