Summer - 5. Eyes on the Prize

Smells of cooking bacon permeated the townhouse, reaching the master suite on the top floor. César was first to awaken, looking at the clock on his nightstand, he groaned at the hour.

“What the hell is that boy doing up before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning? And why is he cooking bacon of all things?”

Next to him, Brett grunted. Rolling on his side, he threw an arm over César’s waist, and leaned in to give him a peck on the lips. “Morning.

“Give him a break and be glad he has some idea of how to use the kitchen! I can’t remember if he’s cooked at any point when he’s visited the past couple of summers.” Brett looked at César for some sort of reply but the man next to him just shrugged his shoulders. “I sure hope there are no fires though; the gas company might not be happy with an explosion. I gotta pee.” Brett pushed the bed sheet off, swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat for a moment before standing and stumbling toward the bathroom. His morning boner leading the way.

César followed him and, after emptying their bladders, both men splashed water on their faces and brushed their teeth. They slipped on the boxers they had discarded on the floor the previous night, before heading downstairs to face the day. And the teen loose in the kitchen.

“Morning, Dad. Morning, Papa. Thought I’d be nice to you guys and fix breakfast for ya today.” CJ was alert and smiling as he stood in front of the stove flipping pieces of bread onto the griddle, after dipping them in egg batter. Wasn’t sure what you’d want to eat, or what time we had to get going, so I waited until now to start cooking. I settled on french toast, hash browns, bacon, fruit, muffins, coffee, and juice. I already cut some melon up.”

“You waited until 0730 hours to cook? What the hell time did you get up? And how many people are you cooking for?” Brett stole a strip of crispy bacon, from the plate on the countertop, ruffled CJ’s hair, and kissed the back of his head.

CJ hoped he had not done something wrong. “I’m sorry. Is it too early? Too much food? I had trouble falling asleep last night and still woke up at sunrise. I think maybe I’m a little hyper?”

“A little? I’d say so. But considering recent events, it’s not surprising.” César placed a mug of coffee in front of Brett and took a sip from his own. His voice had a hint of anxiety, revealing the man was concerned about his son. “Speaking of those changes, how’re you feeling about them right now?”

“Pretty fucking… oops, pretty darn good, Dad. I’m still hurt and upset with the way Colonel Dickhead reacted, and the way Mom let him throw me out, as if I was garbage” CJ looked down for a fraction of a second, sadness evident on his face. “But I’ve been thinking, and I’m pretty sure I got the best part of this deal. They have to live with what they did, while I get two great dads and all their friends. Who happen to be just as studly.” CJ’s smile was as large as ever. The two men sitting across from him exchanged a glance; CJ’s quick mood changes hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“First: it’s fucking fine, to say fucking,” quipped his dad. He stood, grabbed Brett’s mug and his own, and stepped over to the coffee maker to pour refills. “Second, is Colonel Dickhead our official term of endearment for the asshole? Third, you are most definitely not garbage, no matter what that witch has done. Sorry, kiddo I shouldn’t be calling your mother names, but... you know? Finally, what’s with the studly friends comment? You’ve got a sudden interest in old men?”

“Watch it, buster! The rest of the Eight may be old, but yours truly is still a studly, young, hunk.” Brett avoided looking either one in the eyes while sipping his coffee.

“Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Whatever you say, dear. Please remember you’re not the youngest one in the crowd, Rash’s younger, and you’re twice the kid’s age anyway.”

“Asshole!”

“I don’t mind you calling her names, Dad. I guess she doesn’t really care as much about me, as she does about Rich. She coulda said something when he was tossing me out after he decided I wasn’t fit to live in his house. As for the older men, I don’t find little kids attractive so, until I meet some guys around my age…”

They all chipped in, finished cooking breakfast, sat down to eat, and began planning their day. As his dad had asked him to, the boy tried on the motorcycle riding leathers and helmet they had bought for him the previous summer. CJ reported the chaps were too short, the jacket was tight across the shoulders and the sleeves were also short, the boots were tight, and so was the helmet. Growth spurt in action.

“Look,” said Papa Brett, “I think a few of our things will fit you, you’re almost as tall as I am already. Why don’t you borrow a jacket and chaps when we go riding? We’ll go buy a new helmet and boots today but wait on the other stuff until a bit later in the year. If you end up getting your own scooter down the line, you can get custom-made leather chaps and pants. The jacket we’ll pick up in New York, you’ll want a Perfecto, it’s what James Dean wore, and they’re about the best on the market.”

“Riding gear’s then first on our list today,” said César. “What about bedroom furniture? Those two double beds in your room I think should go. Pretty sure a queen would be fine, but we can get you a king if you want, there’s plenty of room. We also need to add a real desk and chair, instead of the decorator stuff the designer used when we remodeled and furnished the house. It’s a good desk, but not practical to keep a computer on and do homework. Since you’ll be here year-round, and not just on school vacation, you need something a bit bigger and sturdier. When the beds go, so does the bedroom set. We should also upgrade the TV while we’re changing stuff around. Any style preference for the furniture?”

