Gordy Comes Home - 1. Chapter 1

This story is fiction. The characters are adults in adult situations. This story contains graphic depictions of sex between two adult males. If this offends you, ask yourself why then are you here? Then, go somewhere else. There may be some psychological triggers.

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The morning breeze was warm, gentle and undemanding. In the shade of the overhang, it felt good. Soon the Texas sun would crush the breeze with stifling heat, but John Grant wasn't out here for a weather check.

Why was he here? His question drew a blank. He couldn’t remember why he was here. He halted in mid-stride. He was standing in the breezeway, between the offices and the repair facility. He had left his office to… he had come out here to... He considered the possibilities. Nothing struck a chord. Any other time he would have shrugged and headed back to his office, instead, he stood transfixed. He just couldn’t remember and that bothered him. The sole focus of his being turned to that simple thought. Where was he going?

He couldn’t focus... he couldn't think... he couldn't move.

Blood rushed through his ears with the hiss of an angry snake. His breath came in short sharp gasps. He had to… he had to…. he had to… Through gritted teeth, he snarled under his breath, “Come on, John, goddamnit! Cowboy UP!”

Through sheer force of will, he calmed his mind and forced his breathing to slow. The hiss in his ears faded and gradually disappeared. Still, he couldn't remember where he was going! The hiss came again to his ears and his chest tightened.

“Goddamn it! Stop That Shit!” Neither a shout nor a whisper, it was a plea wrapped within a command.

He glanced around. Satisfied that no one had heard, he blushed and then scowled. These last few days, his world had been viewed through the bottom of a glass. The glass didn't allow or require him to touch or be touched. Only the center seemed clear, and what he saw there was at a distance.

Still, he was handling it pretty well. Wasn’t he? No one seemed to notice. Did they?

He thought back to the day he found out. Was it only three days ago? He released a heavy sigh. Yes, he was almost sure, three days ago...

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Wylie had found him staring blankly at the wall of his office. He had stepped inside and closed the door. “John, this is the third time today I’ve seen that glazed look in your eyes. You can‘t do this. You can‘t block this up inside like it‘s nothing. You won't find what you need in there.”

John was only vaguely aware of Wylie's presence, and even less aware that he had spoken. He wondered why Wylie's presence and conversation were not registering. Why was Wylie trying to bother him; to disrupt his numbness? He was comfortable not feeling. Not feeling was good! He shuddered at the threatening alternative. Maybe Wylie would leave him to it. But, Wylie slammed the flat of both hands onto John’s desktop. The sharp report made John jump. Then Wylie shouted in his face, “GODDAMNIT JOHN! LISTEN TO ME! LOOK AT ME! I’M GONNA SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!"

He knew Wylie would never hit him. The threat registered only because it was coming from his best friend. Wylie had never shouted at him before. He shook his head to clear his mind and forced his focus onto Wylie’s face. Still, the only response he could muster was, “Huh?”

Wylie now had his attention. “You better fucking hear what I say. You’re like a fucking drunk, except you’re drunk on hurt and guilt. If I have to knock some fucking sense into you, by God, I will. It’s not your fault. Goddamnit! What, you think you’re God?”

He pulled in a deep breath and continued, “Gordy’s coming home. He may not be coming home to be with you… not, like you’d hoped, but he's coming home. You may not want to, but you will be there John. I’ve already promised Doc. Sp By God! if I have to drag your ass kicking and screaming you will be there. We can wait a couple of days if you need to, but you are going out there.”

Wylie started pacing in front of John’s desk. He was grateful that John’s eyes followed him. His voice softened, he pleaded, “Why do you have to shut people out, John?”

As he paced, his eyes held John’s face. “When you get like this, it’s like you’re a thousand miles away, even when you’re right here. People don’t want to bother you because they think you’re ok. They don’t say shit to you because they figure you got it under control. That’s BULLSHIT, JOHN! You do not have it under control.”

Wylie stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and clenched his fists and paced across the room and back. “I know you. We both know that right now you are so withdrawn that you wouldn’t feel a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. This’ll drive you crazy if you let it John. You figure you can handle this on your own, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”

He stopped pacing, placed his hands on John's desk and looked into his eyes. “I love you, John. Fuck! Everybody loves you. Let them know this hurts you. Don’t shut us out with that cowboy bullshit."

