21-Year-Old Scotch - 9. Chapter 9

It began to sprinkle before Scott was a third of the way to his destination, but he didn't pick up his pace. In his current frame of mind, the raindrops on his face and body felt refreshing, even cleansing. Even when it turned into a downpour, Scott continued his leisurely stroll, unconcerned with how wet he got. He didn't fear the storm clouds any more.

When he finally reached the entrance of the Rusty Nail, Scott and his wallet were pleased to learn that there was no cover charge on Sundays. He did still need to flash his I.D. to the bouncer, who stamped a fresh pink symbol over the rain-smeared blue one that remained from last night. As he stepped inside the club, Scott felt at peace. Although he had never entered this place until twenty-four hours ago, it now felt like home. Inside these walls, he didn't have to explain or apologize for who he was. He could just be.

The club was less packed than it had been on Saturday, but a couple dozen guys were on the dance floor, embracing the current song's directive that everybody should have fun tonight and, secondarily, Wang Chung tonight. Scott vigorously scrubbed his fingers through his hair to shake loose the excess moisture and bring back some volume to his mullet. He realized that his snug leather shorts were likely to grow even tighter as they dried, and merely the anticipation of that caused his erection to intensify. He walked toward the bar, noticing that his wet shoes were picking up sawdust from the floor with each step, leaving a trail of footprints behind him.

Scott climbed onto a stool and noticed Shemp, the flat-topped, tatted, cranky bartender from last night, facing away from him, outfitted tonight in a ribbed olive tank top and camo pants. "Hey, how come you guys put sawdust on the floor anyway?"

Shemp glanced into the mirror behind the bar and recognized Scott. "Sawdust's absorbent, so it makes it a lot easier to clean up a spilled drink. Or puke. Or blood. Or piss. Or cum..."

"Okay, I get the idea!", Scott said. "Sorry I asked."

Shemp slung a bar rag over his shoulder and approached Scott. "So what can I get the birthday boy to drink tonight? Looks like you got caught in the rain, so I suppose you'd like a piña colada."

Scott laughed, then thought about his financial situation. "Can I just get a water?"

Shemp gave him the stinkeye. "Oh, sure, now that nobody's buying for you, you turn into a cheapskate. You want water, go back outside and aim your mouth upward."

"Sorry," Scott said. "I'm just light on cash right now."

Behind him, Scott heard someone say, "I'll buy you a drink."

Scott recognized the voice instantly, but hearing it in this context was totally unexpected, even disorienting. A familiar pungent aroma confirmed the speaker's idenity before Scott even looked up. He spun around on his stool and saw his roommate Todd, looking slightly damp but totally chill in a Mötley Crüe concert tee, ripped jeans and white Reeboks. "What are you doing here?", Scott asked.

"Looking for you. I tried Galaga's but they said you just left, so I took a shot that you might come here. I musta driven right past you. So, what can I get you?"

Scott gave it a moment's thought, then turned to Shemp and asked, "Can I get a Fuzzy Navel?" Never having been an adventurous drinker, Scott was surprised how many different mixed drinks he could think of. He even knew the ingredients and how to prepare them. Noticing Shemp's blank stare, he helpfully offered, "It's got peach schnapps and..."

"I know what's in it," Shemp said, none too thrilled that Scott had come up with yet another frou-frou order. He pointed to Todd. "You?"

"Heineken," Todd said confidently. Shemp was more tolerant of that order and walked off to get their drinks.

Scott was so staggered by the sight of Todd in a gay bar, he couldn't think straight. So many questions were swirling in his head, but the first one to escape his mouth was "How'd you get in here?" Scott lowered his voice so Shemp wouldn't hear. "You're not twenty-one."

Todd discreetly flashed Scott an authentic-looking Idaho driver's license. The photo was definitely Todd, but it gave his name as Raoul Walsh. Scott chuckled when he noticed the birthdate. "This thing says you're four years older than me. And six foot two? Who's gonna believe that?"

"They let me in, didn't they?"

Shemp returned, handing Todd his Heineken and placing Scott's hurricane glass daintily on a napkin. Todd handed Shemp a ten, raised his green bottle, and clinked it against Scott's drink. "Happy belated birthday, man. Better late than never."

Scott sipped some of his peach-and-orange concoction as Todd took a swig of from his bottle. Still bursting with curiosity, Scott asked gingerly, "So...do...you...come here...often?"

