Landfall - 30. He Got It Right!

Even though most of the day was lost being nicely spaced out by Bubba's letter, did fix some nibbles, shoved 'em into the fridge, thinking we could have 'em with a beer or two when Bubba gets in later tonight. Headed out to the bar around 9pm, just to see who was out. Bryant was working. Plus, had a surprise or two.

The bar actually had a pretty good crowd, maybe 40 or so people. A mix of some of the regulars, who had no holiday plans, plus a few out-of-towners hiding out from or taking a break from family.

Had appetizers catered to the bar early in the evening—forgot to tell Bryant, but he handled it with his usual aplomb, and the crowd loved having stuff to nosh. One of the surprises I'd planned did catch him off-guard, though. Bought him a voucher good for a week-long stay at Atlantis for two, plus air-fare, and a bonus week paid vacation. He's not involved right now, but sure he'll find a buddy to go with him. The man was speechless. Loved it.

The other surprise was when I grabbed a mic, welcomed everyone to the bar, told 'em to think of this place as their second home—and gave everyone a card “from the owners” with a $25 bar tab. “We appreciate you, and we appreciate your business. We're glad you're sharing your holiday with us!” The crowd was stunned and started applauding as Bryant and I passed out the cards. Had extra cards to give to the regulars that weren't there.

Home at midnight, Bubba's not in. Built a fire, must've dozed off on the sofa. Wake up to gentle kisses from my big lug of a lawman. “Come on, Bulldog. Let's hit the sack. Christmas is tomorrow morning!” No clue what time it is, maybe 2:30am or so?

Wake up the next morning to Bubba gently shaking me and singing a made-up song in my ear. “Wake up, wake up, it's Christmas morn, it's time to get your presents on!” Just like a little kid would—and yeah, it's 6am, just like a little kid getting up early to open presents. Silly? Yeah. Totally endearing? Absolutely. And after the letter he'd left, the bastard can get away with anything he wants.

Opened our presents after the coffee was done and a fire built. Got Bubba a nice Italian leather briefcase, a black straw cowboy hat, a wood belt buckle like I'd gotten Trey back in Dallas ages ago, except instead of mother of pearl where the moon would be on the landscape of the buckle, had it inset with pave cubic zirconia, so it looked like a sparkly sun. Jonathan and Greg brought it up from the shop in Key West. His last gift was a hand-tooled/painted cowboy belt using white whip-stitches around the edges with “Bubba” stamped across the back, painted in white.

Bubba pulled out all the stops for me: A black Resistol cowboy hat, black Lucchase ostrich boots, a white western cut dress shirt with mother of pearl snaps instead of buttons and an embroidered design across the shoulders in back—and the same damn belt I'd given him, except with “Bulldog” stamped on it.

“Good taste runs in our family. Man, do I ever love you—and your letter meant so much …. “ I kissed him; that started an epic lovemaking session in front of the fireplace.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

With New Year's coming up, easy to get introspective. The last six months have been good. Made friends from some of the bar's patrons. Enjoying running the bar, and actually getting pretty good at it, despite a couple of missteps. The bar is making solid money, more patrons than ever, and the changes we'd put in place all went well: Karaoke, Country-Western night, more of the drag shows, and Ladies night for our lesbian friends. Only thing that didn't work was Movie Night; Bubba was right, no one wants to come to a bar and be quiet to watch a movie. We're now doing Gay Bingo on Tuesday, hosted by one of the more outrageous drag queens, and it's doing well.

Fun to be behind the bar, hearing everyone tell their story—hell, all most folks want is someone to listen, and it's true they tell their bartender everything. Also fun to watch the flirting and hookups that go on. Believe me, there are stories there, including from the large group of straight folks that crowd the bar on drag show nights who discover they can “go gay” after a few beers.

One of the funnier times occurred at the end of summer. Bryant was working behind the bar when a guy comes in with both his girlfriend and his boyfriend. Guy goes to shoot pool, boyfriend and girlfriend head to the bar. I'm sitting on the short “L” section of the bar, maybe 10 or 12 feet away from 'em, so I'm hearing everything. Bryant is slinging drinks to the full Sunday afternoon crowd at the far end of the bar.

This group had come in from the lake, were bronzed from the sun, and buzzing from plenty of beers already consumed, relaxed in shorts, t-shirts, flip-flops. Boyfriend at the bar turns to the girlfriend and says, “I love your tits.”