Wylie walked over to the coffee maker and poured two cups of coffee, adding creamer to John’s. Then moving back to John’s desk, sat the mug in front of him, pulled up a comfortable side chair and sat. He looked into his cup a moment, then met John’s gaze. He took a sip as a sly smile painted his face he said, ” I guess I got your attention, Huh?”

John just nodded.

Wylie sat with his elbows on the arms of the chair, both hands cradled his mug. “You really think your dad would like seeing you like this? You know, he was the closest thing I ever had to a father. I spent a lot of time with him near the end. John, he talked about you a lot. He knew you so much better than you think. He could read you like a book. That poker face you sometimes wear never fazed him.” Wylie paused to let that sink in.

“He knew when you hurt. John, he figured that after your mother died you didn’t have anybody around to let you know it was ok to show hurt or pain. You watched him and the ranch hands just shrug off anything that might've hurt physically or emotionally. You learned that real men don’t show their feelings they just lock it up inside and don't let on. You never let any feelings show that might not be cowboy tough. Most times you can't even say what it is you do feel. That much I can understand. Wylie paused and smiled. “Hell, look at us.”

John stiffened. His harsh glare met and held Wylie’s gaze. “We’re not talking about us.”

Wylie sighed and stared into his coffee before looking up, “No, John. We’re not talking about us.” He paused, then added, “Not right now.”

John relaxed. He would deal with the implied threat later… if he had to. Right now, he couldn’t handle anymore, especially things he had buried so long ago.

Wylie searched John’s face, “John, you’re not the only one who’s touched by this. Doc and Miz Mary are devastated. If you’d just open up you’d see that. Locking your feelings up inside might be the cowboy way. But it’s bullshit! It'll destroy you. John, I'm not gonna let that happen.” Wylie leaned forward, his voice softened almost to a whisper, “John, talk to me. You know I’d never hurt you.”

John had listened. He understood the truthfulness of what his friend had said. He was close, so close to caving in. It might help ease the pain. Then those three little words “never hurt you” echoed through his brain and drowned out everything – everything except the pain; new and now old. It twisted John’s guts. He fought down the urge to tell Wylie just how much he’d “never hurt you”. Those three little words washed away everything Wylie had said. His resolve solidified as he shut down the pain! Without flinching, without emotion, without an outward sign, John shut down everything but the numbness.

Even as he did, he let his friend off the hook. “Wylie, I know you mean well. I understand what you’re telling me. I just need some time by myself. You need to give me some time to work through this. As much as I appreciate your concern, I need you to ease up. If it gets to be too much, you’ll be the one I come to. You’ve known me long enough to know I’m not lying.” John could see that his friend was not convinced. But, he would back off.

Crestfallen, Wylie sighed. “Alright, John. I’ve said what I had to say. It’s up to you.” Slowly he got up, moved to the discreetly hidden wet bar where he rinsed the mug before crossing to the door. Hoping, he searched John’s face for a sign that his words had some impact. He found nothing except a calm resolve.

Their conversation was over. The silence was not uncomfortable, but it was close. He made one last attempt, “John, let’s get some dinner after work. We can have a couple of drinks. Hell, we can go to my place and tie one on.”

John could see the pleading in his friend’s eyes – pleading to be let in. Forcing himself to remain relaxed and open, he said, “Wylie, I appreciate the offer. But, I’m just not up to it. Besides, I don’t know when I’ll finish up here.” He turned his attention to some papers on his desk.

Wylie realized he was being bullshitted and dismissed. “Sure boss”. “Boss” was an epithet, meaning John was being an asshole and both of them knew it.

Soon after Wylie had left his office, John left the dealership. He didn’t need a mother hen. He needed a drink. He would go to the boathouse as he had each day since he’d heard that Gordy was returning.

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After that encounter, Wylie had given him his space. His position as General Manager meant that they interacted several times throughout the business day. Wylie had since been patient and supportive. John was grateful.

