The Artists - 8. Changes

College life wasn’t going as Casey expected. Of course, it was only the second day as he headed out the front door. It was hot and humid and reminded him of home except there weren’t any palm trees and the air wasn’t so gray. He had his backpack, laptop, cell, and Shuffle. He was dressed as a fat kid with loose clothes to hide all the extra skin. He was a twelve-year-old fat kid that had sucked the cock of a sixty-year-old transvestite he had slept with the previous night. He could very well chuck the whole thing and go back home. Rancho Cucamonga might be bad for his lungs, but at least there weren’t so many strange people all living in the same building.

“Hey, buddy o’mine, missed you at the fuck fest last night,” Ben said as he came up beside Casey.

“First of all, I’m not your buddy,” Casey said as he felt Ben’s hand searching for his butt. The one good thing about wearing pants that were loose enough to be dresses was that you could move away from unwanted advances. “And, quit trying to goose me.”

“I know you like it,” Ben said, “my aunt and uncle are good upstanding Christians who never lie.”

“Well, they go to a church full of lies,” Casey said as a twinge of curiosity overcame him. “Who were you fucking?”

“Jim,” Ben said, flatly.

“No!” Casey exclaimed.

“That’s right, ol’ Jim and me are fuck buddies now,” Ben said, “which kind of lets you off the hook for a while. Look what he gave me.”

Casey looked at the ATM card. It looked like any other ATM card, but the thought of Jim giving Ben his ATM card didn’t sound quite right. Just an hour earlier Jim was all worried he’d gone too far having Ben in his bed for the night, so giving Ben his ATM card made Casey feel uneasy.

“Oh, fuck, I forgot my pen, I better go back and get it,” Casey said as the WALK sign lit.

“Aren’t you going to a sample class?” Ben asked.

“Well, I’ll only be a little late,” Casey said.

“You’ll be sorry,” Ben said as he crossed the street.

‘You’ll be the sorry one once I tell Jim,’ Casey thought. He hurried as fast as he could. He’d left early to be certain of being extra early and because he didn’t move as fast as everyone else. If he did try to run, he’d get all sweaty in the wrong places and then after a short while he’d start to stink, even though Euphorbia dosed him with extra powder. When you can smell yourself, don’t be surprised people are giving you funny looks.

Tiffani and Karl were in the lounge when Casey came into the house. She looked up at him as if he was doing something very, very wrong.

“Don’t you?” She started to ask.

“Yes, but I have to tell Jim something,” Casey said.

“He’s in the kitchen with Peter,” Karl said.

“Huh?” Casey asked. He stopped at where they were sitting. They’d been making out and hadn’t expected to be interrupted. Tiffani’s hand was doing a poor job of hiding the pointy bulge in Karl’s pants.

‘They’re all sex fiends around here,’ Casey thought. Then he remembered his mission and continued on. Maybe Karl simply dismissed Euphorbia and called him Peter. He could do that, too, but Casey respected her wishes to be separate from Peter’s. Casey knew for certain he’d blown Peter.

He’d blown a guy. Casey still couldn’t quite believe that he’d actually blown a guy. He’d taken the guy’s stuff in his mouth and swallowed; and, well, it hadn’t been as bad as he imagined. Now, he could see himself blowing Six. He could actually see in his mind Six’s cock in his mouth.

Yeah, as soon as, but he didn’t know if as soon as was appropriate. The police officer simply told them there’d been an accident. Then he spoke quietly with Kevin and Eric. After the police man left, they left, too, saying they’d get something to eat at the hospital.

Casey didn’t know if Six was alive or dead, but he hoped Six was alive because he knew he wanted to blow him. That was about the only certainty Casey had going right now. He was not quite positive he was gay or even a little gay, but he knew he wanted Six’s cock in his mouth. That probably made him at least a little gay, but it didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that Six got better so he could blow him.

The way Casey figured it, it was because he felt something when he blew Peter, which caused him to rub his dick. When Peter came, he did too. Just a little, not more than a drop or two and it hurt like hell, too, but he came at about the same moment when Peter’s fluid was spurting into his mouth. And, of utmost importance, Casey didn’t feel bad about blowing Peter. He knew if they slept together again tonight, he would do it again.

The two old men were drinking coffee at the counter. They looked like two old friends who were so comfortable with each other they could sit like that all day and not get all worried about not getting anything done. They’d gone through their lives getting it done and now they didn’t have to and didn’t have to worry about it either.

“What are you doing here?” Jim asked.

