Lion's Lair - 12. The War and the InfoBomb

After Clayton’s disclosure about all the horrible shit Ben was dealing with, we really weren’t in the mood to stay out and drink. Dave and Barry totally understood when we left the bar. And I knew Clayton wasn’t in the mood for cooking dinner, so I called from my car, got a pizza to go, and headed over to his place. Didn’t want to leave him alone.

He’d left the garage door open, and with the driveway lights it was a snap to find the house—no more getting lost like before. My Cadillac pulled up in its spot between his two cars, and I rolled into the house.

“Clayton, where are ya?”

“Changing clothes, come on back.” Rolled back to the bedroom, got treated to the sight of Clayton in a pair of blue silk boxers—and damn if he’s not as hot as I’d remembered from just a couple of nights ago. Easy to just sit and smile at my hot guy.

“You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen an almost naked guy before, Ryan.” An easy smile crosses his face as he reaches down to adjust his balls. For a moment the weight of Ben’s situation is gone. “And what’s that I smell?”

“Oh, I’ve seen plenty of naked and almost naked guys, both in the Corps and elsewhere; just none as hot as you.” And with that, I stick my tongue out at him, all playful like. “And I picked up Chicken Alfredo Pizza.”

“Put that tongue away—God only knows where it’s been.” Clayton smiles back. “And, seriously—thanks for the pizza. I’m really not in the mood to cook, or even think of anything to eat. All I want to do is get in bed, put on a movie, and cuddle up with a hot Marine.” The memories of the day are back and Clayton looks … well, tired.

“Sounds like a good evening to me. I’ll grab the pizza, a bottle of wine—or would you rather have a beer—and bring it back here. You go ahead, relax. I’ll be back in a flash.” There’s plenty of room for me to do a 180, and head back to the kitchen. Grabbed the pizza box, a couple of paper towel sheets, and a white wine out of the fridge. Put ‘em all on the counter while I forage for glasses.

Found ‘em. They’re on the middle shelf of one of the birch cabinets.

Damnit.

Pull my chair up to the bottom cabinets, lock it in place. Pull myself up so I’m standing on my nubs in the seat of the chair. Use one hand to brace myself on the counter, stretch, open the cabinet door with my free hand, grab a glass, place it on the countertop. Grab another, it’s on the counter by its brother. Maneuver back into the chair, unlock it. Glasses held securely in my crotch between my legs, pizza box and paper towel sheets on top, pretty secure on the tops of my thighs, but not taking a chance—roll slowly back into the bedroom.

Can’t wait to get legs—that’d have been nothing if I were standing.

Clayton’s already gotten in bed, propped up on fat pillows, comforter loosely gathered around him. “That smells so good. Didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“Good. Go ahead, pour the wine, and start. Let me piss, get out of the clothes, and I’ll join ya in a moment. Roll to the bathroom, take care of business there, then back. Easily naked, slip under the sheet so I’m shoulder to shoulder with Clayton. He hands the glass of wine to me with a paper towel, opens the box, and puts it half on his thigh, half on mine.

“Definitely not the usual evening dinner Clayton, but I’m loving it.” Surprised he understood me with my mouth half full of delicious pizza.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. It’s nice, comfortable. After we’ve polished off maybe half the pizza, Clayton looks at me, a questioning expression that’s as much concern as it is curious.

“We haven’t talked about it, but I need to know—does it bother you that I’m still talking with Ben? That I’m worried about him?”

“Nope. Figure he’s a part of your past; a part of what makes you … you. He seems nice enough based on that one time we met. He’s just in over his head. And, if I can help with all this, I will. And I’ll tell Dave that, too.”

“So you aren’t threatened by all this? I mean, you don’t feel like it’s an issue between you and me?”

“Fuck, no. We’re good. Besides, as I remember, someone once said we all have a past.” My grin as I say that last line hits home.

A smile of relief flashes across his face. “No wonder I love you.”

“I love you, too. And thanks for asking—it means a lot. Look, we’re in good shape on all this, Clayton, so don’t worry about it. Just do what you need to do to get Ben out of this shitstorm, ok? Like I said, if I can help, I will.”

He leans in, kisses me while the pizza box slides into my lap. “Oops … sorry.” He grabs the now empty, maybe one slice left pizza box, moves it to the floor. “Thank you.”

“Not an issue, ok? But I’m glad you asked—it means a lot.” And it did. He cares enough about me to be concerned.

“Now, let’s watch some TV or do a movie, ok? I just want to cuddle with ya and relax. I’m exhausted. The meeting today with Ben wore me out.” Clayton reaches over, grabs a remote off the nightstand suspended against the wall, and hits a button. There’s a soft whirring sound coming from the console built into the wall opposite the bed, and the room’s indirect lights went down to half brightness. A big flat-screen TV rises from inside the console, there are a couple of clicks, and the TV turns on to HBO.

“It’s a smart home,” in answer to my unasked question of “how’d all that happen?”, Clayton explains. “I’ve got a key on the remote set to dim the lights, raise the television, turn it on, tune to the last channel I was watching, and turn on the surround sound. I’ll show ya all the details tomorrow, but I can pretty much manage anything electrical anywhere in the house—or outside, like the pool pump.”