The breeze moved a piece of trash across the lot. The color and motion broke John from his reverie. When he realized he had been conspicuously staring off into the back lot he shuffled and nervously glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. He wasn't sure if he had been in this same spot for a minute or an hour.

“Morning John, how are you doing?” Her tone was conciliatory and reflected sincere concern.

He stiffened as he turned to greet her. “Morning, Miz Mary." He tilted his head and touched the brim of his Stetson. If he was wearing his hat, maybe he was going somewhere. But where?

"Oh, I'm fair to middlin’, business is good, crops are looking good and my mare is about to foal any day now.” He tried to sound as if this were any other day. His attempt to keep the conversation on a detached plane was not lost on the lady. He would have avoided her. He had turned to the voice. They stood touching close. John rallied his strength. He hoped she couldn’t read him like Wylie did. He wore a mask of ‘cheerful interest’. It was a salesman’s stock in trade. He hoped it was there. Lately, it was hard to tell.

No one in the dealership had expressed any sentiments about Gordy's homecoming. In fact, other than Wylie, no one had said anything. John had seen some looks. No one discussed the ‘Hometown Hero's return. At least not in his presence.

Now here she was. Why was she here? God! Didn't she have enough to deal with? Weren't there plans and arrangements to be made? John was too tired to think clearly or to even care; other than to resent her presence. If his strength failed him at this moment – if he really let go how would she react? It was tempting. It would be so easy. For someone else.

John towered over the stout, little woman. He always made eye contact when he spoke to anyone. It went along with a firm handshake and the mask. Knowing Miz Mary as he did, a proffered handshake would have been an intolerable affront. He forced a smile, praying she wouldn’t touch him. He could keep it together if she didn’t – maybe.

Looking into her eye’s he saw the blue of Gordy’s. But the light that was always in Gordy’s eyes, was dimmed by the sadness in hers. Gordy got his nose from her, too. His frame was Doc’s though, tall and muscular. Had Doc ever seen love shine through her eyes like he’d seen it in Gordy’s?

He steeled himself. “Miz Mary, you know, uh… I... I’ve been meaning to come by. I figured I’d wait a day or two, and then come see Y'all.”

An awkward silence descended as she waited for him to continue. She shifted her gaze toward a tiny dust devil that danced between the shiny new tractors and harvesters. When it collapsed and died, she released a heavy sigh. Turning her eyes back to John she said, “Well, Gordy’s plane comes in Friday morning, John. He’ll be at the house Friday afternoon. Why don’t you come by after you close up? I think he’d like that.” She paused for a moment, then added, “A friend of Gordy’s is coming with him. He’ll be staying for a week or so. He seems like such a nice young man.”

Only with that last remark did John notice her pain. He realized her tone had become more distant. She was allowing him not to feel.

They shared another awkward silence before she said, “John, his daddy asked me to pick up those parts he ordered for that old John Deere. He figured, since I was coming here, I might as well."

The significance of that last statement was not lost on John, just ignored. Realizing this, she continued. "Don’t know why he fools with that thing. It hasn’t been used for work in over forty years. Not since his Daddy parked it behind the barn. He and Gordy got to tinkering with it when Gordy was… the summer he turned sixteen."

John could hear the pain in her voice. Was she going to fall apart! Please, not here... not now. Panic rose from his belly, and his chest constricted.

She seemed to rally. "They’d work on it on Sundays while I went to church. They used that tractor as an excuse for laying out. But it gave them something to do together and seemed to bring them closer. Neither of them ever stepped foot inside that church after Reverend Taylor came in and started preaching hell’s fire and brimstone.”

She fell silent, staring off at the horizon. John felt the pressure mounting. This had to end soon!

She gently patted his arm. John glared at her small hand, as if it were a branding iron. Desperate, he turned and in a too loud voice, called, “Fred. Would you be so kind as to take Miz Mary around to the parts department?”

Fred, tipping his ball cap to Miz Mary, said, “It’d be my pleasure. If you’ll come with me, Miz Mary, I’m going there myself.”

Together they moved off with Miz Mary clutching her purse against her ample bosom. John could hear her asking about Fred’s wife and children as if today was like any other. As if the world hadn’t abruptly stopped, then resumed spinning at half speed. She acted as if hearing that Fred’s oldest boy was playing in little league was the best news she had in a while. Maybe it was.