“You guys are trying to spoil me, aren’t you? I’ll have to make sure Colonel Dickhead hears how I’m living large thanks to his homophobia!” The boy cracked up at his comment; his dads looked amused, shook their heads, and returned the smiles. “I like the furniture style here in the great room, and in your bedroom, so maybe something similar?”

“We start with riding gear, maybe leathers, then furniture store for chunky wood and black leather stuff, and last Best Buy for a new TV. We may have to look at a gaming console also. I’ll now have someone able to play something other than Solitaire, Mahjong, and Tetris with!” Brett ducked to avoid a swat to the head from his other half.

“You just won the job of chauffer for the day, Jarhead. We need the truck for the electronics anyway; we can also bring home the mattress. It can sit on the floor for a little while until they deliver the rest of the furniture.” César stood and began clearing the dishes, Brett also rose to store away the juice container, milk, and left-over fruit.

“Let’s get showered and dressed, we’ll hit the road around ten. Does that work for you?

César nodded. “It works. CJ, go shower first, then you can take some quick measurements of your room. We gotta make sure the furniture you pick will fit. Oh, and we’ll have to hit a Bed, Bath and Beyond for proper bedroom and bathroom linens too.”

“Ready to head out, guys?” Brett was headed towards the back door leading to the garage. Casual attire was worn by everyone. The youngest member of the family had on a light gray t-shirt with the Star Fleet logo, from the Star Trek series, on it. “Cool shirt, dude!” Brett high-fived CJ.

Brett’s truck was an older Ford F-350 Harley-Davidson Special Edition. The outside gleamed in the sunlight, the inside was comfortable and spotless, and the engine roared as the gas pedal was pressed. The black and orange vehicle seemed to know it was going out on the town, and it was itching to be on the streets again.

Driving around Northern Virginia, Brett took the opportunity to fill in gaps in CJ’s knowledge of his background. The family traced its roots to Scandinavia; Brett’s great great grandfather was born in Sweden, and immigrated to the United States, as a young man. Arriving in New York, he found his way to Minnesota, where many arriving individuals from the Nordic Country settled. Not content with being a farmer, after a few years he headed west, ending up in California. There, he became one of the men who made a fortune in the development of the state’s oil fields. Most profits he reinvested in the petroleum industry, and the booming stock market, increasing the family’s wealth. By the mid-1920s, his great grandfather had taken over the reins of the family business and became leery of the stock market’s volatility. He convinced the family to cash out most of their stock portfolio, to invest the proceeds in precious metals, but to still retain their interests in the production and processing of crude oil.

The market crash of 1929 provided an opportunity, for those with sufficient liquidity, to acquire assets at rock bottom prices. The Davenport family took full advantage of the depressed real estate prices. They acquired huge tracts of West Coast real estate, while also investing in several large manufacturing facilities in California. The cash infusions provided by the family kept those businesses afloat during the lean years.

On December 8, 1941, following the attack on Pearl Harbor, his then twenty-five-year-old grandfather joined the Marine Corps. He served in the Pacific theatre with distinction through the end of the war. A few of those entities the Davenports saved from closing their doors years before became a vital part of the World War II effort. The profits helped augment the family’s coffers. In early 1946 the young man returned to his home state, and enrolled at the University of California, Berkeley, in time for the fall semester. Upon graduation, he assumed control of Davenport Diversified Inc., and in the early fifties became a father, when his wife gave birth to Brett’s dad.

The post-war building boom saw the value of the Davenport real estate skyrocket; by the mid-1950s, the family was one of the wealthiest in Southern California. Brett’s father refused to join the military, disappointing his old man; he still, in time, became an integral part in running the family’s far-flung business empire. In the seventies, he began dabbling in California politics. Clashing again with the Davenport patriarch who was a political moderate, he supported conservative Republican candidates such as Ronald Reagan.

In August of 2000, returning from the Republican National Convention in Philadelphia, Brett’s mother and father perished when the charter jet in which they were flying crashed into the mountains of southern Colorado. High-ranking politicians, wealthy executives, and famous Hollywood stars attended the memorial service held for the couple. It was widely rumored George Bush had approached the industrialist, to discuss the possibility of becoming a member of his cabinet, if the Bush-Cheney ticket won the November election.

At the age of seventeen, about to begin his senior year in high school, Brett became an orphan left in the care of his grandfather. Inspired by the man he so admired, the future heir to the Davenport fortune decided to attend UC Berkley as his grandfather had done, and enrolled in the Marine option NROTC program.

“Grandpa died in 2001: I was his sole heir and the beneficiary of over a hundred years of careful management of the family wealth,” explained Brett. “Buddy, you will never have money worries as long as you live.”

CJ appeared dumbfounded, he opened his mouth a few times but closed it again without saying a word. Eventually, he sat back and stared out the window. One could imagine the synapses in his brain firing at rapid speed. The marine guessed the look of concentration on the boy’s face, meant he was once again thinking of the abrupt changes in his life since leaving Miami.