Shoulda known—being an engineer, my guy loves technology. And this really is his lair; totally personalized.

We settle back in the mound of pillows behind our back, and it’s not long before Clayton moves over, head on my chest, and moments after that, there’s soft snoring. Feels fuckin’ good.

Damn, he wasn’t kidding, he’s exhausted.

Wake up the next morning, Clayton’s still sleeping, it’s only 6:30am on a Saturday. Get up, head to the bathroom to piss, pull on my jeans, then head to the kitchen after fishing around in my pockets for cigs and lighter. Gotta find coffee!

There’s a shiny Cuisinart coffeemaker with stainless insulated carafe at the far end of the counter. Coffee on the lower shelf above it, so fairly easy to navigate to reach it. Make a pot, and it’s done quickly. Fix my cup with a little milk from the fridge, and some sugar, and I’m good to go.

Roll through the den to some sliding glass doors. They open out onto another screened breezeway, leading to another house, I guess. Beyond that is a big screened in pavilion by the dock and lake, beside the meeting of the bayou with the larger body of water.

Birds chirping, glimmer of sparkles off the lake. Pretty. Relaxed. Thank God I’m off this weekend.

Halfway down the breezeway to the other house, there’s a little bistro table and chairs set up. Great spot to have coffee and a smoke. Roll there to find an ashtray already in place.

Clayton thinks of everything.

I’m almost done with my smoke and damn near close to finishing my mug of coffee when Clayton comes out, gym shorts, no shirt, barefoot, carrying his coffee. Leans in to kiss me, then settles into the adjacent chair. “Good morning, gorgeous.” Scruffy voice—you can tell these are the first words of the day.

The bastard can still make me blush.

“Mornin’, stud. And you’re the pretty one.”

Nice to know I can make him blush a little, too.

A long comfortable pause ensues as we both get a slug of coffee.

“So, what’re your plans for the day, Ryan?” Clayton’s up to something, you can kinda tell there’s a plan forming.

“Well, I’m off today, so really hadn’t made plans. Maybe laundry and grocery. Drop clothes off at the cleaners. Typical stuff. Now what do you have in mind?” He’s caught in his sneaky planning—and he knows it.

“I don’t want to slow down your fun with domestic bliss,” he grins as he speaks, “but how about a day date? We can swing by your place, pick up the dry cleaning, drop it off, then head to New Orleans. There’s a new exhibition at the World War II museum I’d like to see; it’s generating a buzz, and has won all sorts of awards. Then we can grab lunch, cruise through the French Quarter, grab a drink or two there. Does that sound like something you’d be interesting in doing?”

Clayton’s offer is appealing—like everyone else, domestic chores aren’t the stuff dreams are made of. And I haven’t been to the Quarter since my initial exploration right after I’d gotten here, and it’s different when you’re with someone. “Sounds great. Although I hate to miss out on housework. Just need to swing by there, shower and clean up.”

“Fair enough. But first, I want another cup of coffee, then we can start the day. We’ve got plenty of time, since it’s only 8:30 am, and I think the museum opens at 10 am. But, we really don’t have a schedule, do we?” Clayton stands, notices my coffee mug is empty, grabs it. “You take sugar with the cream?” I nod as he heads back for a refill for both of us.

Clayton’s back in moments with full mugs of coffee. I thank him, light up a smoke, and relax. It’s a comfortable quiet between us.

Clayton’s phone in his shorts’ pocket rings, and he momentarily fumbles with it before answering. “Hi, Dave, How are you this morning? …. Yes, just doing coffee out in the breezeway. …. We’re thinking of heading to the World War II museum, then lunch, then loafing through the Quarter. Would you and Barry like to join us?” Clayton, looks at me with raised eyebrows, checking to make sure it’s ok to invite ‘em. Of course; I thumb up approval. “No, we’ll be back late afternoon. …. Oh, ok; I’d forgotten there was a show tonight at the bar. We’ll be back early enough Barry can work in a nap if he needs one, so no worries there. …. Ok, want to meet at Ryan’s apartment at, what, maybe 10:30am? That should give us plenty of time for this adventure.” Clayton gives Dave my address. “Ok, we’ll see you there at 10:30am. Bye.”

“It’ll be fun to have them along, Clayton. I’m glad you included ‘em.”

“They’re good men, and this will give us all a chance to know each other better. I’ve been around Barry more than Dave; his work keeps him busy enough, he’s in the bar at odd times, and other than having them out with a group for Saints’ games, I don’t really know him that well. But, since he’s a Marine, too, I’m sure there’s already some bonding going on with you two.”

Clayton’s absolutely right; Dave and I have a leg up on the bonding thing. After all, he’s a brother Marine, so there’s a sense of shared community. Beyond that, his openness at the bar last night was a solid plus. Yeah, we’re gonna have a solid friendship by the time it’s all done.

“Ok, Marine, let’s get moving. I’ll do a quick shower, and we can head out to your place, I’ll drop the cleaning off while you shower—you’ll just have to tell me which dry cleaner you use—then we can start the fun, since the guys should be at your place by then.”