The tone of their conversation, carried by the echo of the overhang, shifted. He figured they were talking about Gordy. Once their voices faded, he only heard the familiar, relentless, noise from the busy repair shop.

John realized that his fists were clenched as was every muscle in his body. He forced himself to relax. He was surprised when he let out an audible sigh that brought with it a series of small, muted sobs – residue from last night. He hadn't cried since his father‘s passing. He remembered last night, getting drunk, yes, but not any tears. So why then sobs?

He blinked hard. Removing his Stetson, he ran his hand through his wavy, auburn hair. The surprise encounter with Miz Mary had taxed his resolve. He took a deep breath and relaxed. His brown eyes moistened and again, he blinked hard. When he replaced his hat he tilted it a little lower. It helped hold his mask. He couldn’t remember where he had been going, but he knew damn sure where he was going to go now!

Before he could draw a second breath and take one step toward his new goal, he was approached by a customer. He knew the man. Having grown up here, he knew most everyone, farmers, ranchers, townsfolk, and especially customers.

This gentleman was from another town. He might not know about Gordy Belser. He locked his mask of cheerful interest in place and greeted the man with a smile that he didn’t feel. This was a game that John normally enjoyed and played well. He knew this man was not after parts. He would've sent one of his ranch hands to pick up parts. John invited him into his office for coffee.

Over coffee, they chatted about the latest harvest, the current and prospective weather, even a local political scandal. At least these topics were distracting. Almost.

Normally after coffee and small talk, John would have handed the customer over to a more than willing salesman eager for a commission and let him finalize the details, Today John needed the distraction. He knew this man was here to buy new equipment, and with patience, he would.

John chatted and waited until the man touched on the business at hand Together they reviewed needs versus costs. An observer might have been impressed with the deference the obviously older man gave John's opinion as he recommended and presented the features, advantages, and benefits of a more expensive and more versatile harvester – not top of the line, but not an economy model like the man wanted.

After some discussion, deliberation and a coffee-fueled trip to John's bathroom, the deal was made. John checked figures and haggled enough so the customer felt he got the “best deal”. The final figure was one John would have gladly accepted from the start, but it didn't matter what the actual numbers said, it was always the customer who determined if they got a good deal or got screwed. This was a good deal; a handshake clinched it. He passed this customer over to a salesman and let him complete the paperwork and arrange delivery.

Now left with his own thoughts, John walked to the receptionist’s desk and asked her to let Wiley know he was headed out for a bit, He assured her he would have his cell phone.

Unimpeded he turned off his phone as he started his Tahoe and pulled out of the sales lot. Eyes squinting into the morning sun, John got on the expressway headed east toward Dallas. Before long he’d be on a ranch to market road and wind up, as he always did, at the boathouse. That’s where he went to escape. At least there he could relax. He didn’t have to be a rancher, a farmer, a businessman or his father’s son; there he could just be…

John thought about the family business. The dealership had always been a big part of his life. Even as a boy his spare time was spent bouncing between the ranch and the dealership. John loved it. People here were like extended family, and like him, some were the third generation. But his love was waning. The dealership was fast losing its charm. Not for the first time, he felt it was a trap into which he had been born.

Uninvited tears suddenly streamed down his face. His first reaction was to turn on the wipers, but he caught himself. John Grant was not familiar nor comfortable with tears. He had not cried since his father's passing. He had drunk too much since he heard the news about Gordy coming home. Even after drinking until he passed out he didn't cry. At least he didn’t think he did.

Pressure built between his temples until his head pounded with each painful pulse. He steered with his left hand while he massaged his temples with his right hand. The pressure caused him to blink and wipe at his eyes as tears trickled down his cheeks. A spasm racked his ribcage as a gut-wrenching sob escaped. With disdain, he thought, ‘Where’d all this shit come from?’

He fought…. the pressure…. the pain…. the sobs…. and the tears. In spite of his best efforts, the pressure built and the pain raged through his brain, while the sobs wracked his body, and the tears continued to flow. Roughly, he pulled the Tahoe out of the flow of traffic and stopped. In park, with the flashers on, he wiped his eyes. He rubbed his head and prayed to get to the boathouse. Once there he could… he could… could… he couldn’t remember what.

