Shooting Matt Ch. 12

I am truly sorry to have left the story hanging. I will finish it. I hope those of you who've enjoyed the story so far haven't given up.

Old friends re-unite. New friends are made, or at least met. There's some sex but not a lot.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle once more for his help with the editing.

Enjoy, comment (helpful comments appreciated the most, even if negative).

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I've just finished applying stain on the floor when the phone rings. I can't ignore it. I don't have caller ID. My phone service includes voicemail but I've never bothered to set it up. I don't get enough calls. Telemarketers aren't even interested in my demographic. I suppose I ought to find that depressing. Whatever. If I want to know who is calling I do it the old-school way; I pick up the fucking phone and say 'hello'.

"Dad, don't freak out," Liam babbles before I can say 'hello'. He says something about being in an ER, but I have a hard time processing the information; there is nothing that causes a parent to freak out faster than being told not to freak out. I manage to calm myself enough to make some sense of what he is trying to tell me. He stresses that Matt is moving his legs but all I take away from the conversation is that Matt was sent to Pittsburgh because of a possible spine injury.

Liam convinces me that driving straight to Pittsburgh won't help anything. Now I'm stuck. In this humidity, it will take the stain hours to dry. I'd planned to drive downtown and take some street photos. I decide I might as well. Liam has my cell phone number. And if I sit here, I'll go nuts.

Parking in downtown Cleveland on a work day isn't the brightest idea I've have lately. I find a parking lot that's only insanely expensive as opposed to obscenely expensive. I wander. I'm not looking for people, necessarily, though I do take a few shots. I'm looking for interesting windows, interesting reflections and shapes. The time passes. I grab a dog and a Coke from a street vendor and find a bit of shade. As soon as I take the first bite, my phone rings. It's good news. Matt will spend the night but his spinal cord looks okay. I finish the hot dog. I sit in the shade and look through the photos. I've learned to be ruthless, most go in the trash. Of the couple of dozen on the camera, I keep only five.

I walk back to my truck and head home. The stain is still tacky. I settle in at the kitchen table and take a closer look at the photos I left on the camera. Two more disappear, tossed into electronic purgatory. The other three or not bad. I play with them, make a few adjustments and then stop, pondering how I want to proceed. Do I want to stop here or do some serious post-processing? That's the cool thing about digital.

I pick the one I like the most, make a copy and start to work. The time passes. Liam calls. Matt is in his room. Liam is heading back to the resort with the owners. Apparently, they followed the boys to the hospital. I need to remember to thank them for that. I kneel in the doorway, touch a finger near the wall, where the baseboard will hide any fingerprints. The stain is dry. I inspect the living room, hall and bedrooms for any spots I've missed, or places where the stain hasn't taken. It looks good. The work occupies my mind. I start in my bedroom and as the minutes click by the first coat of varnish creeps across the floor as if by magic. It's dark when I finish, painting my way back into the kitchen. The varnish will take much longer to dry than the stain. I'm trapped in the kitchen and the half bath.

I'm not hungry but I force down a bowl of cereal. I strip by the half bath and wash up in the sink, in what my mom used to call a "whore's bath". It's the smell of varnish that convinces me that I'm not going to be able to sleep anyway. I rummage through the laundry basket of clean clothes, throw a few things into a grocery bag, because my suitcase lies, inaccessible, atop the shelf in the bedroom closet.

It takes me a little more than two hours to drive to Pittsburgh. I find a hotel close to the hospital, decide to forgo a real shower until morning and fall into bed.

If I had any dreams, I don't remember them. I get cleaned up, check the time, and avail myself of the free breakfast buffet. The buffet consists of pre-packaged snack cakes, a large plastic silo of corn flakes, glass pitchers of lukewarm milk, and coffee, also lukewarm. It's free, or at least its cost is hidden in the room charge. You get what you pay for. It's a cliché but it's still the hard-assed truth of the matter. I kill a little more time with one of the copies of USA Today scattered in the lobby. The crossword is decent. I don't mess with Sudoku; numbers make my head hurt.

When I can no longer pretend that I'm not simply stalling, I force myself to get up and go outside. The hospital is a block away, which explains the high price for such a dumpy hotel. I'm afraid I'll be asked if I'm family. I've work myself up to lie but there's no need. A nice lady gives me Matt's room number and directions. I restrain myself from explaining to her that her blue hair rinse totally clashes with her pink vest. I don't pretend my restraint means I'm not a dick; I'm a dick for thinking it in the first place.