"What? Me? No!", Todd said, gagging on his beer. Todd noticed a slight frown on Scott's face and realized he had come off away too defensive. Given that he was voluntarily standing in the middle of a gay disco, Todd knew he should have anticipated that Scott might make the obvious assumption. "Sorry, I didn't mean anything by that. But, no, I've never been in one of these places before. I usually hang out at the bars around campus." Ah, Scott thought, that explained where Todd disappeared for hours every night. Todd looked around to assess his surroundings. "This is a nice place, though. Not creepy at all."

"Creepy? What exactly were you expecting?", asked Scott, fully aware that he himself had been too spooked to enter this place until yesterday...or, to be more accurate, twenty-nine years from yesterday.

"I dunno. I guess I figured everything would be frilly and pink, and there'd be guys in leather chained to the wall gettin' whipped and shit."

Scott stifled a giggle. "No, you're thinking of Malibu Barbie's Dream Sex Dungeon. That's another mile down the road."

"Oh. Cool. Maybe I'll hit that next." Todd smirked.

"If you go, be sure to ask for Ken."

"I bet you G.I. Joe is a regular," Todd shot back. "He's probably a pretty popular guy with that kung-fu grip of his!" They both chuckled, but Todd's expression and tone quickly turned serious. "Hey, listen, man, I just wanted to apologize for Kevin. He's got no right to throw you out."

"He said there was a vote," Scott said. "I take it you were the odd man out."

"Ya gotta believe me, I tried my best to talk some sense into those guys. I think I almost got Lee on my side, but you know him, he's totally Kevin's butt boy." Todd flinched at his choice of words. "Sorry. I didn't mean anything by that." Scott waved his hands to indicate that he took no offense. "So, finally, I told them if Scott goes, I go."

"And what'd Kevin say to that?"

Todd pulled a folded newspaper from the back pocket of his jeans, open to the apartment listings. "Guess we're lookin' for a new place, roomie."

And with that, a bit of Scott's faith in humanity was restored. "Seriously? You wouldn't be afraid to share a place with a 'fag'?"

"Not if you don't mind living with a 'pothead'!" He jammed the paper back in his pocket and took another glug.

Scott propped an elbow on the bar and rested his chin in his hand. He was disappointed in himself that he hadn't bothered to get to know Todd better the first time around. He'd been too shy and nervous to appreciate much beyond Todd's appealing surface and the occasional second-hand high, but it took real balls for a straight guy in the Eighties to come into a gay bar and be so unfazed. Then again, Todd probably had enough THC in his system that a nuclear holocaust wouldn't harsh his mellow.

Todd said, "Ya know, I always kinda had a fifth sense you might be gay, but I wasn't sure until I saw you in that horse play."

Scott was surprised and delighted to hear that Todd had gone to "Equus". "You came?"

"Just about, when that chick got naked." Todd's poker-faced delivery was so dry, Scott wasn't sure if Todd was joking or had genuinely misunderstood the question.

As the next song began, Scott burst out laughing, slapping a hand over his mouth.

"What's so funny?", Todd asked.

Scott pointed up to the speakers, then realized that Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" didn't have the same universal kitsch value in this pre-"Rickrolling" era. It was a just a popular song by that white guy from England who looked like Howdy Doody.

"You don't like this song?", Todd asked. "I dunno, I think it's kinda catchy. I mean, it's no 'Pour Some Sugar On Me', but..." Todd scratched his head, giving something serious thought, then asked casually, "So, do you ever dance?"

"I have been known to dance," Scott answered. It slowly dawned on him that Todd was mulling a follow-up question, so he relieved Todd of the responsibility of asking it. "Are you wondering if I would dance...with you?"

Todd shrugged. "Sure, why not? It's just dancin'. When in Rome and shit, right?" Todd drained the rest of his drink and placed the bottle on the bar beside Scott's half-empty glass. "Course, you don't hafta go around blabbin' about it."

Hopping down from his stool, Scott scoffed, "Who am I gonna tell? Kevin?" Although Scott did have to squelch the urge to run to a phone booth and tell Phillipe all about this right the fuck now.

