No Anchovies - 2. The Sting

The Sting

I started to walk away when he spoke again.

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Although I'd spoken to the kid as I passed him, I had no intention of starting a conversation with him. I'd assumed from the way he was dressed and just standing there at that time of the evening, he was looking to be picked up. I was definitely not into kids even though I was gay. Besides, he could even be a police plant – I'd heard they did such things on occasions to try and clean up the city.

Consequently, I hadn't really listened to his last reply. It wasn't until I'd walked a couple of blocks toward my apartment when that sentence started to play again in my mind. I'd registered it as 'It won't be the first time, bud.', but was it possible he'd actually said 'It won't be the first time, dad.'? And if he had said that, did it mean anything?

I stopped walking and stood there trying to clarify the words he'd used in my mind. Even after going over them several times I still wasn't sure. But I decided I had to find out so I turned and retraced my steps. Of course when I got back and turned the corner he wasn't there. Had he found a customer, or had he given up and gone home – wherever that might be – hungry? I wasn't going to know, and come to that I wasn't even sure I wanted to know, as neither option seemed that pleasant.

There was no point in searching for him now, so I turned round again and made my way back to my apartment. I had a couple of rooms in an old brownstone that had seen many better days – rather like me. I shut the door, took off my shoes and went to lie on the bed. The full moon was shining through the cracked window, that I'd been asking the janitor to replace for months now without any success.

I rolled over and opening the drawer of my nightstand, pulled out the old letter. The envelope was addressed to my mother, but the one sheet letter inside was from him. I read it again for what felt like the ten thousandth time.

Dear Dad,

Mom says you've gone and left us 'cos you don't love me anymore. I don't believe that. She also says I can't see you no more and that I'm not to speak or write to you ever again. So I'm sending this to Gran and I hope she knows where you are so you get it and can write back.

Love you for ever and ever.

Tyler

xxxxx

xxx

x

I was surprised the letter hadn't disintegrated with the number of tears I'd shed over it. Even now six year later I couldn't read it without starting to cry, although I'd long since accepted that I was never going to see my son again.

I'd written back immediately of course, but my mom, instead of seeing Tyler and handing him my letter, had simply put it in their mail box. I was thus convinced he'd never seen it or the many other letters I'd subsequently sent until they moved some months later. After that I had no idea where they were living.

His mother and I had married young, we were both straight out of college and Tyler came along soon after. Her father ran a car dealership in the small town where we lived and I was given a job by him. All seemed good for some years, but having sex with her just didn't seem right. I performed okay I guess, but I didn't get any real pleasure from it. I started looking at gay porn on the Internet and then one night I met this young guy at a bar. We got talking, hit it off and I offered him a lift home. He suggested we take a diversion to a picnic spot on the edge of town – and we got into it. That was when the police happened to show up.

Being a small town the news soon got out. I lost my job and she threw me out saying that she wasn't going to have a queer in the house or anywhere near her son. Divorce followed and I didn't have any money to hire a lawyer to fight my side. Thus it was decreed that I could have no contact with Tyler. With no job and no prospect of getting one there, I had no choice but to move away to the city. And that is where I've been since, eking out an existence initially, although for the last couple of years I've had a permanent job as a fork truck driver at a warehouse. Financially things are now better, but life is empty and without any real purpose.

I finished reading the letter, put it back in its envelope and replaced it in the drawer. I rolled onto my back and again looked out of the window. It seemed highly unlikely this kid was Tyler. He might be the right age and was probably the right height and build, but was there any point in raising my hopes? He'd always been active and into sports and I assumed that had continued. The kid I'd seen looked to be a little shorter than me and as my wife had been a few inches shorter than me it seemed logical Tyler would be at least her height and probably a bit more. Tyler had dark hair but in the light of the street lamp I could only tell this kid wasn't blonde. But there were hundreds, if not thousands of kids, who'd fit that description – and why would he end up here in the city?

I spent the rest of the evenings that week wandering around the streets hoping I'd see the kid again. Of course I didn't and then it was the weekend. Weekends were always the worst. During the week I had work to keep me occupied and by the end of my shift I was usually ready to get something to eat in a diner and then go back to my apartment and watch some mindless nonsense on TV until it was time to go to bed. Saturdays and Sundays though stretched out, seemingly without end on lots of occasions. I could take in a movie or drive out of town and go for a walk, but there wasn't a lot of pleasure in doing either on my own.

Sometimes on a Sunday I'd go to the park. It was a bit masochistic though doing that as it brought back memories of the happy afternoons I'd spent in our local park playing with my son. Now I'd feel a pang of jealousy seeing other fathers playing with their kids. But often I found myself with a sense that was almost fear. A single man sitting on a bench, alone, watching the kids play. I was often scared someone would accuse me of being a paedo, so I tried no to sit for too long, but to walk around as if I was just there to get some exercise.

Today I ended up at the skate park. I always enjoyed watching the kids showing off their skills on those things. And there he was – a torn t-shirt that was no longer white, ripped skinny black jeans and a baseball cap, worn backwards, of course. The cap was different but the rest was the same. I stood and watched for a few minutes. It was easy to see that he was good; one eighty degree turns, even a three sixty at one point.

I moved closer. I decided that I had to know. I had the little stuffed toy – a blue elephant that he'd had as a baby - in my pocket. It was always in my pocket as it was attached to my keyring. I had no idea if he'd recognise it even though it had been on the keyring back then, but that was about six years now.

He was on the flat now, not one of the ramps, and I called out 'Tyler!' He looked towards me but then stumbled off the skateboard, placed one hand to his neck before taking a few jerky steps and collapsing on the ground in a heap.

I rushed to him, looked at his neck were his hand had gone and spotted the tiny puncture mark which the wasp had left. I manoeuvred him onto his back, took my epipen from my pocket and jabbed it into his thigh for the requisite three seconds.

“What you doing to Ty you old pervert. He ain't no druggie.”

I looked up and found myself staring into the face of a black boy of about the same age. He'd called the boy on the ground 'Ty'. Surely that had to be an abbreviation for Tyler – or could it be Tyson or Tyrone? I wanted, needed, to find out, but there wasn't the time for that now. It could wait, the boy needed urgent attention as I knew from my own experiences

“This is an epipen. It looked like he'd been stung and gone into anaphylactic shock. This should bring him round.”

“Right, man. He's got one of dem things in his backpack 'cos he's been stung before. I'll go get it.”

I thought another injection shouldn't be needed, but it would be a good idea to have his backpack here, not least to ensure nobody made off with it in the confusion, as I could see we now had quite a crowd around us.

The black kid forced his way back through the crowd carrying a well worn backpack which he placed on the ground next to Ty, before squatting alongside it. I was about to ask him what Ty was an abbreviation for when the boy on the ground stirred, opened his eyes and blinked a couple of times.

“Tyler?” I said and moved the keyring into his eyeline.

I watched to see if it produced any reaction.