I find the elevator and only make two wrong turns before finding his room. He's getting ready to have breakfast. My heart kicks up a notch. He looks beat. His gorgeous hair is a total mess. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look almost goth. I'm about to turn, let him rest, let him eat but most of all make sure he doesn't feel I'm pressuring him, when he looks up.

He smiles. My heart kicks up another notch at the sight. The aide, or nurse, helping with his breakfast looks up as well.

"Should I come back?" I ask.

"No, not unless Matt wants to send you out for real coffee," the man, a nurse, I can see "RN" on the bottom of his ID, answers.

"You want a coffee, Matt?" I ask, hoping he will. Running out for coffee will give me time to catch my breath and get my feet back underneath me.

"Naw, that's too much trouble," he replies but the way he looks down as he speaks and the tone of his voice make it clear he'd be happy for me to override his concern.

"Not at all," I reassure him. "I saw a Starbucks in the lobby. What do you want?"

"A double chocolate Frappuccino would be great."

I look at the nurse. "Can he have that?"

The nurse - I squint at his name tag, Kent - shrugs. "He has a regular diet ordered." He looks at Matt. "I feel obliged, since I'm the one that will need to help you, that if that thing gives you explosive diarrhea, rolling out of that bed and into the john won't be happening with the haste you may expect. In other words, you sure it won't cause you to crap the bed?"

My experience with hospitals has been confined to ERs and rehab facilities. Kent isn't blunt. ER nurses are blunt. But I can't say he's acting like most nurses I've meet. I find it refreshing. I realize I'm smiling.

So is Matt.

"I won't shit the bed unless I have a sack of White Castles to go along with the Frappuccino."

"Okay then," Kent says with a nod.

"You want anything to eat?"

Matt smiles at me. "No, Kent has me set up with General Hospital's finest powdered eggs and paper thin bacon. I'm good.

I stand there feeling increasingly stupid. I could turn around, go to the lobby and get coffee. Or, I could do what I want to do, if I wasn't such a coward, and walk over and give Matt a kiss. I stall.

"Kent, you want a coffee or anything?"

"Medium dark roast, about a quarter-inch of half-n-half and three packets of raw sugar," he responds without hesitation. "Oh, and if they have any of the ginger molasses cookies this morning I'll take one of those." He smiles at me. "Should I write it down?"

"No, I think I got it."

Kent's unabashed forwardness forces my hand. I might be a coward but I don't care to have everyone in the world know it. I cross to Matt's bed. When I bend over, he tilts his head. His lips are dry but I don't care.

"See you in a few minutes." I brush at his hair and turn to Kent. "Can he take a shower? I think there's still mud in his hair."

"I'll check. Don't forget, three sugars but the raw not the white."

"Sure," I say as I roll my eyes at him. Matt notices and chuckles. Kent smiles.

***

"So, I'm guessing that's not your dad?" Kent asks after Randy disappears down the hall.

"No. He's a - I'm not sure. He's a friend for sure." Matt's voice trails off.

Kent settles for a nod. "Let me see if a shower is in your future."

***

My face feels like it's on fire. Kent appears to be fine with the kiss. If he's not, he's enough of a professional to keep his thoughts off his face.

I order, feeling a strange compulsion to explain it's not all for me. The young lady finds me a drink carrier, though it is obvious she views the recycled pressed cardboard in the same light she would a spent nuclear fuel rod. I, and my drink carrier, are planet killers.

Kent is helping Matt to sit up when I return. The back of the hospital johnnie falls open. A lurid red and purple blotch stretches across his left lower back as far as his hip.

"Jesus," I whisper but not softly enough. He turns his head.

"That bad?"

"Matt, buddy, I'd like to tell you 'tis but a flesh wound' but you got one helluva impressive bruise."

"Can I see it?"

"Hold on champ," Kent tells him. "Why don't you see how sitting up goes first. Then you can practice swiveling you head around backwards to look at your own back. Of course, you can't see it," he sighs in mock disgust. "Later, when you're up you can take a gander at your back in the mirror."

"Here you go," I tell Matt, reaching around him and setting his Frappuccino down on the crazy little table that goes over the bed. "And here's yours, Kent. Dark Roast with skim milk, SweetnLow and a bran muffin." That's bullshit. I'm just fucking with him.

He eyes me over Matt's shoulder as he takes a sip of his coffee and looks in the bag. "Ha, ha. Very funny."