Todd gestured for Scott to lead the way to the dance floor, where they joined the other customers already shaking their groove things. The roommates both looked bemused and awkward, finding themselves in a situation that neither had contemplated until a minute ago. As Scott gyrated his arms and shifted stiffly from foot to foot, he watched Todd ease into the beat, his body moving seductively with the music. "Holy shit, you're a good dancer," Scott declared.

"So the ladies tell me," Todd said with a lopsided grin. Finally getting a good look at Scott from head to toe, Todd observed, "Galaga wasn't kiddin' when he said what you were wearin'. This how you're gonna dress all the time now?"

Scott had become so comfortable, he had to look down to be reminded what he was wearing. "Only for formal occasions. Ya know, weddings and funerals and such. At home, I'll probably just wear a g-string."

Todd laughed uneasily, not used to Scott being the deadpan one. "You are joking, right?" Scott failed to conceal his grin. "Thank god. I do like the earring. I've actually been thinkin' of gettin' one myself."

"Really?", Scott asked, easily envisioning a simple gold hoop in Todd's lobe.

"Yeah. In the right ear, though."

Having gone through this himself last night, Scott asked for clarification. "You mean the right ear? Or the RIGHT ear?"

Todd winced, trying to remember the rules. "The whatever-ear-is-not-the-ear-that-you-got ear."

Scott nodded. "I know a guy."

Something caught Todd's attention over Scott's shoulder. He leaned toward Scott and mumbled, "Don't look now, but there's a guy scopin' you out at two o'clock."

To Todd's mortification, Scott instantly turned his head over his left shoulder and saw Art across the dance floor, dancing with no one in particular and showing off his gymnastic moves in gray jeans and a paisley vest with no shirt. Although Art was definitely looking their direction, Scott could tell that he was not Art's focus.

"Hate to tell you, buddy, but I'm pretty sure he's scoping YOU out."

Todd snorted a laugh and said, "No way."

"Hey, you put yourself in the meat market, you gotta expect people are gonna check out your cutlets."

"I s'pose it's a compliment," Todd conceded, then asked Scott, "So is that guy your 'type'?"

Scott gave it some thought. While he still admired Art's physique from an aesthetic standpoint, Scott realized that, after last night's interaction, he had lost all interest in Art. Todd interpreted Scott's silence as reluctance to be honest. "Hey, don't be embarrassed to admit it. I mean, if you're gonna be into guys, he is pretty jacked. He's got a good butt."

Scott gasped. "You're checking out his butt?"

Todd was matter-of-fact. "What? That is scientifically a good butt. If that exact same butt was on a chick, I would be majorly into it. Isn't that the kind of thing you guys talk about? How much you like each other's butts?"

Scott had to admit the truth. "To be honest, I haven't really talked to a lot of guys about butts or...any of this. I'm kinda new at it."

Todd nodded sympathetically. "Okay, so if not that guy, what IS your type?"

Scott pondered that question, realizing that the subject had finally moved beyond the realm of the hypothetical. "Probably the same things you want in a girl. Someone who's loyal. Honest. Friendly. Smart."

"Isn't that the Boy Scout oath?", Todd asked. "So what you're saying is you're looking for a guy who's really good at tying knots?"

Scott appreciated that the circumstances had not diluted Todd's ball-busting sarcasm. "Or maybe I love a man in uniform." Scott's eyes drifted to the flashing mirror ball above them as he continued his list. "Let's see, what else? Good sense of humor. Good-looking, naturally. Good taste in music."

"Dude," Todd said, "this all sounds like ME."

Scott retorted, "I said, GOOD taste in music," tugging playfully on the tail of Todd's untucked Mötley Crüe shirt for emphasis. Still, there was more than a grain of truth in what Todd had said. Todd did check an awful lot of Scott's boxes. Just to be certain he wasn't missing any signals, Scott had to ask bluntly, "But you're definitely not gay, right?"

Todd shook his head apologetically. "Nobody's perfect."

Scott allowed himself a melancholy moment as he watched that brief glimmer of possibility plummet and fade, but he snapped out of it quickly, "So, since we're getting so personal tonight, what is YOUR type?"

Todd took the question so seriously, he stopped dancing and scratched the stubble on his chin. Scott could see something flash in Todd's eyes, then get instantly dismissed. "Hey, I saw that! Don't be shy. You can tell me. Is it some big bleach-blonde, fake-boobed, heavy-metal chick?"