“Really? Look.” At which point she crosses her arms in front of her chest, pulls her tank top over her head and freezes in that pose. “Still like 'em?”, spoken in a valley-girl dialect. She's bare-chested; no bra.

“Oh fuck yeah, I do!”, as the guy throws his head between her cleavage, “motorboating” with his mouth and lips quickly moving from one breast to the other and getting the cleavage in between.

After a few seconds or so, the blonde woman pushes the guy away. “I'm tired,” she whines. Pulls the shirt down, crossing her arms again, grabbing the tank top's straps as she pulls it now around her waist. “That's better. Still like 'em?”

“Fuck yeah!” The motorboating continues, only somehow in the meantime, the guy at the bar has gotten his t-shirt off.

Boyfriend at pool table comes over and by the time he's gotten to the bar, his t-shirt is off and wadded up in his hand. “If I'd know it was this kind of bar, we'd have been here a lot sooner!”

Funny to watch as everyone in the bar starts taking off their shirts, then tugging at their pants/shorts as though starting to fully strip--men and women all participating. Bryant suddenly realizes what's going on, starts running around like his hair is on fire, waving his arms and shouting, “It's not that kind of bar! It's not that kind of bar!” He finally got everyone dressed by threatening to kick 'em out if they weren't dressed right this minute. Rolling with laughter at my seat at the bar, and yeah, kept my t-shirt on despite seriously considering—at least for a minute—joining in on the stripfest.

Or the Sunday night I was working the bar. Smallish early crowd, a guy and me left in the bar alone at midnight. I'd been talking with him off and on all evening. He's an engineer for a commercial company subcontracting with a boat manufacturer, married, 2 teenage daughters, living in a nice part of town. About my age, early to mid-40's, nicely dressed in Dockers, deck shoes and golf-type shirt.

He's polished off four, working on his fifth beer in the almost three hours he's been here. He leans across the bar looking me squarely in the eyes. “Barry, I want you to fuck me.”

Totally surprised, but committed to Bubba. “Thanks, but really can't. I'm involved, And even if I weren't involved, I'm still working. The bar is open till 2am, and then I've got to balance, restock, and clean the place. Don't think you'd wanna wait for me till 3:30 or 4am anyway. Thanks, though.”

He stands, back away from the bar a step or two, turns his back to me—and promptly unbuckles his belt, drops trou, showing me the black panties and fishnet stockings he's got on under the pants. Slapping his ass, “You sure you don't wanna tap this?”

Hell, if I wanted a woman, I'd go get one. Done that lots of times before ….

All I could do to keep from laughing in the man's face. “Thanks, but really can't, buddy. Appreciate the offer, though.”

New Year's Eve had it's own surprises. We'd scheduled a drag show, followed by a midnight champagne toast, then brunch at 2am before we hit the extended closing allowed for us till 4:00am. Jennay is working the door, collecting the cover charge and checking ID's. Bryant's slinging drinks, I'm behind the bar, pouring a few, but basically helping as bar-back, keeping ice moving, restocking bottles as they emptied—basically just backup/go-fer for Bryant. He's far faster at moving the liquor.

House is packed with more streaming in all the time. Damn close to reaching fire-marshal capacity of 150. I'd just grabbed a couple of Coors for some ladies at the bar when a big guy, maybe 6'4” or 5”, refrigerator-sized, steps to the bar, looks at me, orders a Jack and Coke. Changes it to an order of two, one for him, the other for his buddy. Thought I recognized the guy, but wasn't certain, but definitely recognized his buddy when he stepped up to get the order—it's Trey, my son.

FUCK!

He's watching me closely, checking me out, but not saying anything. I turn away, Bryant looks at me. “You need to go lie down, Barry? Are you getting sick? You're white as a sheet!”

“I'm fine.” Truthfully, a little light-headed. Such a rush to see my boy. He looks pretty much the same, but he's bulked up even more than when I saw him in Dallas last spring. Weather's pleasant enough here, he's wearing short sleeves; you can see how his arms are muscled up.

The guy he's with is a second-tier player with the Saints. They were eliminated from playoffs this year, so he's off. How he'd hooked up with Trey and what they're doing here at the bar has got to be an interesting story.

The crush of the crowd continues demanding drinks, and we're slapping 'em down on the bar as fast as we can. Every damn time I look up, Trey is watching me—he'd never tried to take a seat, just stood at the bar watching me the whole time, occasionally squeezing his buddy's arm or leaning in to talk/laugh with him.

Trey leans in, motions me over for another round. Bryant's at the other end of the bar, so I'm trapped—gotta go take the order.