“Ben has one of your ATM cards,” Casey said, out-of-breath.

“That’s impossible, I keep them in my wallet,” Jim said as if to dismiss the boy.

“He showed it to me and said you gave it to him,” Casey said, urgently.

“Well, I didn’t give him one of my cards,” Jim said.

“Honey, why don’t you look anyway,” Euphorbia said. “And you, you get back to class. Dickie is going to have your ass for brunch for being late, but tell him Euphorbia and Jimmy say hi.”

Casey stopped for a moment and looked at his schedule and saw “Introduction to a Made-up Language” with Professor Emeritus Richard Jeffers. ‘Oh, god, another old fart,’ thought Casey, ‘and gay, too.’

“Well? Is one of the cards missing?” Euphorbia asked as she watched Jim pull out ATM cards, credit cards, business cards, pieces of paper, money, a social security card, and a couple medical cards, all of the things that identify a person. Jim suddenly had a quizzical look to him.

“The Diego Trust Bank card is gone,” Jim said. He looked at Euphorbia with a faint smile.

“Is that all?” Euphorbia asked with a sigh. “If that’s all he took, you’re okay, right? You never told him how it works, did you? Maybe last year when you were starting out with him, you know, when you were testing the waters.”

“Testing the waters?” Jim asked. He looked at her like a little boy looks at his mother who is holding his little sister’s now headless doll.

“Yeah, finding out if he could take it up the ass,” Euphorbia said. She took a sip of coffee and stared into Jim’s eyes. “You know very well there are no secrets in this house.”

“You’ve always tried to keep on top of me,” Jim said, “even when Bobby was alive. God, I miss him.”

“He’s been dead two years, you’ve grieved too long,” Euphorbia said. She stood and took out her cell phone. “I’m calling the police and reporting your card has been stolen.”

“Why, it’s not like it’s a bankcard?” Jim asked. He stood and went to her, but she brushed him off and dialed 9-1-1.

“Yes, we need a policeman,” Euphorbia said, trying to sound official. “No, it’s not an emergency, something has been stolen. Oh, they do? Thank you, I’ll call them now.”

“What?” Jim asked.

“They don’t do 9-1-1 for nonemergency calls in North Park,” Euphorbia said. “You have to call a special number. They said it was in the phone book. Do we have one?”

“I use the one online,” Jim said.

“I do too,” Euphorbia said. She looked at him and smiled. “It’s downstairs with Peter.”

“I suppose we could just tell the lawyer when she shows up,” Jim said. He returned to his stool and took a sip of coffee. “Kevin did call her, right?”

“Yes, I heard him speaking with her,” Euphorbia said as she, too, resumed her place at the counter. “She said she’d be right out, whatever that means to a lawyer. I assume she’ll be here today.”

“We can wait,” Jim said. “It’s not like Ben can actually get any money with that card.”

Of all the banks in North Park, the Seaview Trust and Savings Bank was the smallest and seemingly least patronized. They had a small number of depositors, mostly old money from Foundry Ridge, the sawmill families, and a few of the old real estate developers who turned acres of recently logged hemlock forests into tract housing throughout the early to mid-Twentieth century. Mostly, they handled investments for their select clientele, but there was a small savings department that offered its services to the local populace who were uncomfortable with all the impersonal glitz offered by the big banks.

Ben sat in the chair in front of the President’s desk. He’d gone in and went to a teller—there were two and neither was busy—and asked for a thousand dollars, presenting the Diego Trust Bank card he’d taken from Jim’s wallet the night before. The woman said he’d have to speak to the President which is why he was currently waiting for the President to process the card or, at least, that’s what he thought was happening.

Ben wasn’t too certain how ATM cards worked. He knew this one didn’t work in all the ATMs he tried before finally deciding to come in here and see if they’d give him some money simply by showing the card. He seemed to remember doing that with his own card at his bank back home, but that was a couple years ago and he was pretty certain they’d made a big to do about him not using the machine.

“Young man, where did you get this card?” The President asked as he returned to his desk.

“Jim gave it to me to get some money,” Ben said as he stared at the black plastic pen and pencil holder on the desk. “He said, ‘Ben, take this card down to the bank and get a thousand dollars.’ That’s exactly what he said.”

“I see, we’ll get to the bottom of this yet,” The President said. He smiled, but Ben wasn’t looking at him. Ben wasn’t looking at anyone right now. “We don’t get many of these cards in here so it’s kind of strange that the holder didn’t come in himself.”