Todd looked at Scott, uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Honestly, I always thought Amanda was pretty hot."

Scott took a step back, not having expected that answer. On the surface, they seemed totally wrong for each other, but Scott had to admit that, even after being married to her for decades, he actually had no idea what Amanda's type was. He just knew that he wasn't it. "Well, she IS available now," Scott said.

Todd scoffed. "Nah, it'd be too weird for me to ask her out."

To his surprise, Scott realized it wouldn't be weird for him at all. "I swear, it wouldn't be a problem for me. I'd just like to finally see her happy after all these years."

Todd laughed. "All these years? You make it sound like she's some old lady in her thirties!"

As Rick Astley's voice faded, Scott heard someone over his shoulder, asking, "Okay if I cut in?"

Again, Scott knew who it was instantly, not just from the voice, but from that unmistakable, intoxicating new-star smell. He turned around and said, "Jared?" Although he was attempting to go unrecognized in a backwards white baseball cap, reflectorized sunglasses, and a high-school letter jacket, Jared was drawing every eye in the place his direction like an electromagnet. In that moment, Scott learned the true meaning of charisma: automatically being the center of attention, even when you're supposedly striving to be inconspicuous.

When he heard Todd say, "Hey, I'm Todd," Scott was embarrassed to realize he'd briefly forgotten that Todd was even there. Scott blathered some introductions and the two guys shook hands. Todd could tell from the glazed look in Scott's eyes that he had just become a third wheel, so he backed toward the edge of the dance floor, declaring, "I think I'm gonna take off." Both Scott and Jared hurriedly insisted that he didn't have to go, but Todd insisted. "I'm s'posed to be meeting some people at eight anyway, but, hey, Scott, let's meet at Galaga's tomorrow for lunch." He waved the apartment want ads in the air, then turned to Jared. "Nice to meet you, dude."

"You too, Todd," said Jared, shifting his attention back to Scott. Behind Jared's back, Todd caught Scott's eye, pointed toward Jared's butt and gave the "OK" sign with his fingers before heading toward the exit. Scott chuckled.

The next song began, and Bill Medley's baritone voice crooned, "Now I've had the time of my life. No, I've never felt like this before..." Scott looked into Jared's glasses, seeing his own distorted self reflected there. "I thought Phillipe said you never come to this place."

"I don't. If anyone asks you, I'm not here. But Phil had a hunch I might find you here." Hearing that Jared had come here specifically looking for him, Scott felt the pace of his heart speed up. "I just need to know, do you have some kinda problem with me?"

Whatever he had expected Jared to say, it wasn't that.

"I mean, do you hate me for some reason?"

Scott was baffled. "What? No!"

"Well, then, did I do something when I was drunk that I need to apologize for?"

Scott took a second to think, but had to say emphatically, "No."

"So why'd you throw a rock through my window?"

Scott gulped, knowing his guilt must be written on his face in letters twenty feet high. A torrent of explanation tumbled from his mouth, circuitously explaining how he had returned to Jared's house in search of his wallet and key but became worried when no one answered. "I was scared you might be lying in there unconscious or, ya know...worse." He stood motionless with a wan expression, hoping he didn't seem too pathetic or too flighty or too stalkery.

Jared reached up and removed his glasses, hanging them from the collar of his black t-shirt. The dance floor spotlights made Jared's icy blue eyes shine, and his delicate lips curled upward, bracketed by perfectly symmetrical parenthetical folds in his smooth cheeks. "You were that worried about me?"

Scott nodded slowly, and feeling started coming back to his extremities. "I should've left a note to explain, but I guess I kinda panicked. I promise I'll cover the damage."

Jared puffed his lips dismissively. "Don't worry about that. I'm just glad you're not mad at me."

"Not at all." He had no reason to be mad at Jared. Even having Jared pass out on him had been one of the high points of Scott's weekend, if not his life as a whole. As far as he could remember, the only people who had ever lavished Scott with the level of attention that Jared had last night were Amanda and his mother.

Jared noticed that they were the only two people on the floor who weren't moving to the music. "Should we go talk somewhere else or do you want to dance?"

"I want to dance!" Scott started to move his limbs in his usual free-form manner, but Jared took hold of Scott's right hand and wrapped an arm around his left shoulder, smoothly starting to cha-cha like Patrick Swayze come back to life, even though Swayze was still alive at the moment. Scott feared that he would look like a stumbling moron trying to match Jared's fluid motions, but he found it effortless to follow Jared's lead.