"He's harsh, brah. So's his son, Liam. Both harsh. I've gotten used to it," Matt tells him, trying to smile but it's clear he's uncomfortable.

"Kent, can I stand up?" He asks. "I think that might be easier."

"Hang on a sec." Kent looks at me. "Come over here, stand on his right." I do as he asks. "Okay, Matt, try standing. Uh..." he looks at me.

"Randy. My name's Randy."

"Randy, just put your hand under his elbow. Matt, we're not going to lift or pull on you. We're here for balance. Got it?"

"Yeah," Matt whispers. I can see him ready himself for the effort. I've seen that face many times on the starting block. When he stands it's so anticlimactic I nearly laugh. He doesn't need our help for balance.

"Not too bad," he whispers. I assume he means the pain. He turns, swiveling at the hips. His mouth tightens. He tries leaning forward. He makes to about forty-five degrees and then stops. He leans back but quickly stops.

"That hurt?" Kent inquires. His eyes haven't left Matt's face.

"Yeah, a little but standing still feels better than sitting." He picks up the Frappuccino and takes a long pull at the straw. "Can I take my shower now?"

"Sure," Kent tells him. "You want to sit back down while I get the stuff?"

"No, I'd rather stand. Thanks."

"Not a problem. Don't thank me until you see the bill."

I step in front of Matt. "How are you? Really."

"I'm fine. Honest. My back is more stiff than sore. I need to get into a pool and stretch it out, that's all."

"What happened? Liam didn't really say anything other than you had a fall and hurt your back."

Matt shrugs. "That's pretty much it." He pauses and takes a sip of his drink. I can tell he's stalling. I'm starting to be able to read him better. That's one advantage of age, I suppose.

"He didn't tell you anything else?"

"No. Like what?"

"The lady that owns the place, Glenna, remembers you. She was a bit miffed you didn't remember her."

"Glenna? I don't remember..." Then it hits me. "Nena? We called her Nena. She hated Glenna. Her folks, well her mom mostly, ran the place. I'll be damned. Glenna McCormick."

"She's Glenna Anderson now," Matt tells me. I'm still remembering the skinny pain in the ass that followed me around everywhere. It's only later that I wonder if Matt was trying to warn me.

"Does Liam know you're here? I remember, or I think I do, him saying he'd talked you out of coming down here."

"He did but the house smelled of varnish. It was hot. And I've always wanted to spend more time in Pittsburgh."

"Uh-huh," Matt replies.

Before I can say anything more, Kent returns, arms full of towels and a clean johnnie. He pushes the door to the bathroom open with his shoulder. From what I can see it's a typical hospital bathroom. A toilet with that jointed arm behind it I've always presumed it's used to wash shit off people's asses. A shower with a fold down plastic seat, plastic curtain, and no rim on the floor so everything gets wet.

"You need help? Want the shower seat down?" Kent asks.

"Naw, I'm fine." Matt reaches up and unties the johnnie and lets it fall off his arms. He tosses it on the bed. I try not to stare as he walks toward the bathroom. I also try not to be jealous of Kent; he can see the front of my young naked lover.

"Bashful, are we?" Kent says, shaking his head.

Matt stops in front of the small sink and mirror outside the bathroom and turns slowly, looking over his shoulder at his back. He whistles.

"I told you," I tell him. "I saw worse in 'Nam," I add.

Matt's eyes are on his back and its reflection of the bruise that mars his beauty. "Bitch, you were never in Vietnam," he whispers.

"Did I say 'Nam? I meant Desert Storm. I personally held Saddam while Stormin' Norman bitch slapped him across Kuwait."

"Uh-huh," Matt whispers, eyes still on the mirror. "I guess those rocks were as hard as they looked."

"They almost always are buddy." I tell him.

"Kent?"

"Yes?" Kent has already started stripping Matt's bed. I thought they had aides for that stuff these days. Matt doesn't say anything. He looks up. "Yeah, Matt. What do you need?"

"Ah, nothing. Never mind." He turns and walks, stiffly, into the bathroom.

"Don't pee in the shower," Kent calls after him. "That's against Federal regulations."

The shower roars, well, whimpers, to life. Matt doesn't reply.

"Can I help you with that?" I ask Kent.

He looks up, faux outrage on his face. "Did you take a full semester of bed corner making, buddy?" I shake my head.

"No but I have a kid I mostly raised on my own."

"Well, at least I get paid to make a bed," Kent says with a nod.

"So, do I, so did I," I correct myself. "Just not with cash."

Kent nods.