“He told me it would be okay,” Ben said, offering some degree of honesty.

“Yes, well, I’ll be right back,” The President said.

Ben continued to sit in the chair. Obviously, it wasn’t a regular ATM card, nor was it a regular bankcard. It was something special. You had to be special to get one and they weren’t buying into Jim telling him to come down to get some money. Whatever the case, he’d have to continue with that line as it was his only chance of getting out of there without further trouble.

Quite unexpectedly, Ben felt a firm grip on his shoulder. He was familiar with the grip. It was someone with a certain degree of authority. It wasn’t his dad or foster dad, his principal, Jim, Euphorbia, Kevin, or Doctor Parker. It kind of felt like the grip of a policeman, not a rent-a-cop, but a real policeman. When he looked up, he smiled meekly.

“Yes?” Ben asked.

“Come with me young man,” the officer said. “There seems to be some sort of discrepancy with your story.”

“Sure,” Ben said. What else could he say? The other officer stood at the door talking to the rent-a-cop. The officer holding onto his shoulder wasn’t a man, but she had the grip right so Ben was fairly certain she could use her hands for other sorts of subduing. At least they didn’t seem interested in using the bracelets. This was a voluntary trip to the station followed by a voluntary interview; nothing criminal, yet.

There was a lot of laughter coming from the classroom as Casey stood outside the door. He was only ten minutes late, but knew that was more than sufficient for the Wrath of God to descend upon him, burning his poor, sinful body to a blackened crisp. Sighing with defeat, Casey walked into the room. Silence enveloped the room with a resounding boom eliminating all sound. Most of the seats were taken. There were seven in the front row.

“You sir are late!” Professor Jeffers exclaimed.

Casey looked at him and shrugged. Of course he was late, that’s what happens when you try to do a good deed; you get screwed as a result. It was one of life’s rules.

“Do you, sir, having anything to say for yourself before I pass sentence and skewer you with the lance of elective death?” Professor Jeffers asked. He had the pointer aimed directly at Casey’s chest.

“Euphorbia and Jimmy say hi,” Casey said. “And, I’m sorry I missed the intro, I’m sure it was very good.”

“Ooh, you’re one of the new boys, aren’t you?” Professor Jeffers said. “Sit there, right in front of me so I can watch you.”

Casey looked at the front row seat and sat in it. There wasn’t anyone around him and he felt like the prize pig at the county fair.

“Comfortable?” Professor Jeffers asked.

“Yes,” Casey said, oblivious to the joke and not really caring all that much about it either. After all, it wasn’t like it was a real class. It was just something to get the freshmen used to being in the college environment at North Park.

“Good,” Professor Jeffers said. He walked up to the blackboard and erased everything that had been written. “Since we now have a new late person, let us begin anew. Can anyone tell me anything about the new late person?”

“He’s a fag!” A voice called out from somewhere near the back.

Casey thought he recognized the voice, but didn’t have too much time to think about it because Professor Jeffers suddenly became very still.

“Who said that?” Professor Jeffers asked. His eyes scanned the upper reaches of the back rows where the jocks sat so no one would call on them and catch them at their ignorance. It never worked, of course, but they felt safe among others who thought the same way. “Whooo said that?”

“I demand to know whooo said that,” Professor Jeffers said, continuing with his horrible Cagney impression.

The class was quiet. Casey thought maybe it was Ben or Karl. Maybe this was some sort of “Intro to College PC” dreamt up by the local PC police.

“You have ten seconds to identify yourself or I will dismiss this class and report your actions to the appropriate college authorities,” Professor Jeffers said. “This is a private institution that prides itself on honesty and integrity among students and faculty. It is not too late to reject all of your applications and send you home to mommy and daddy. I’m sure your immaturity is sorely missed.”

“I said it,” a voice said in the back of the room.

“Come down here sir,” Professor Jeffers said.

The boy just might have been a jock in high school. Since North Park required all of its student athletes to be accepted to the college before being able to join any athletic endeavor, the jocks tended to be slightly more intelligent than your typical public institution. Casey looked up and recognized the boy.

“Your name sir?” Professor Jeffers asked.

“Kyle,” the boy said.

“And you know this other boy, who still remains anonymous, is for certain a fag?” Professor Jeffers asked.

Kyle squirmed a bit. He was being put on the spot, a spot not of his choosing. “Well, the rumor around school was Casey was queer,” Kyle said.