Scott knew he should allow himself to enjoy the pure physicality of the moment, but a question nagged at him. "How'd you know it was me who threw the rock?"

"Neighbor came over and described who did it. The giveaway was the purple stain on the crotch. Before that, I was afraid it was some gay basher who was pissed off by our party. It's a relief to hear I didn't do anything stupid. I know I can get a little overbearing and self-centered when I have too much to drink. Okay, MORE overbearing and self-centered than usual." Scott found it encouraging that Jared could be self-deprecating and self-aware, when someone that great-looking could easily skate through life being an egocentric prick.

"So, is it true what Phil...excuse me, Phil-LEAP...told me about you getting kicked out of your apartment? That's terrible. You should sue them or something."

"I suppose," Scott said, "but, to tell the truth, I'm not all that interested in fighting for my right to keep living with assholes. Todd and I are gonna start looking for a new place tomorrow."

"Oh. Todd." Jared tilted his head in the direction Todd had left. "Is Todd your...boyfriend?"

Scott smirked. "Nope. He is, unfortunately, straight."

"What a shame," Jared said, although Scott could swear he detected a hint of relief in Jared's tone. "Still, you never know for sure. I've been with a few guys who swore they'd weren't into guys, but were making an exception for me."

Scott could totally understand that. "So, that girl in the pictures in your bedroom. Is she your exception?"

Without falling out of step with the music, Jared stiffened noticeably. Scott had landed on what was clearly a touchy subject. "Teresa's sweet," Jared began, as if reciting a rationale he'd practiced repeatedly in his head. "We've been together since junior high. We've always been there for each other. And my parents fucking adore her. But..." Even with the song at full blast, Jared felt the need to lower his voice and lean in to Scott. "It doesn't feel the same with girls, ya know? I mean, she and I still have sex, and she always seems pretty okay with it, but I feel like I'm faking it."

"I didn't realize it was possible for a guy to fake it."

"Emotionally, I mean. Oh, no, we definitely screw. I get hard and cum, the whole ball of wax. But it doesn't mean anything in here." Jared tapped a finger against his chest. "Maybe I'm just too much of a ham. Give me an eager audience, even if it's just one person, and, dammit, I am gonna perform my ass off!"

Scott laughed, wishing he had been able to summon more of that "let's put on a show" spirit to his own lovemaking with Amanda. Then again, if he and Amanda had been happier together, Scott might not have found himself standing here tonight in Jared's arms.

Art had now paired up with a twink who was fawning over Art's body, but Art's attention was squarely on Scott and Jared. Scott smiled at Art, then rotated the hand that was resting on Jared's shoulder and raised its middle finger Art's way. Art sneered and returned his focus to his doting dance partner.

Although Scott had been too lost in the moment to notice it, thoughts of Jared which predated last night's party had begun filtering into his mind while they danced. He now had tangible memories of their first meeting at auditions, their initial awkwardness during rehearsals, and the generosity which Jared extended to help the much less experienced Scott become more comfortable with having to lug a naked stranger on his back. Scott could even recall how, one night after rehearsal, Jared had invited him back to the Out House, ostensibly with the goal of learning how to make unusual drinks in case either of them ever needed to get a bartending gig to support their "acting addiction," as Jared referred to it. Drawing on the vast selection of bottles which had eventually been emptied into the trash can last night, Jared and Scott mixed their way step-by-step through the recipes for everything from a Harvey Wallbanger to a Singapore Sling. Of course, once each drink was finished, they couldn't resist doing a taste test, and the two castmates rapidly got well and truly snockered. They passed out on the kitchen floor before any hanky-panky could ensue, but the evening had the desired effect of breaking down any tension between them, forging a bond between Jared and his "trusty steed" which was apparent to anyone who saw them onstage together.

By now, few gaps remained in Scott's knowledge of the life that had led up to his birthday night at the Rusty Nail. Instead of growing up shy and hesitant to take risks, Scott now remembered an outgoing childhood in which he embraced challenges instead of avoiding them. Still on the quiet side, he had been drawn to pursue solo activities like distance running and swimming, but his excellence eventually got him noticed by those teams and he was pulled into their social orbit. Despite being less of a wallflower, Scott still had no memories of dating in high school, but he did recall going to senior prom, something he had dodged the first time around. His date had been Susan, a plain but kind brunette who ran the anchor leg of the 440 for the girls' track team. She appeared to enjoy being with Scott, but seemed just as relieved as he was when the night came to an end with little more than a polite front-porch kiss.