Clayton’s scheduling is right on the money, and I’d just finished getting dressed when my doorbell rang, announcing Dave and Barry’s presence. After quick greetings, we headed out.

At some point, Barry insisted on driving, “since you invited us, it’s only fair”, and we piled into his Chrysler. It’s a really nice car, navy outside, navy trim inside with white quilted leather seats and white inserts in the doors, leather everywhere you touch, big glass moonroof overhead. Nice sound system, too, and the full infosystem built into the dash. Of course, I’m checking it out—I sell Cadillacs, so I’m just comparing the competition. It’s as nice as my demo inside, and certainly as fast—Barry drives it like he stole it, and we’re in front of the museum almost like we’d teleported. Maybe it was the relaxed joking conversation that helped with that, too. But I learned a lot about the museum on the drive down.

Dave had researched the place online, and filled us in on details about the place. “It’s the only World War II museum in the United States, and is recognized by Congress. It was founded by Dr. Stephen Ambrose, who wrote Band of Brothers and was the executive producer for it on HBO. He’d written a couple of other best-sellers, too, one on D-Day, and one on Eisenhower’s presidency. And, he was the historical consultant on Saving Private Ryan. He established the Eisenhower Research Center before that, here at the University of New Orleans.”

No wonder Tom Hanks does promos for the place.

“The other link to New Orleans is that the company that built the twenty thousand landing craft that Eisenhower claimed won the war for us is here.” Dave’s apparently really done his homework on the place. “Out of all of those they built and tested here, fewer than ten remain—and the museum has one of ‘em, rebuilt by some of the original workers, all volunteers. The place has got to be good—it’s the number three museum in the country, according to TripAdvisor.”

Ok, so Dave’s got me thinking. I guess I’d expected some stuffy place, with maybe a few curios, lots of reading of placards, some pictures. I was proven wrong after we went into a contemporary building in the central business district.

It was a full on, multimedia experience. Life-size photos of the Marines and soldiers storming the beaches at Normandy, complete with the actual sounds of battle there, along with a recording of the memories of one of the guys there on the beach during the assault. There was a small movie theater with narrated clips covering the battle of Britain. One section of the display covered the war efforts made at home, with a narrative by the original “Rosie the Riveter”. A “photo in the round” showing what Pearl Harbor looked like just a couple of hours after it was attacked, wreckage from the sinking ships and bodies floating in the water included. A display showing the outrageous numbers of planes, tanks, ships, guns—among other things—produced while the war was ongoing. Incredibly interesting and far from dull, the museum did a fine job of showing the energies and sacrifices of the military and the people at home who won the war.

There’d been some kind of awards ceremony there that morning, with several elderly men there in their uniforms from the war, along with their wives or relatives. They were going through the exhibits just like us, just as moved as all of us were.

Barry and Clayton had moved over to the next display, and Dave was behind me, leaning up against my wheelchair to get closer to look at the picture. At the previous display was an old Creole or black man—I couldn’t tell which—in full World War II army dress uniform, hunched over a walker. A withered left arm missing 3 fingers gripped the walker as maneuvered with an obvious limp from display to display.

Dave and I both looked as the old man touched my hand. “You were both in service, weren’t you, boys.” He made it a statement, apparently picking up on our high-and-tight haircuts.

“Yes, sir, we’re both Marines,” Dave quickly replied.

“I damn near lost this arm to a grenade. I understand some of what you gave.” He drew himself up as high as he could stand, maybe now only 5’6” or so. Quickly raising his right arm, he snapped off a full regulation salute, then softly said, “Thank you for your service”.

Dave and I saluted back, and gave our thanks for his service.

The crowd around us was totally silent watching this. And, yeah, all of us—Dave, me, Barry, Clayton, wiped our eyes after that. Incredibly moving honor from that grizzled war vet.

We’d finished the tour of the museum—had we really been there more than three hours?—and decided to do lunch in the museum’s restaurant. We all agreed over the great food that the museum was a worthwhile trip. And then Dave dropped his little “info bomb”.

“I talked with my law enforcement buddies last night, and they already knew who Benoit is. He’s apparently been on their radar for a while, has been rapidly working his way up the drug distribution chain. They’d wondered about Ben, but finally decided he was just a junkie friend letting Benoit deal out of his place and wasn’t worth investigating. There’s some stuff going on there, but I didn’t get details, and they wouldn’t really say any more. But they assured me that, now that they know what’s going on with Ben, they’ll take care of him, and he’s got nothing to worry about.”

Saw Clayton’s face twist in agony when he heard the law enforcement people describe Ben as just “a junkie friend”. Killed him to hear that. And I understand. But he felt some relief when he realized that there was hope for Ben, and it’d all be over soon—even though Dave gave no time frame, the inference was there that things would start to move quickly to end this hell for Ben, and take care of Benoit.

By the time we finished our late lunch, we’d decided to head back, and let Barry grab a nap before working the bar tonight. Clayton and I will explore the French Quarter together another time.

All in all, a great day.

The days ahead are gonna be interesting, that’s for sure.