“But, uh, Casey never actually sucked your cock, fucked your ass, or simply kissed you madly while both of you participated in wild frottage, is that right?” Professor Jeffers asked.

“No, of course not,” Kyle said.

“But you freely stated not more than a few minutes earlier that he was a fag,” Professor Jeffers said. “Why is that?”

“I was just stating fact,” Kyle said.

“Whose fact?” Professor Jeffers asked.

“I don’t know,” Kyle said.

“Casey you may go sit wherever you want,” Professor Jeffers said. “We need to examine Kyle for the time being.”

“I’m comfortable right here,” Casey said.

“That kind sir is the dock,” Professor Jeffers said. “You are not permitted to sit in the dock unless you are being examined by the court. Move your ass, kid.”

“Okay,” Casey said. He stood and smiled weakly at Kyle. They’d had a couple encounters back in Rancho Cucamonga, so Casey knew a little about the boy who was in the hot seat now: jock, arrogant, too popular, and liked to slap guys’ asses.

“Good luck,” Casey said.

“I don’t need your support,” Kyle said.

Casey climbed the stairs leading up the tiers of the lecture hall looking for an empty seat. Everyone was avoiding eye contact except for a young girl about two-thirds of the way up. He sat down beside her.

“Cheri,” she said, holding out a hand.

“Casey,” he said, taking her hand and immediately noticing it didn’t look or feel like a girl’s hand.

“You were absolutely splendid,” Cheri said. Casey looked at her and she appeared to be a girl, more girl than Euphorbia looked, but Cheri was a little chubby and those breasts might not be real.

“What’s he doing?” Casey whispered.

“Putting on a show for the freshman,” Cheri whispered. “Just watch and learn.”

Down front, Kyle was in the hot seat trying to explain how he knew Casey was queer without admitting he knew anything about gay sex, which he probably did and might have participated in at some point earlier in life during a sleepover at a friend’s. The questioning was intense and no match for Kyle who was probably not destined to become a lawyer. Medical school might remain a choice.

Casey sat next to Cheri and simply watched the show. A few minutes into Professor Jeffers’ examination two late comers wandered in with ear buds filling their brains with the wrong instructions. They made for the seats, but Professor Jeffers intercepted beautifully and had them standing in front while he finished with Kyle.

The class had a good laugh when Kyle finally blurted out that he had, once without sexual intent, held another guy’s dick. Well, it was more like the cock was lubed up real good and Kyle’s hand was lubed, too, and the guy was basically fucking Kyle’s hand, but Kyle said there was absolutely no sexual intent. They were only thirteen. Well, thirteen and fourteen, but they’d always been friends and it seemed so innocent at the time.

Finally, Professor Jeffers assigned a paper for the following day. Someone said that this was a pretend class, so the professor amended his assignment to a pretend paper that will be assigned a pretend grade that will be reported to their advisor in a pretend sort of way. It was all pretend and if there was some sort of negative impact because they didn’t do a paper then they might have to assume that it wasn’t really pretend.

After class, Casey walked with Cheri out to the hall. He wasn’t certain what she was, but at this point he really didn’t care. She talked to him without being demeaning or patronizing. She seemed to accept him as just another college freshman. Casey hoped he could do the same for her.

“Where are you going after lunch?” Cheri asked. “I have the “B” tour, which is a joke because I live three blocks from campus.”

“I have the “B” tour, too,” Casey said. “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Going home more than likely,” Cheri said. “Why, are you inviting me to lunch?”

“Well, my residence hall doesn’t do lunch,” Casey said, “but they have all the fixings and I could make you lunch, if you’d like to.”

“Are you in one of the specialty houses?” Cheri asked. “Let’s see, you’re in the German house, right?”

“Charles House,” Casey said.

“The fag, oh, sorry, I didn’t mean that, it sort of slipped out,” Cheri said as her face flushed. “You’re an artist, then.”

“Yeah, an artist,” Casey said. He thought he was going to like her, but now he wasn’t so certain.

He didn’t quite understand why he was sitting on the edge of the hospital’s roof, naked, with the golden eagle at his left and an incredibly old man at his right who was wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt just like Jim. The hole in his stomach was easy to explain; it was from the steel post. Why the surgeons left such a gaping hole in his gut wasn’t easy to figure, but he was fairly certain someone might have a reason for it. After all, it wasn’t like he was a doctor and could explain these things.

He absentmindedly stroked the bird’s back and scratched its neck. It made a soft cooing sound.