His falling out with his father was now fully integrated into the life story Scott carried in his head, as was the growing desire he experienced upon arriving at college to explore the twin passions he had spent years stifling: acting and guys. He still remembered meeting Amanda during freshman year, and little about their relationship diverged from their pre-existing chronology, at least until a day ago. For over three years, he had remained devoted to his girlfriend and officially "in the closet", but his increasing involvement in the drama department brought him into more direct contact with openly gay and lesbian students and instructors than Scott 1.0 had ever experienced as a business major. Being gay no longer felt like a terrible affliction that only he had been saddled with. Emboldened, he occasionally ventured to an out-of-the-way boutique which he had heard some of the other actors discussing, where he bought clothes that he thought better expressed who he was deep down. Still, he had never dared to wear any of it in public until yesterday, when his buddy Phil (who had recently rechristened himself the more cosmopolitan "Phillipe") persuaded Scott to raid his secret wardrobe and celebrate turning twenty-one at the Rusty Nail.

The Scott Mitchell now being twirled across the dance floor to "(I've Had) The Time Of My Life" by his own personal Johnny Castle was very different from the one who had arrived in this same bar a day ago, with a much clearer sense of who he was and what he wanted. Yet one nagging doubt remained. As Jared pulled him in close, Scott spoke in a vulnerable tone. "Jared, if I ask you something, will you promise to be absolutely honest with me?"

Jared looked hesitant, but he knew what the correct answer to that question was always required to be. He responded with an upward inflected "Y-e-e-es?"

With a lump in his throat, Scott asked, "Am I good?"

Jared exhaled for a solid five seconds, blindsided by such a heavy philosophical...

"I mean, as an actor. Should I really give it a shot, or am I just wasting my time?"

Jared relaxed, feeling on much firmer ground when it came to discussing the theater than to debating deeper issues of morality. "I'm not sure I can say. All I've ever seen you play is a horse." Noticing Scott visibly deflating, Jared hastened to add, "Don't get me wrong, you were a fucking great horse! But acting's a tough gig, and they tend to give most of the really top-notch horse roles to, ya know, horses."

Coming down rapidly from the high he'd been on since walking away from Derek outside of Galaga's, Scott nodded slowly and muttered, "Okay. Thanks for being honest."

Jared grew annoyed, grabbing Scott by his strong shoulders and giving him a vigorous shake. "Dammit, man, that's not supposed to be your reaction. You're supposed to get pissed off and throw somebody else's drink in my face and say, 'Fuck you, Jared, I am a fuckin' star and I'll show you, you conceited little pretty-boy!'" Aware that his voice had risen and was attracting eavesdroppers, Jared pulled Scott closer and spoke so only the two of them could hear. "All I meant was I haven't seen you act enough to make that kind of judgment. But I've seen YOU! And you're smart and you're funny and you're cute. And you look ridiculously great without a shirt. People have won Oscars for less!"

Scott stifled a laugh for fear that unleashing it would break the dam holding back the tears welling up in his eyes.

Jared continued, maintaining his passion. "Take a chance. Bet on yourself. Give yourself a few years and see how it goes. You never get anything you want in life if you don't take risks. What have you got to lose? You're young."

Scott absorbed this fusillade of a pep talk and grinned. "Yeah, I am, aren't I?"

Breathing more easily, now that he'd navigated that mine field, Jared realized he had his own important question to ask. "So," he said warily, "what do you think of MY acting?"

Scott sounded iffy. "Well, I don't know, I've really only seen you play a guy who's pretending to ride a horse."

"Okay, Nugget, I deserved that."

Scott broke into a wide grin. "You want to know the truth? You are going to be a movie star. A big goddamn movie star. I guarantee it one-hundred percent."

Jared was touched. "You seem awful sure about that. Even I don't have that much confidence, and if you haven't noticed, I'm pretty full of myself."

"Trust me," Scott said, waggling his fingers and shifting into a spooky voice. "I...can see...the future!"

"Is that so? Okay, Kreskin, what do you prognosticate for the rest of tonight?"