The morning seemed to evaporate, and grumbling stomachs indicated food was required; it was past noon, and they had accomplished most of their tasks. Boots and helmet were in the back seat of the pickup, along with several bags containing sheets, pillows, towels, and a couple of rugs. The furniture had been ordered, it would be delivered on Wednesday, but the desk and chair were loaded in the back of the truck, and headed home with them. The red leather chair contrasted with the black insert of the same material on the desktop, reminding CJ of his beloved Miami Heat colors. Then there was the TV, along with a serious amount of hardware, to connect to it.

Back home they parked in the garage, leaving their purchases in the truck, to be wrestled inside later. CJ wanted to have lunch at The Tombs, so they walked across the street.

Named after a mention in T.S. Eliot's poem Bustopher Jones: The Cat About Town by its founder, the eatery was a neighborhood restaurant by day, and a popular gathering place for Georgetown students at night. Situated on the edge of Georgetown University's campus, along with 1789―an upscale restaurant―the pub was built into a Federal-style townhouse dating from the mid-1800s. CJ had read an online review the previous summer, which had given him the history of the place. The reviewer wrote that whether it was students watching a Hoya basketball game, Georgetown alumni sharing a pitcher of lager, or neighbors enjoying Sunday brunch, traditions ran deep in the place.

And the burgers were addictive, as far as he was concerned. The cozy atmosphere, the young vibrant crowd, and the walls covered with Georgetown Hoyas athletic memorabilia, most likely had some influence in his opinion. Once their server had taken their order, CJ asked his dads about the boat outing planned for the following day. Before they could reply, the conversation was interrupted by the teen’s phone ringing. Surprised, he pulled it from his pocket, looked at the display, and shouted “Dragon!” His father had programmed phone numbers for all the Eight, along with several others he considered important for his son to have.

“Yeah! Doing good. You took my phone’s virginity.” The comment made his dads groan, and roll their eyes. “Of course I remember you from last summer. You had just moved in with your attorney guy when we all went riding on the motorcycles. How’d you get my digits?”

“Your anal-retentive father has been sending the gang detailed emails every night. My son’s coming up to visit early; he’ll join us on the boat Sunday. CJ’s not visiting, he’s moving here permanently. Brett’s thrilled he’ll have someone to play video games with. Here’s my son’s new cell number, I’ll program all of yours into his. Yadda, yadda, yadda. That white boy’s so organized I’m sure he wears his boxers in a specific order!”

“TMI! You’ll have to ask Papa about that.”

“Yo, so figured I’d call and welcome you to the big city. Tell your old men King and I have to skip dinner tonight; we met a hot stud at a bar last night, and we’re gonna have him over to our place for some acrobatics. We’ll see you tomorrow though. We want you guys to come here first. Tell them I’ll email one or the other one about it.”

“Acrobatics?” asked the teen, causing the fathers to grunt, and Dragon to laugh.

“Asshole!” The grownups shouted in the phone’s direction.

“Tell ‘em I heard them, not to say anything, and I’ll explain it to you tomorrow.” Dragon was still chuckling when he hung up.

By the time their food arrived, the conversation was over, and they tore into it like a pack of hungry dogs. Leaving behind empty plates, they headed home for a short nap. The afternoon they spent unloading the truck, moving stuff around, and hooking up electronics.

The question about Dragon’s acrobatics comment was answered with a cryptic look, and one word: sexcapades.

“Hey, babe, I’m taking off Monday and Tuesday so I can spend the time with CJ. I have a client meeting on Wednesday so I’ll need to be in the office then.” César was standing at the door to their bathroom, flossing his teeth, while Brett was in bed, reading on his tablet.

“That’s a great idea, I’m glad you can take the time off. Kinda scary how the boy’s holding it together so well. It’s only been forty-eight hours since his arrival, and we’ve thrown a lot at him.”

“Dragon suggested a little overload with information and activity might be good. It’ll keep him from focusing entirely on the rejection, allowing him to slowly assimilate it. He seemed to take the financial stuff in stride, once you explained it.”

“I was very impressed with his concern, over our spending spree on his behalf. Maybe Lourdes and Rich did some things right, even if in the end, they dropped the ball.”

César groaned, “Not sure I can see any redeeming qualities in that pair. I’m trying really hard not to trash her completely in front of CJ. But that woman has caused me nothing but aggravation for the past sixteen years, and I don’t want to sugarcoat how I feel about her too much.” When César finished in the bathroom, he turned off the light and slid under the sheet on his side of the bed, Brett turned off his tablet and placed it on the nightstand.

“I know it’s not easy, but I’ll be forever thankful to those two. They handed us the winning lottery ticket. CJ was the prize. He’s our responsibility now, we’ll work together at being the best possible parents, and I know we’ll get it right. Goodnight, César. I love you.” Brett turned off the light on his side of the bed and wrapped himself around his mate. “Remember to just keep your eyes on the prize”.