He could only see out of one eye. The other was covered with a bandage of some sort. He could feel the bandage. There were scratches all over the front of his body, but his dick and balls seemed to have suffered worse this time. They were red and swollen. His foreskin was missing.

Was it worth it?

“You’ll have to figure that out soon,” the old man said.

The book is very clear on this. I have to be willing to give myself to the Power, even to within an inch of my life.

“Well, son, you did that this time,” the old man said. “Maybe you should think about what you’re getting out of this. Right now, your body, what’s left of it, is barely hanging on a few floors below us. That demon you conjured up out of nowhere is licking its fangs in anticipation of literally eating your heart and brains. And, the only thing good about all of this, the only good thing, is you seem to have found a friendly eagle.”

The eagle screeched.

“You’ve screwed this up so much,” the old man continued, “that I’m not certain I can save you. That demon has your body and mind; all I have to work with is your spirit, which still seems intent on getting to the top of that imaginary mountain and touching that crystal.”

The book was very clear. At least the parts I read.

“Well, sorry to inform you, but the book wasn’t quite on the mark,” the old man said. “If you had read the whole book, you might have had a little bit more insight into its author and her purpose for writing the book. But, no, you read the good parts and conjured yourself a real bad demon that is looking forward to eternal life as soon as it has yours. And, you’re left with the eagle.”

The eagle screeched.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” the old man said. He stood. He was much taller standing than sitting.

The eagle screeched and jumped onto the boy’s shoulders, talons dug deep seeking bone and sinew to grasp. With a mighty swoop of wings, they fell forward off the roof and plummeted downward. As they gathered speed, the eagle spread out its wings and suddenly they were climbing away from the city.

“There’s not much we can do for him right now,” the doctor said. There were three older men in the family waiting room. Two of them appeared worriedly frazzled. That look people get when they’ve hurried to the hospital because a loved one has been brought there ahead of them and they have no idea why. All they can think of are a multitude of reasons all of which are not good.

The other man was a doctor, the bringer of good and bad news. Today he was bringing good and bad news. It happened like that, sometimes. You get to say, “He lives!” and then you get to tell them the details. The horrible future of rehab facilities, feeding tubes, and ten or twenty years from now the very real possibility of having to make the big decision to simply pull all the plugs and let Nature and God have their way.

“He came out of surgery okay,” the doctor said. “The steel post missed a lot of the things that would’ve killed him outright, but nicked or damaged most of the others. He’s going to be a very sick boy for a long time. But there is something else that bothers us.”

“What’s that doctor?” Eric asked.

“This isn’t the first time he’s done this,” the doctor said. “There are micro scars on various parts of his body, plus the dermatology guy says there are a lot of ends of thorns in those scars. They’re very small and hardly visible unless you’re looking for them, which dermatology guys seemed to do. I’d like to have him seen by someone in psychiatry.”

“Yes, that would probably be best,” Kevin said. “Right, Eric?”

“Yes, definitely psychiatry,” Eric said.

“And, he’s going to need a lot of support that he obviously isn’t getting at home,” the doctor said. “The two of you being here in lieu of the parents is reason enough for me to recommend you try to keep him with you during his recovery.”

“Well, we were hoping his mother might step up and claim him,” Kevin said.

“I’ve spoken to his mother and father,” the doctor said. “It’s you two, or I’ll recommend psychiatry take care of him in a facility.”

“Well, Kevin, I guess we’re in the parent business,” Eric said.

“I always wanted a boy,” Kevin said. “Too bad we got a teenager instead.”

“Can we see him?” Eric asked.

“Yes, but he isn’t awake,” the doctor said as he thought of the bad news he still carried. “He’s doing okay, but he isn’t awake. Things like this happen sometimes.”

“Oh, god,” Kevin said.

“Come on, let’s go see our boy,” Eric said.

They stood and exchanged pleasantries; thank yous for the news, bad and good. In the hall, they parted and Kevin and Eric went into the ICU to see their boy.

Six was plugged in, plumbed, and wired. There were various bandages covering his body, especially a very large one on his abdomen and a corresponding one on the other side of his body. His heart monitor beeped loudly. Unexpectedly, he loudly farted and softly moaned.

“What are we going to do?” Kevin asked. “He’s such a sweet, dear boy. He doesn’t deserve this, not at all.”

“He did all of that to himself, on purpose,” Eric said. He put his arm across his lover’s shoulders. “Unfortunately, Six deserves every bit of what he got this time. What we need to think about is stopping a next time.”

“You have to throw that book away,” Kevin said. “You have to.”