Scott placed his fingers on his forehead and fluttered his eyelids as if falling into a trance. "I see us sticking around here for one more drink, after which we go back to your place to finish that Twister match."

"I like the sound of that," Jared said. "Ya know, I hear there's a version that you can play in bed. There's no spinner, and you can put your body parts anywhere you feel like."

Scott raised his eyebrows enthusiastically at that idea. As the song reached its climax, Jared lowered Scott into a dip, then seemed to lose his grip on Scott's arm, dropping him toward the floor. Scott's eyes went wide with panic as Jared caught him in time, with a gleam in his eye that indicated the whole thing had been intentional. Jared bent his face down toward Scott's, said, "Oops, sorry," and planted his lips on Scott's for an intense, lingering kiss. Scott felt like the air was being sucked out of his lungs, only to realize that he had simply forgotten how to breathe.

The song ended, and Jared slowly hoisted Scott back to his feet. As the two of them walked toward the bar, arms around each other's waists, Jared reached over and slipped a ten dollar bill into the waistband of Scott's leather shorts.

"Is that my tip?", Scott asked.

"It's for our drinks. I'll take a gin and tonic, and get something nice for yourself." He peeled off in the direction of the rest rooms. "Right now, I gotta piss like a racehorse. You know how that feels, don't you, Nugget?"

Scott whinnied and pounded the sawdust-covered floor with his right "hoof". Jared gave him a widescreen smile and strutted toward the men's room, doing his best Swayze moves.

When Scott reached his barstool, he noticed that Shemp's eyes were following Jared with intense interest. "Who was THAT?", he asked.

"My future husband," Scott said with a grin.

Shemp snorted dismissively. "Right, like they'll ever let 'our kind' get married."

Scott considered giving Shemp some inside scoop on that subject straight from the distant future, but he knew how much people hated spoilers. Instead, he slapped the tenner on the bar. "A gin and tonic for Twinkletoes there, and for me..." Scott pondered the drinks he remembered making in Jared's kitchen. "I'd like a Slow Comfortable Screw."

Shemp's exasperation finally boiled over. "That's it. I've had enough of these cockamamie concoctions. I'm giving you a MAN'S drink!"

Scott laughed as Shemp marched away, then studied his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He could hardly believe that happy guy was him. Was all of this really happening? Were he and Jared actually going to go back to the Out House and...?

His train of thought was derailed as he saw Art in the mirror, leading his "twinque du jour" down the hallway toward the emergency exit. Scott felt like he should let the kid know what he was in for, but he realized the kid probably wouldn't listen to him anyway. Scott knew he wouldn't have heeded anyone's warnings last night. Besides, Scott thought, the only lessons that really stick are the ones that we learn first-hand.

He heard something slide onto the bar, and the air filled with an intriguing scent that suggested flowers, oak barrels, and a fine cigar. He turned to see a glass of liquid gold shining before him. He picked up and held it appreciatively under his nose. He raised a silent toast to Shemp, who was leaning against the backbar with his arms folded, watching for Scott's reaction.

Scott lifted the glass to his lips and took a long sip, letting the liquor roll around his tongue. It was surprisingly sweet, with the same playful array of flavors as, but infinitely more maturity than, the drink he'd consumed here yesterday. Only now as the liquid slipped down his throat did it occur to Scott what had happened to him immediately after he took that fateful drink. With panic in his eyes, Scott looked to Shemp, who had a sly grin. "What is this stuff?", Scott demanded to know.

"Scotch," Shemp informed him. "Fifty-year-old scotch."

The room began to spin around Scott. The music became cacophonous. His body grew warm all over. He recognized these sensations from yesterday, but instead of surrendering to them, he fought back. Goddammit, the moment he'd been avoiding for fifty years (and a day) was on the brink of happening, and he was not going to miss it! He sensed that he was losing his balance, and his actions seemed to slow to a crawl as he toppled backwards, flailing his arms, clutching at the air, desperately grasping for anything that would keep him in the past...or was this the present? He felt his descent slowing until he hung suspended in the air, frozen in place while the world around him accelerated as if someone's thumb was on the fast-forward button. Soon, he was enveloped in a barrage of light, blurs of motion, and the sound of white noise, all intensifying to a tremendous crescendo until...

Nothing.

Nothing but blackness and silence.