“Tre...uh....two more?” Hoping it sounded like I stuttered with all the crowd sounds.

Damn! My mouth kicked in before my brain could stop it.

Trey's eyes go wide. He leans in, grabs me by the shoulders, puts his face next to mine and whispers in my ear, “No one knows me here, but you know my name. You're my dad, aren't you.” Not a question. “You move like him; you talk like him. Face is different, but it's you, isn't it.”

Bubba, where are ya when I need ya? He's disappeared into the crowd. What do I do?

Trey starts to throw a punch at me, but his buddy stops him. He's red-faced, eyes narrowed to slits.

Just look at him. “Can't talk now, meet me tomorrow at noon. Here's my number, call me around 10am, we'll set up a place. Not a word about this—to anyone.” I nod at his buddy as I give Trey my business card with my cell number on it. They vanished into the crowd, didn't see 'em the rest of the night.

Left the bar at 6am, after closing and cleaning up. Bubba headed home when the bar closed, but was still up when I got in. Told him what happened, he was open-mouthed with surprise. I'm exhausted physically and mentally.

Fucking terrified. Bubba's “spidey sense” said something big would happen.

Got almost 4 hours of restless sleep when my phone rang at 10am. “Where do we meet?” No “hello”, no “good morning”. This isn't gonna be good. Bubba pours coffee in a travel mug for me as I head out; kisses me for luck. He'd offered to go with me, but this is one trip to be done alone.

Pick out a pier just off the I-10 Twin Spans. It's actually a remnant of the old Twin Span Bridge that was destroyed during Katrina, now used as a pier/dock. It's vacant at this hour on New Year's Day. And yeah, they're really two bridges, running parallel; one east-bound, the other west-bound; thus, the “twin-span” name.

Trey pulls up in a rental car alone, walks out to the end of the pier where I'm standing, hand shaking with nervous energy, cigarette dancing in my fingers. His hands shoved in his jeans pockets. Mouth set in a grim line, eyes red, hair blowing around on what's turned out to be a blustery overcast day. “Start talking.”

Honesty is the best policy, right?

Told him the full story. Told him how it was the only way to protect him, his brother, their lives, and their futures. Told him how much I'd missed 'em. Told him I'd change everything I'd done if I could have kept 'em in my life safely. Told him how I had to trust a bunch of strangers within The Bureau to take care of my boys. Told him of the constant hiding in hotels in different parts of the country. Told him of even changing my face and taking a new identity to make sure there'd be no connection back to them. Finally shut up, voice hoarse, struggling to keep from crying.

Trey glares at me but says nothing. Time stops.

Have I totally fucked up? Should I have denied everything?

He sighs a long, bone-exhausting sigh. “Yeah, I get what you tried to do. But I'm wrestling with what to say or do. Hasn't been a bed of roses for us, either. First we lost mom. Then just weeks later, we had to watch our dad die on TV—over and over with every replay and from every angle. We never got any options, just had to take whatever was dished out.

“We had the security detail all summer. They're nice enough guys, but we needed a break we never got. You'd left your estate all nice and neat, but we had to deal with nothing left of our lives in Dallas—you and Mom were dead, the house sold, and we got a few personal things from the house and that's it. The friends there and at school scattered like cockroaches in the light, afraid to be associated with us.

“We started school, but both of us had major problems. I had anger issues; at least that's what Coach said; my play on field actually improved. I'd play through it, making tackles, taking guys out, feeling good with each hit. Off field, I was a dick, got in fights constantly. Wynn left me, couldn't handle the douche bag I'd become. I got into therapy The Bureau offered, and combined with some 'scripts, just now getting that kinda under control, I think.

“Cory—well, he never pulled out of it. He started doing weed all the time, maybe other shit, too. Hell, he'd smoke a bowl at breakfast before going out to class. And he was still doing the drugs the therapist provided. Couldn't focus in classes, so he just quit school. All he does now is sit around the house, play x-box, and get high. Hafta make him go take a shower, clean up, even occasionally make him eat a meal. He'd tried therapy, but it didn't click so he pulled back into his shell. And Carly, his girlfriend who he planned to marry this year, couldn't take his changes, and he told her to leave—and she did. He's got no drive, no ambition, no energy.

“Didn't exactly turn out to be a happy ending, did it? You gave up everything for us, but you were the everything we needed ….” Trey's face is a twisted mess as he fights to maintain control; he's flexing his fists open and closed, maybe fighting the urge to beat the shit out of me.