The pressure continued to build.

John Grant had failed again! It made him furious. Sobs hyphenated his tears, Was there any… sob... good thing… sob... about him…. sob... about his life?

Tears continued to flow as snot leaked from his nose. Slack-jawed, he bawled, letting spittle roll from the corners of his mouth.

“FUCK!” he yelled beating the steering wheel with his fists. He had to get CONTROL! His hands swiped at the tears, snot, and spit.

It was just TOO MUCH!

“FUUUUCCKKK MEEE!”

Blindly he struck out like a desperate prizefighter. His fists repeatedly punched the roof liner. He jerked his frame against the seatbelt, trying to break his own body. He kicked and screamed and cussed God and the heavens for what he was feeling. No man should be forced to endure this much…. PAIN!

No man should be allowed to live with this much….GUILT!

He was drowning in undulating waves of pain. Each wave brought a ‘Kodak Moment’ – an image that flared to brilliant clarity… illustrating a missed opportunity… a failure. As each wave subsided, each image faded to be followed by another cresting wave – another clear image of another failure.

His mind was swamped with painful images, reminders of his weakness, his failures, opportunities that had been greeted with fear and denial.

Each image laid bare an opportunity – a chance for him to have made it right. If he’d had guts… he could have made things right… and… and… Gordy… Gordy would have never left.

His mind was flooded with all the could haves, should haves, would haves. But… “You’re a fucking COWARD!,” he screamed at himself.

“NO! NO! NO! Nooooo…..”

He pleaded for oblivion. If he could find it, he would run to it. Let it embrace him – hide him within its nothingness.

He knew of an overpass ahead. Part of his brain imagined the release of hitting a concrete support at ninety miles-an-hour. His right foot was already pressing the accelerator to the floor. Wouldn’t even have to move it.

There would be no more tears, no more sobs, and no more pain. Just nothing!

Taunted with the promise of not feeling, he wanted to reach for the gear shift and… and….

“JUST DO IT!” he screamed, wanting release.

His left foot on the brake, his right already pressing the accelerator at full throttle, while his left hand gripped the steering wheel and his right tugged at the gear shift. All he had to do was put it in drive.

“JUST DO IT!” he screamed and screamed again, “JUST DO IT!”

“Just do it,” he whimpered.

He couldn’t do it…..

The same brain that had teased him with a solution refused to let him take it.

The hollow, high pitched whine of the over-revved engine was muted by his sudden deafening roar, “ARRRGGGHHH!”

It was a guttural cacophony, wordless noise, primal – sounds made by man long before language limited verbal expression.

He slid his foot off the accelerator. The engine sighed its relief.

He let his left foot slip from the brake. His forearms crossed over the steering wheel, where his fingers found purchase. He rested his head on his forearms.

John was too weak to resist the tears, too tired to even notice that he was crying. Even the sobs met no resistance.

Battered and exhausted from the pain and the images, John Grant stripped of all his defenses, surrendered.

He no longer had the strength nor the will to hide from the truth.

He saw himself… knew himself to be a coward.

A coward! Afraid of whispers and rumors.

A coward! Afraid that he might be judged somehow lacking.

A coward! Afraid of the derision of friends and acquaintances.

A coward! Afraid that his family would love him less.

A coward! Afraid most of all of being seen as “different”.

Cowardice had cost him the one thing he’d valued most. Now he knew that what he really valued the most, had cost him everything. Everything he had loved. Why had he been so afraid? Was he fearful that his love would be hurt by disdainful looks, disparaging remarks, by being shunned or outcast?

He had known even in college, and now, it was too late to say or do anything.

It was never fear of Gordy being hurt by people knowing about their relationship. It was always John’s own fear. It was his fears that kept their love hidden – his own fears that drove Gordy away. His fear had destroyed the one thing he most wanted….. Love.

Admitting the truth, the flood of pain receded, and he was left with only himself.

Scrooge had been visited by ghosts and granted redemption. John’s visitations were images of truth. The coward he was would find no redemption.

Oblivion took him.