"Do you have any kids?"

"No," he says without looking up. "My partner and I never got around to it."

"You have time. If it's something you want to do," I offer, by way of reassurance.

"No, 'fraid not. My partner died a couple years ago."

"Oh shi...," I stammer. "I'm so sorry to hear that. I didn't mean to pry."

"You weren't prying. You were making conversation. It's okay." He looks up from the bed. "I appreciate the sympathy. Honest."

"What happened? I mean, if you wanna talk about it. I'm not asking out of some morbid curiosity. It's just that you're younger than me. Was it an accident?"

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose. Or bad luck. Either of those is better than 'stupid' but that's closer to the truth." Kent's back is to me now; he squares off the last corner and folds back the sheet. "Melanoma. Brad was always proud of his tan. It was, literally, a killer tan." As he turns, he makes a wry face at his joke.

"How long were you together?"

"Not quite eight years."

"Was he a nurse, too?"

Kent smiles. "Worse. He was a doctor. Is it still a cliché, the doctor-nurse romance if it's two guys?"

"Probably."

"It's not surprising really," Kent continues as he changes the pillow case then returns the pillow to the bed. "Once you start this crazy life, who else do you meet? Brad was a resident. I was a nursing student when we first met. It almost kept him from asking me out. Now that I think about it, it did keep him from asking me out. I asked him out but I waited until my rotation here was over."

Finished with the bed, he walks over to the bathroom door and knocks. "Matt? You okay in there? You need anything?"

"I'm good. Would you ask Randy to come in here, please?"

"You're up, champ," he tells me as he heads for the door. "If you need anything, press the button. I got other patients to check on."

"Thank you for helping with Matt. I appreciate it. And, again, I'm sorry to hear about Brad."

Kent nods and leaves the room.

***

Matt hears the murmur of the men's voices. It's a comforting sound. He lets the water run down his back. It feels good. He reaches behind and slowly turns the knob until the water is as hot as he can stand. He washes quickly and returns to simply standing with the water hitting his lower back. He hasn't tackled his hair yet. He'd already discovered he wasn't going to be able to bend backward. He thinks he'll be able to bend forward enough to let his hair hang forward.

When Kent asks him if he's okay, he asks for Randy.

"What can I do, bud?" Randy asks. Matt has both hands high on the shower wall and is leaning forward. Randy doesn't bother to hide the fact he's looking at Matt's dick. It's warm in the shower. His dick and balls hang low, looking delicious.

"If I lean forward do you think you could help me with my hair?"

"Sure. Where's the shampoo?"

"Here it is," Matt says handing him a small bottle. Randy looks at it. It looks identical to the one the motel provided him.

"Hang on a sec, bud. Let me get some of the tangles out."

Randy steps closer to the shower, ignoring the fact that he's getting wet. He lifts Matt's wet, heavy, hair with one hand and uses the fingers of his other to comb out the worst of the tangles. When he's satisfied, he helps Matt turn in the narrow shower. Matt leans forward, supporting himself against the wall and lets the water run over his head. Randy squirts half the small bottle of shampoo into the palm of his hand. He turns the shower head so that it's pointed toward the back wall. He rubs his hands together and then begins to shampoo his lover's hair.

He takes his time, running his fingers through the hair and over the scalp. If his own hand strays down the man's back and caresses his ass, it's understandable. He re-positions the shower head and lets the water rinse Matt's hair.

He steps back. His shoes and pants are soaked. He picks up a towel and begins to dry Matt's hair. When he's satisfied, he hands him a second towel.

"You okay from here?"

"Sure. That felt great. Thanks."

When he leans toward him, Randy returns his kiss.

As he walks out of the bathroom he nearly collides with Liam.

***

I'm still lost in Matt's kiss. It was a very nice kiss. But. But it wasn't a kiss of passion; it was a kiss of familiarity and comfort. It takes me a second to realize Liam is standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. I search his tone for anger but I hear only surprise.

"I couldn't sleep. I've been doing some work on the house. It was hot. The whole place smells of floor varnish and I was worried about Matt. So, I drove down. I'm not staying long. I've got too much to do a home." I look down at my pants. "He was having trouble dealing with all that hair. I made a mess. He should be out soon. He's drying off. I hope he's got a brush with him."

I move past Liam, heading for the long low bench in front of the window and the newspaper I snagged from Starbucks. As I do, Liam moves into the room. I see someone behind him but pay no attention.

"Pop, this is Glenna. She says she knows you."