This is hell. Tried to fix things for my boys and none of it worked out. What the fuck do I do now?

“Ok … I thought I was doing good—I really did. Big question is: can we fix this? Or is it better to let things be? You tell me what you want, Trey, I'll do it. Anything. I'm begging you; tell me what you want me to do.” It's a gravelly whisper—terrified of what he's gonna say.

What if he walks away? What if he can't take any more chances? Or what if he stays? Can we make that work—safely?

He just looks me up and down, fists cycling through that damned open/clenched cycle. Turns, walks away a few steps, then comes back up, nose to nose with me.

It's then I see the tears streaking down his face. “I want you back—we'll make something work. Just no more secrets, ok?” He grabs me in a hug I hope will never end. We stood there, hugged up, both crying, for God knows how long.

“One more thing …. ” Trey says as he grabs his phone, punches in a number. “Hey, what are you doing?”

I'm only hearing one side of the conversation, and too much in shock to do anything other than stand there.

“Throw some clothes in a bag. Head to the American Airlines counter. By the time you get there, I'll have a ticket waiting for you—you're joining me in New Orleans. Yeah, it'll be for a few days. No, I'll tell you when you get here. Yes, you have to come. Don't fuckin' argue with me, just fuckin' DO this, ok? NOW!” Trey is shouting by the time he finishes. “Get your ass in gear. I'll text you in a few minutes with a confirmation number for the ticket. Oh, and don't bring any pot with ya, make sure you've got your driver's license, ok?”

He turns to me and grins. “We'll get this fixed. Cory will be here in a few hours. Happy New Year, dad.”

Bubba's “spidey sense” got it right—big-ass New Year's day!

Epilogue:

Had a great Fourth of July party at the bar, and it's been just over a year since I bought the place. Lots been going on.

Chuck Edmundson, our friendly welcoming cop, has worked hard to build a friendship with me. He came to the bar later one night just before Bubba's birthday party when I was working, explained that he'd felt guilty about making a pass at Dave. Told him nothing to feel guilty about—Dave is a hot guy—and all's good between him and me.

He ended up meeting Donnie, the refrigeration guy, who's also been chatting/confiding with me regularly, and they're dating. Chuck's nuts for the guy, and Donnie's just as crazed. Chuck's filed for a legal separation from his wife, and says he wants Donnie all the time, full time. He and his wife are in the process of settling up everything, including shared custody of the kids. Guess Donnie ditched the girlfriend.

Made a lot of solid friends from the patrons at the bar:

Jennay and her girlfriend flew out of state, got married, bought a house from Rex, and are thinking about children. She's the quiet voice who gets everyone's attention. Consistently flat-out nice, sharp mind; a real pleasure to count as a friend.

Ben, the attorney who'd helped with my estate planning has become very friendly with Clayton, the older engineer. Every time they meet, its a low-publicity, high energy flirt fest. Something's developing with them—I can feel it.

Bryant is doing a great job—made him manager of the bar, gave him a raise. He's a happy man, including a new romance with a guy I haven't met yet. Business has been good enough he's hiring another bartender to help out on weekends and karaoke night. Our part-time bartender quit to finish up school; guess bar turnover is a fact of life.

Made several visits to Jonathan and Greg's place in Florida, and they've been up here a few times, too—maybe every six weeks or so. They've helped out on a couple of projects the New Orleans office has been doing. And, they've become the younger brothers I never had.

Sid summoned Bubba and me to D.C., just before the 4^th of July holiday. Finally opened up with me about what's been going on—and confirmed my “spidey sense” feeling about far more happening. Sid's dying—pancreatic cancer—maybe has five or six more months left. His whole plan was to groom Bubba to take over the New Orleans office, and eventually become the Assistant Director of the Bureau. As he put it, “it's the last position in the bureau that's more law enforcement than politics.” He'd also said that David had become truly special to him—another son—and he pushed for New Orleans because I made Bubba happy and we could be together while Bubba's career advanced. Sid says that plan is still on track, and he has a commitment from the Director of the FBI to follow through on it if he's not around.

Marcus Wilde, one of the gay guys in Bubba's office, moved out of New Orleans, and now lives here in town. Bubba told me he's so convinced of the guy's abilities that he's now Bubba's backup team leader. He's a regular at our house and at the bar and Bubba's backup for any intel I discover.

We've become something of regulars ourselves at Rex and Joe's place—so much so that their kids all call me “Unca Barry” and Bubba, “Unca Dave”. And yeah, they're great kids, we try to spoil 'em occasionally with surprise presents. Rex and Joe have become great friends, always supportive, always constant. Rex's “spidey sense” continuously surprises; he's figured out I've got something of a “dark” past, and he “knew” something big was up on New Year's Day—he called me that afternoon to make sure I was all right. Haven't introduced him to my boys yet, but sure that's coming—he's already figured out there are “new men in my life”. Damn “spidey sense”.

Trey, my oldest, is back in school, and is going to summer school, racing to finish up to start an NFL career. He's still seeing the Saint's player, who knows where that'll go. We Facetime two or 3 times a week in addition to daily phone calls. He's sworn to secrecy about my identity, but he's hoping he'll get drafted by the Saints next year so he can move to be closer to me. Can't deny his interest in the Sants' player may be a factor, too.

Cory, on the other hand, is still a work in progress. When I saw him on New Year's Day, just four or so hours after Trey and I met, I didn't recognize him; thin, pasty, a shadow of his former quietly-vibrant self. He'd taken something, and was high when we met. Trey had tipped him off that “this is big”, and he prepared with his drugs. Met up at our place, with Bubba on the back porch as backup in case things got nasty. Yeah, it got to Cory—he passed out when he saw me, sagging into his brother's arms. Had a blank look on his face when he came to on my sofa, but it registered who I was and he jumped off the sofa into my arms, head on my shoulder and just cried. He knew and understood exactly what had gone on between Trey and me. No words. None needed.

Doc worked his magic, hooked Cory up with a therapist back at school that he seems to have clicked with. Doc dis-avowed the previous therapist for not adequately reporting Cory's condition. Cory still occasionally smokes a joint, but rarely gets seriously high, and doesn't seem to be doing anything else, according to his brother. We talk daily, too. He's doing the maximum load in summer school, and seems to be doing well academically. He's generally back to his old self, but occasionally has dark moments. Confident that he's working his way out. Having been over-medicated, understand it's a process to back away from the drugs.

Bubba has become the natural leader of the office, and everyone there counts him as both a friend and their (unofficial) boss. Bubba thinks the current office director will be moving to Atlanta shortly, and feels confident he'll be the office director.

Think he's underselling his role and future. Just a couple of months ago, Bubba was the lead agent to break up a intricate drug/arms swap deal on the docks in New Orleans. Not clear on a lot of the details, but apparently the Mexican drug cartels had worked out a complex deal, buying Chinese, Russian, and North Korean arms through a variety of shell corporations. The cartels then bought cocaine from Columbia and heroin routed through the middle east, and paid for the drugs in automatic weapons with a marked-up value. They made a profit from the markup on the guns' transaction value. They then further marked up the drugs' costs for resale to the mob (Vincent's group) in the United States—getting profits on both the payment in guns and the drug sales, and getting cash to continue the cycle.

Compounding it all was a whole network of corrupt U.S. officials in Immigration and Naturalization, and other divisions of Homeland Security, who not only looked the other way to allow the drug-gun-cash swap and drug distribution to take place on U.S. soil, but some actively helping in the process of getting the drugs out to various mob groups across the United States. And, corrupt agents with Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms bought guns directly, supplying them to “insurgents” overseas. Caused a major shakeup within Homeland Security, with several high-ranking officials receiving prison sentences, and the mobsters also getting jail time—including Vincent.

My big lug of a lawman was the hero and driving force in the whole thing; think it's cinched his position as future Assistant Director of The Bureau.

If anything, Bubba's even better looking—a little grey sneaking in around his temples, with laugh lines just now starting to show and adding character. Still the hottest fucker I've ever seen. And his kisses (and the sex) just keep getting better. Discovered we both enjoy a few kinky things sexually, so the exploring continues.

And me? I look at it this way: I've got a great job I'm enjoying and getting pretty good at. Got my boys back. Got someone I can love who can love me back, no holds barred with either of us. And no secrets between any of us. Well, other than the every-increasing “spidey sense”. Not sharing that with the boys at this point—they'd think I'm nuts. Bubba understands and believes in it, though. And will probably share that with the boys at some point.

Jonathan and Greg gave me protective medals for a couple of saints—one to protect during travels, the other for protection from storms. I've lived through the worst of the storms, survived it's landfall and the intense winds on the back side of the eye, and rebuilt.

Find myself regularly whistling an old, old tune, “Blue skies, shining on me, nothing but blue skies do I see …. “

Only blue skies ahead.